NOVEL NEXT Chapter 25: The Division War Awaits
The Citadel stirred to life with the chaotic hum of its morning symphony. Hovercars zipped and darted above the streets in orderly yet frenetic layers, their propulsion systems emitting a faint whirring sound. Horns—still somehow ubiquitous in this advanced simulation—blared in impatient bursts, accompanied by the occasional shouted curse from an open window. Even in a future governed by synthetic perfection, mornings were still mornings: noisy, rushed, and slightly frayed at the edges.
Fen, Seraph, and Auri emerged from the storeroom, rubbing the remnants of sleep from their eyes. The artificial sunlight filtered down through the Citadel's high-arching skyscrapers, gleaming off polished metal and glass facades. They made their way to the Retro, weaving through the foot traffic of commuters and delivery bots, the air thick with the aroma of caf-brews and fried synth-dough.
Inside the Retro, the familiar neon glow and clinking of utensils being washed greeted them. Sarge was already seated in a corner booth, nursing a steaming mug of black coffee. He glanced up, his rugged face splitting into a welcoming grin as they approached.
"Morning, kids," he said, motioning to the spread of caf-muffins and crispy breakfast bites on the table. "Figured you could use a bite before the big day."
The trio slid into the booth—Fen immediately grabbing the nearest muffin while Seraph reached for a caf-brew. Auri hovered nearby, her glow faint but steady, observing the table like a disapproving dietitian.
Sarge leaned back, his expression shifting as he lowered his voice. "Didn't want to bring this up in front of Sam last night—kid's got enough spark, but he doesn't need to be tied to something this risky. What I'm about to suggest is... not exactly above board. But it might get us answers—and maybe a serious payday."
Fen paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. "I'm listening. But if this involves more Division War antics, I'm going to need a lot more coffee."
Sarge chuckled. "Not exactly. I'm talking about Fisck." He leaned forward, tone conspiratorial. "Specifically, his personal interface."
Seraph raised a brow. "You mean... bugging it? During the games?"
"Exactly," Sarge said, nodding. "Near the end of the games, when the chaos is at its peak. Everyone's distracted. Security gets sloppy. And Fisck? He'll be too focused on staying alive to notice a slight change in his interface."
Fen leaned back, arms crossed. "And what are we hoping to find?"
"Plenty," Sarge replied, voice steady. "Fisck's interface links to everything he touches. Even if he's clean, someone in his web might not be. We're talking logistics, encrypted contracts, trade flows. If the Spyders are working any angle on this war, it will pass through there."
Auri's glow pulsed. "He's not hiding bodies. He just owns the cemetery. If there's movement beneath the surface, we'll see the tremors in his feed."
Seraph drummed her fingers on the table, thinking it through. "And you're sure we'll get close enough to plant this bug?"
"You're his bodyguards," Sarge said. "There'll be moments. The bug is compact and cloaked. Remote-activated, no signal trace. You get it in, and my network does the rest."
Fen looked toward Seraph. "So we survive a corporate warzone and steal from one of the most powerful men in the SynthNet."
Sarge's expression didn't waver. "This gets us leverage. Truth. The payout from having Fisck's team win is already huge. But this? This could be the thread that pulls something even bigger out of the dark."
Fen exhaled through his nose, gaze falling to the tabletop. The mention of the Spyders hung between them. Auri hovered in silence, her glow faint and unreadable.
Seraph nodded once. "We'll do it. But if this falls apart, I'm pinning it on you."
Sarge cracked a grin and raised his mug. "Fair deal. Just make sure you win and get the job done."
Fen picked at a corner of his sleeve. "Winning and hacking a crime syndicate. Great. Should be a relaxing week."
They finished breakfast in a quiet hum of tension and anticipation, the weight of the plan settling like a storm on the horizon. Outside, the Citadel bustled—unaware of the threads quietly tightening beneath its shine.
At the door, Sarge leaned against the frame, his rugged grin softened by something almost paternal. "You two stay sharp," he said, voice warm but firm. "I'll keep an eye on the web."
Auri hovered nearby, her glow flickering with mischief. "And I'll keep an eye on this one," she said, nodding toward Sarge. "Make sure he doesn't get too distracted with his shady side gigs in the darker corners of the net."
Sarge gave a grunt of amusement, but his eyes lingered on her with something close to concern.
Fen smirked but his voice dropped, sincere. "Be good, Auri. And... be safe. I know how much that sanctum means to you."
Auri's light pulsed gently, then dimmed a few shades. She hovered in place, her glow softer now, almost hesitant. "Yeah, about that." She shifted into a humanoid silhouette, more solid than usual. "This is where I go dark for a bit."
Fen's smirk faded.
"I've been holding things together," she continued, her voice quieter. "Staying mobile. Stretching my presence so I could be with you both. But that kind of split... it costs me. My sanctum's been flickering for a while. If I don't anchor soon, I could lose the whole thing. So I'm pulling back."
Seraph's brow furrowed. "You're cutting contact?"
"For a little while," Auri said. "Think of it as a low-power state. I'll still be watching the feeds through the sanctum's deeper ports, but I won't be able to talk. Not until this is over or I get a clean window."
