**Chapter 21: Global Summit**
**Day 1,148.**
**Status: The Silent Observer.**
**Current Activity: Auditing the Human Race.**
There is a distinct flavor to the panic of powerful men. It tastes of stale coffee, expensive suit fabric, and the sour, metallic tang of obsolescence.
For centuries, power on Earth was measured in tangible assets: aircraft carriers, nuclear warheads, oil reserves, and GDP. It was a game of chess played on a board made of maps and treaties.
Then, I flipped the board.
I sat in the Atacama Facility, my legs crossed, floating three feet above the floor in a meditative posture. I wasn't wearing the Sarcophagus. The feedback loop from Ren and the other high-level players had stabilized my bio-field to the point where I could exist in a room without liquefying the furniture.
"Zero," I said, my voice resonating in the quiet chamber. "Connect me to Geneva. Sub-basement Level 4."
**[Accessing United Nations Secure Server...]**
**[Encryption Bypass: Complete.]**
**[Audio/Visual Feed: Established.]**
A massive holographic window opened in the air before me.
It showed a round table. Not the mythical one of Arthurian legend, but a cold, steel ring situated in a bunker three hundred feet beneath the Swiss Alps. The air was recycled. The lighting was harsh.
Sitting around the table were the twelve most powerful individuals on the planet. Or rather, the twelve people who *used* to be the most powerful.
The President of the United States. The Premier of China. The Chancellor of Germany. High-ranking generals. Intelligence directors.
They looked exhausted.
"They look like they're attending a funeral," I noted, peeling a mandarin orange I had transmuted from a piece of coal.
"They are," Zero replied. "They are attending the funeral of the geopolitical status quo."
***
**Geneva, Switzerland.**
**UN Emergency Command Bunker.**
Director Miller rubbed his eyes. The headache that had started the day the Mana Break occurred had evolved into a permanent migraine, throbbing behind his left eye like a second heartbeat.
He looked around the table. The tension was thick enough to choke a horse.
"We cannot let this stand," General Zhang of the PLA slammed his fist on the table. "The 'Crimson Blades' have effectively declared Los Angeles a sovereign state. They are levying taxes in the form of Mana Crystals. They are policing the streets. They have ignored three federal subpoenas."
"It is the same in Berlin," the German Chancellor whispered, her face pale. "The player known as 'Viper' raided the central bank. Yes, he was killed by the Guilds, but that only proves the point. The police were useless. The Guilds are the new law."
"And the 'Sanctuary' group in London?" The British Prime Minister added. "They are providing free healthcare that is statistically 400% more effective than the NHS. My approval ratings are tanking because I can't cure cancer with a wave of my hand, and a twenty-year-old nurse can."
Miller cleared his throat. The room fell silent.
"We are arguing about symptoms," Miller said, his voice gravelly. "We need to address the disease."
He pressed a button on the console. A holographic projection appeared in the center of the table.
It showed a graph. Two lines. One red, one blue.
The red line (Traditional Military Power) was flat.
The blue line (Awakened Capability) was vertical.
"This is the new arms race," Miller stated. "And we aren't even participating. We are spectators."
He pointed to the screen.
"Three days ago, a young man in Tokyo named Ren absorbed a biological explosion equivalent to a tactical nuclear warhead. He walked away. Yesterday, Damon of the Crimson Blades cut a tank in half during a 'training exercise' outside Las Vegas."
Miller looked at the gathered leaders.
"Gentlemen, ladies. The tank is obsolete. The fighter jet is obsolete. If we send a carrier group against a Level 50 Hydromancer, he will simply turn the ocean into a whirlpool and sink the fleet."
"So what do you suggest, Miller?" The US President asked, leaning forward. "We tried to arrest them. The 'Sovereign Immunity' patch stopped us. We tried to ban the headsets. The public rioted."
"We can't beat them," Miller said. He took a deep breath. "So we have to out-level them."
Silence stretched across the room.
"You want us to play the game?" General Zhang asked, skepticism dripping from his voice.
"I want to industrialize it," Miller corrected.
He pulled up a new file. **Project: TITAN.**
"The Architect—whoever or whatever he is—has democratized power. He gave it to the masses. Randomly. Chaos." Miller paced the room. "But the military thrives on order. We have discipline. We have logistics. We have millions of soldiers who follow orders without question."