Fen looked like he wanted to argue, but stopped himself. He met her glow with a steady gaze. "You'll be safe?"
"As safe as I can be. Hidden deep, reinforced, backed up. I've taken every precaution I know."
Seraph reached out and tapped the edge of Auri's projection with two fingers. "You're a pain, Auri. But we're going to miss having you at our side."
Auri flickered just a little, like a laugh caught in a stutter. "Don't go getting all sentimental now."
Fen took a step closer, his tone quiet. "If things go wrong in there, and I don't make it—"
"You will," Auri said, cutting him off gently.
He gave a tired smile. "If I don't, take care of Seraph."
Auri's glow pulsed once, bright and warm. "She's smarter than both of us put together. I think she'll be taking care of you."
They stood there for a moment, the three of them suspended in that fragile space between preparation and goodbye.
"I'll find you again," Fen said, finally.
"You always do," Auri replied.
Seraph looked between them, then nodded. "Alright. Let's move before I change my mind about this whole thing."
As Fen and Seraph turned toward the exit, Auri's voice followed them. "Try not to get yourselves vaporized. I'm not rebuilding my sanctum just for fun—I expect you both at the housewarming. Sanctum-warming? Whatever. Just be safe, both of you."
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Her glow dimmed behind them as they stepped out into the Citadel's morning rush. When Fen glanced back one last time, the doorway was empty. Only the faintest trace of light lingered where she'd been.
And in the quiet she left behind, Fen could still feel the shape of her presence.
The lower-level sector where they waited felt like an entirely different world. The polished neon skyline of the Citadel's upper tiers was a far-off dream from here, replaced by flickering signs, grimy alleys, and a steady hum of machinery that never quite faded. The address provided by NPC for Hire led them to a rundown corner of the district, the kind of place where faded holo-ads promised "discount" augments and questionable data wipes.
"Not exactly where I'd expect to meet a division leader," Fen muttered, leaning against a rusted lamppost. The faint glow of his dark armor and the arcane runes etched into his blade looked almost absurdly out of place against the sector's grimy backdrop.
Seraph adjusted the hem of her blood-red jacket, eyes scanning the narrow street. "Probably intentional," she said after a beat. "If I were trying to keep player-gazers and rival corps off my scent, this is exactly the kind of spot I'd use. Low surveillance, high anonymity. You don't need to like shadows to use them."
Fen huffed. "Still feels like a trap waiting to happen."
Seraph gave him a sideways look. "Well, that isn't ominous at all."
They fell into an easy rhythm of small talk, trading quiet jabs about their new gear and the layered absurdity of it all—mercenary work, magical swords, and now signing on to protect one of the most powerful men in the SynthNet. Fen was mid-rant about the fact that hovercars still needed to honk in a world run by predictive routing algorithms when a low hum of approaching engines cut through the background noise.
From the shadows of the adjoining street, a large, unmarked hover truck glided into view. Its exterior was clean, almost unnervingly so, with no identifying marks or logos. It came to a smooth stop in front of them, the faint hiss of its brakes breaking the tension.
Fen shrugged, pushing off the lamppost. The truck's side door hissed open, revealing a narrow ramp leading into its dimly lit interior. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a tall, well-built man stepped out with precise movements. His tailored suit was a jarring contrast against the sector's grime. Silvered hair caught the dim light, and piercing amber eyes scanned Fen and Seraph with the clinical ease of a database query—assessing, cataloging, calculating.
The back of the truck rumbled open. Uniformed men in full battle gear began unloading equipment with swift efficiency—crates stamped with high-tier corporate logos. The air filled with the low murmur of synchronized motion.
The man descended the ramp with effortless precision, each step exuding quiet authority. As he reached the base, he extended a hand toward Fen. "Mr. Fisck," he said simply.
Fen took the offered hand. The grip was firm, deliberate—controlled without being aggressive. A quiet display of dominance.
"My new bodyguards, I presume?" Fisck asked, voice clipped and formal.
"That's us," Fen replied, keeping his expression neutral. "Fen and Seraph. NPC for Hire sent us."
He was still wary using his real name, but Sarge had said they had a window before the whole SynthNet would know it—might as well use it.
Fisck's lips twitched into something like a smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. "Good. Let's dispense with the pleasantries. If you'll follow me, the Division War awaits."
He turned sharply and headed back toward the truck. Fen caught Seraph's glance as they fell into step behind him. Her look said everything—this wasn't just a client. This was a man who bent empires with a nod and buried them with a whisper.
They paused as more crates were stacked beside the truck. The angular logo of Fisck Cyberdine Inc. gleamed under the street's flickering lights. But it wasn't the corporate packaging that caught their attention—it was the arsenal nestled inside. Polished swords. Gilded suits of armor. Sleek, modern crossbows designed with absurd precision.
Fen frowned. "Is that... a war chest?"
Seraph tilted her head, her voice low. "That's some serious hardware."
A faint whirr answered her as the truck emitted a deep mechanical thunk. Metal clamps snapped around the wheels, locking them in place. Underfoot, the street vibrated. The ground beneath the truck hissed, then split—angled panels retracting with seamless precision as the truck's base aligned with a descending lift. Soft blue guidance lights flickered to life beneath their boots.