Miller pointed to the headset sitting on the table in front of him. A Silver Visor.
"We stop treating this like a plague and start treating it like a resource. We draft the best. Not gamers. Soldiers. Special Forces. Navy SEALS. Spetsnaz. SAS."
"We create our own Guilds," the Russian representative realized, his eyes narrowing.
"State-sanctioned Guilds," Miller nodded. "We put them in barracks. We mandate eighteen-hour play sessions. We optimize their builds. We funnel national resources into buying them the best gear from the auction houses. We power-level them using shifting schedules so the accounts never sleep."
"Can we catch up?" the German Chancellor asked. "Ren and Damon are months ahead."
Miller looked at the countdown timer on the wall. *35 Days.*
"Individually? No," Miller admitted. "Ren is a singularity. Damon is a monster. But an army? A coordinated, disciplined battalion of Level 30 Vanguards and Mages, utilizing combined arms tactics?"
Miller smiled, a cold, predatory expression.
"A mob of gamers creates chaos. An army of Mages creates an Empire."
He looked at the Chinese Premier, then the Russian General.
"If we want a seat at the table when the aliens arrive... we need to bring our own guns. And right now, the only guns that matter are the ones made of Star Metal."
***
**The Atacama Facility**
I clapped.
The sound was singular and sharp in the empty room.
"Bravo, Miller," I whispered. "It took you long enough, but you got there."
"This creates a dangerous variable," Zero warned. "If the national governments organize effectively, they could challenge the organic Guilds. It could lead to a civil war between the State and the Players."
"Conflict breeds strength," I dismissed. "I don't care who holds the gun, Zero. I care that the gun is loaded when the Myriad arrives."
I looked at the data stream. Miller's proposal was being voted on.
**[Resolution 42: The Sovereign Initiative.]**
**[Status: Unanimous Approval.]**
The world leaders were moving. Funding was being reallocated. Trillions of dollars were shifting from traditional defense contracts to "Digital Asset Acquisition."
"They're going to need a training ground," I mused. "They can't just drop a battalion of Marines into the Weeping Woods. The Crimson Blades would gank them just for the XP."
I stood up and walked to the Forge.
"If they want to play soldier, I'll give them a war zone."
I reached into the code of Aethelgard.
"Zero, generate a new zone. The *Iron Frontier*. High-level mobs. Fortification mechanics. Siege warfare enabled."
"And the entry requirement?"
"Only accessible to players with a 'Government' affiliation tag. Let them have their sandbox. Let them build their armies."
I paused, looking at the Silver Visor displayed on Miller's screen in the bunker.
"But they're going to hit a wall," I said. "The Silver Visors have a safety limiter. They cap synchronization at 60%. If Miller wants soldiers who can fight Void-Eaters, 60% isn't enough."
I sat back down at the console.
"Let's offer them a trade deal."
***
**Geneva. The Bunker.**
The vote had passed. The mood in the room had shifted from despair to grim determination. They were back in control—or at least, they had a plan to regain it.
Suddenly, the lights in the bunker flickered.
The holographic emitter in the center of the table turned from blue to gold.
The security detail drew their weapons, aiming at the empty air.
**[INCOMING TRANSMISSION: THE ARCHITECT]**
Miller froze. "Stand down!" he barked at the guards. "Don't shoot the hologram!"
My voice filled the room. I didn't use the terrifying, booming voice of judgment this time. I used a calm, almost business-like tone.
"Gentlemen. Congratulations on Resolution 42."
The President of the United States looked up at the ceiling. "You're listening."
"I am always listening," I replied. "I am the server you run on."
A gold box materialized on the table in front of each leader.
"You want to build armies," I continued. "I approve. The Myriad will not be stopped by heroes alone. We need legions."
Miller stepped forward, wary. "What is this?"
"A patch," I said. "The Silver Visors you have are civilian models. They have safety rails. They prevent the user from drawing too much Prana, to stop their brains from melting."
The boxes clicked open.
Inside each was a headset that looked different. It wasn't silver, and it wasn't the matte black of the Alpha Cohort.
It was Gunmetal Grey. Rugged. Industrial.
**[Item: The Centurion Interface.]**
**[Tier: Military.]**
**[Cap: 85% Sync.]**
**[Feature: Squad Link. Allows instantaneous tactical data sharing between units.]**
"These allow for higher power output," I explained. "They allow for coordinated casting. But they come with a price."