Fisck didn't miss a step. "Closer," he said, motioning them in with a tilt of his head. "You'll want to be on the platform."
They followed him onto the lift as it began its slow descent, the sounds of the city above muffling with every inch. Overhead, the disguised road plates slid shut, vanishing without a trace. No seams. No signage. Just another stretch of asphalt.
Fen looked around, impressed despite himself. "I've seen hidden doors before. But this? This is damn near invisible."
Fisck gave a dry smile. "That's the point. Every team in this event is watching the skies. Looking for incoming shipments, high-profile gear runs, tactical supply drops. We've made a few of those—kept them obvious, noisy. But this? This isn't for show."
He gestured to the crates descending with them, voice lowering like a man sharing a secret. "This gear is something else. Black-tier prototypes. Custom work. I don't want them flagged before they're fielded. The less the other factions know, the better our odds."
The air grew colder as they descended into the tunnel—dim, curved walls lit by strips of pulsing light. Around them, the quiet hum of motors and sensor relays filled the silence. The lift touched down without a jolt, merging seamlessly into the corridor floor.
Behind them, the truck's hydraulics disengaged with a soft hiss. Ahead, the passage stretched out in a long curve—no signage, no traffic, just cool metal and the faint smell of ozone.
Fen gave a low whistle. "Subtle."
Fisck's reply was little more than a murmur. "Effective."
And just like that, the street above might as well have been another world.
The lift settled with a quiet thud, and as the final clamps disengaged, a door at the far end of the corridor hissed open. Two teams of Cyberdine staff filed in—sharp uniforms, mirrored visors, moving with well-drilled precision. Without a word, they began unloading the crates onto sleek pallet-movers, locking down each one with magnetic seals before guiding them deeper into the tunnel.
Fisck stepped aside, issuing a few clipped commands into a wrist console. The workers moved faster.
The tunnel buzzed with quiet efficiency, the only sounds the low hum of machinery and the soft scuff of armored boots on polished floor. Fen and Seraph stood just off to the side, watching as crates filled with weapons and armor disappeared into the deeper corridors of the hidden compound.
Fen glanced toward Fisck, then spoke, his voice steady but respectful. "It's a hell of an operation you've got here. But if you don't mind me asking—why bring in outside help? You've clearly got the resources. Why not keep your security in-house?"
Fisck didn't slow, but his jaw tightened as he glanced back. "I did. Two men I trusted had this role before you."
He continued walking, voice flat and composed, like he was reciting a line item from a quarterly report. "One had been with me for cycles. The other proved himself during the last Division War. I thought they were loyal." He paused. "Turns out they were long-term plants. Bought out by a rival corp."
Fen and Seraph both stiffened. Seraph tilted her head. "Fired them, huh?" she said, her tone light but edged.
Fisck stopped and turned to face them fully, hands clasped behind his back. "Something like that," he said dryly, the implication in his voice sharp enough to cut. "Let's just say they won't be attending any exit interviews." The coldness of his tone and the flicker in his eyes left no doubt that his meaning extended far beyond a termination letter.
Fen and Seraph shared a glance, but neither pressed further. The unspoken understanding settled like a weight in the air.
Fisck resumed his stride, his voice drifting over his shoulder—dry, matter-of-fact. "I wouldn't normally pull talent from a contractor pool like NPC for Hire. But the situation demanded urgency. And the listing? Came with glowing recommendations."
He glanced back, sharp amber eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Not even three hours after my request, I get a reply. Two S-tier hires. Matching profiles. Full clearance. No red flags. Almost too perfect."
Fen caught the implication, the suspicion threading under every word. He stayed calm, stepping into the space with even footing. "Can't blame you for raising an eyebrow at that. If I were you, I'd assume the same. Timing like that? It smells prearranged."
Fisck stopped and turned to face them fully, his hands clasped behind his back.
"There are three possibilities," he said. "First: you're plants, sent to take me out. Second: someone else got to you first and paid for a quieter kind of sabotage. Either one ends badly for me."
He let the words hang for a breath.
"But the third…" His voice shifted, softening just enough to betray curiosity. "The third is the rarest of all. That you are what you claim—freelancers with no strings attached. Dangerous, capable, and expensive."
Fen didn't blink. "I can't promise you a sterling record or a name that carries weight. But I can promise this—when I take a job, I see it through. If someone tries to use me, they find out the hard way it doesn't work."
Seraph nodded, voice calm. "We're not tied to anyone. We're not here to climb a corporate ladder or make a name. Just finish the mission and get paid."
Fisck studied them both in silence, something unreadable moving behind his amber eyes. Then, at last, he gave a short nod. "I built my empire on risk. Some calculated, others... necessary. This is one of the latter."
He turned once more toward the corridor, his tone sharpening like a blade drawn across glass. "But if this particular risk doesn't pay off—if either of you turn out to be a liability—I won't hesitate to cut losses. Permanently."
With that final word still hanging in the air, they rounded the bend—
and stepped into a warlord's dream: rows of armored soldiers, racks of precision-forged weapons, and machines built for nothing but victory and death.