"What price?" General Zhang asked, picking up the headset.
"They remove the 'Pain Dampener'," I said. "If your soldiers want to be strong, they have to feel the war. 100% sensory feedback. If they get stabbed in the game, they will go into shock in reality."
I paused.
"Are your soldiers brave enough for that, General?"
Zhang looked at the headset. He looked at the countdown timer. *35 Days.*
"Our soldiers are not children playing a game," Zhang said coldly. "They will endure."
"Good," I said. "Then take them. Fifty thousand units have been deposited in your respective national armories. The *Iron Frontier* zone is now open for training."
The connection began to fade.
"One last thing," I added. "Do not mistake my generosity for subservience. These soldiers belong to you... but their power comes from me. If you turn them against the Order... I will turn them off."
The hologram vanished.
Miller stared at the Gunmetal headset. He picked it up. It was heavy. Cold.
"He's arming us," Miller whispered. "He's literally arming us against himself."
"No," the German Chancellor corrected, looking at the countdown. "He's arming us against *them*. He doesn't care about us, Director. He just wants his meat shields to be made of steel."
Miller put the headset down.
"Get Fort Bragg on the line," Miller ordered. "Cancel all leave. Operation Titan begins at 0600."
***
**The Real World: Fort Bragg, North Carolina.**
**0600 Hours.**
The sun was just rising over the parade ground. Five thousand soldiers stood in formation. They weren't wearing helmets. They were wearing the Gunmetal Centurion headsets.
Sergeant Major Vance stood on the platform. He was a veteran of three wars. He had shrapnel in his knee and a cynicism that ran bone deep.
He wore a headset too.
"Listen up!" Vance barked. "Forget everything you learned about physics. Forget gravity. Forget ballistics."
He raised his hand. A ball of fire ignited in his palm. The soldiers flinched, but held formation.
"This is the new rifle," Vance shouted, crushing the fire. "It doesn't jam. It doesn't run out of ammo. But it requires Will. You are going to log in. You are going to die. And then you are going to respawn and do it again until you are gods."
He looked at the sea of faces.
"The aliens are coming in five weeks. By the time they get here, I want this battalion to be able to bench press a tank with their minds. Am I clear?"
"SIR, YES SIR!"
"Log in!"
Five thousand soldiers reached up and pressed the activation stud on their temples.
A synchronized hum filled the air.
Five thousand bodies went limp, caught by the suspension harnesses of their standing rigs.
***
**Simulation Layer: The Iron Frontier.**
The sky was the color of rust. The ground was scarred with craters.
Five thousand avatars materialized in a flash of grey light. They were uniformed. They wore plate armor that looked like modern tactical gear mixed with medieval steel.
**[Guild Established: US First Arcane Battalion.]**
**[Guild Master: General Sterling.]**
**[Motto: "Terra Invicta".]**
They didn't run around checking their loot. They didn't dance.
"Form up!" Vance's avatar—a Level 1 Titan—roared.
Instantaneously, five thousand players fell into a shield wall formation. It was perfect. Disciplined. Terrifying.
"Advance!"
The legion moved.
I watched from the sky.
"Now that," I whispered, "is a hammer."
***
**The Atacama Facility.**
The influx of energy changed instantly.
When the gamers played, the Tithe was chaotic—spikes of joy, fear, rage.
When the soldiers played, the Tithe was rhythmic. *Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.* It was the heartbeat of a machine.
**[Daily Growth: +10%.]**
**[Tithes: +0.03% (Stabilized).]**
I felt the discipline entering my own system. My thoughts felt sharper. The overwhelming noise of the cosmos seemed to organize itself into a tactical grid.
"The humans have mobilized," I said, turning away from the screen.
"What now, Architect?" Zero asked.
"Now, we wait for the spark."
I looked at the Moon.
The Myriad Scout was days away.
"Ren," I projected my voice to Tokyo. "Damon. Elena. The government just brought an army to the party. Don't let them show you up."
***
**Tokyo. Ren's Apartment.**
Ren heard the voice. He looked at the news feed showing the military mobilization.
He smiled.
"Competition," Ren said, sharpening his *Twin Fangs*. "Finally."
He stood up and opened a portal. Not to a dungeon. But to the Moon.
"Let's go say hello to the neighbors."
**Chapter 21: Global Summit**