The Genius System

Author's Note

When I first started this novel, I imagined it would be much longer, spanning far more than the 109 chapters we already have. But as time went on, inspiration and energy became harder to maintain, and what once felt like pure enjoyment slowly turned into more of a burden.

Rather than dragging the story endlessly, I would rather give it the proper ending it deserves. So in the upcoming chapters, I'll be working to bring Lassen's journey to a close. It may not be as long as originally planned, but I promise I'll do my best to make the conclusion meaningful and worthy of the road we've walked together.

Thank you for reading, for your patience, and for being part of this journey with me until now. Let's head together toward the end.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The world had not yet understood what had happened in Tunis and Geria. Analysts still filled screens with improvised maps and experts recycled their scripts about instability and "failed states." But when the first statements arrived, delivered in carefully polished diplomatic language, the tone shifted from confusion to confrontation.

Three governments, speaking with a single voice, declared Macro and its partners guilty of "illegal seizures of power." They demanded "restoration of legitimate order." It was a warning disguised as legality. And to those who could read between the lines, it was already war.

At the borders, soldiers who had until yesterday only drilled under the sun suddenly received live ammunition. Tanks rolled under covers of dust, helicopters sliced the air at dangerous altitudes. Skirmishes broke out along the northern ridges, and within hours the fragile quiet of the region cracked.

In Macro's capital, the ordinary citizen only knew something had changed because prices doubled in a night, fuel vanished from stations, and television spoke in languages that seemed less about facts than about creating enemies.

Inside his small apartment, Lassen sat as he always did: blanket, mug, glowing screens. To him, the chaos outside felt like someone else's weather. He scrolled through overlapping feeds, military reports, financial updates, shaky footage from cell phones—and let his eyes flicker over them without concern.

[You've provoked a storm.]

He sipped slowly "Storms are useful. They knock the branches down."

[They also drown the harvest.]

"Depends on the farmer."

Adrian's voice came through the comm, crisp as a soldier's salute "Engagements confirmed at two checkpoints. Enemy forces testing the line. We've held position, no casualties, but requests for authorization to counterattack."

"Deny it" Lassen said, flat, almost bored "Patience is misread as weakness. Let them misread. Desperation is a better weapon than drones."

Adrian paused "Understood."

On another channel, Kaela's face appeared, eyes ringed with fatigue but sharp as always. "We've got a bigger problem. Their communications net… it's not just monitoring us. They're shadowing every packet, rerouting traffic as if they own the pipes themselves."

Lassen raised a brow. "So we're not just fighting troops. We're fighting the plumbing."

"Yes" Kaela shot back "The architecture is against us. That means they've had this in place for decades. Whoever's behind this didn't wake up yesterday, they built this system."

For a moment, even the System said nothing.

Meanwhile, far across the ocean, in Washington, cameras blinked to life. The President of the United States stood before the nation, eyes steel, tone rehearsed.

"We cannot allow rogue actors to redraw the map by force. The United States will stand with its allies in defending stability, democracy, and order."

The words were polished; the meaning was not. Stability meant troops. Democracy meant sanctions. Order meant war.

Generals in the back exchanged quiet glances. They had seen this performance before. Speeches were not weapons, but they were often the prelude to them.

In Brussels, ministers convened under chandeliers that had seen too many wars already. They spoke of "energy security" and "trade continuity," but their eyes carried a single question: who is Mister X really, and how far is he willing to go?

Back in Macro, the city breathed tension. Citizens sensed the shift without needing to hear declarations. Gasoline lines stretched into streets. Mothers whispered in markets that tomorrow might bring shortages of bread. Students argued in cafés, half convinced Lassen was a savior, half sure he was dragging them into ruin.

Televisions streamed images of riots from other countries, images Kaela quickly confirmed were staged. But truth mattered little in a world where perception dictated markets.

Lassen shut his mug on the desk with a small thud "They've chosen the stage," he murmured.

[And what role will you play?]

"The critic" he smirked.

Adrian interrupted again "Satellites confirm buildup on three fronts. Their speed is… unnatural. Almost like the deployments were planned weeks in advance."

Kaela leaned closer to her screen "And the media's already framing us as aggressors. They've set up entire networks to make us the villains before the first missile launches."

Lassen chuckled softly "Owning the stage lets you cast the play. We're cast as monsters. Good. Fear slows their hands."

Markets reacted faster than tanks. Within hours, wheat prices spiked, oil doubled, currencies collapsed. Insurance firms voided coverage on ships heading for Macro ports. Bankers froze accounts in silence.

It wasn't just soldiers and generals now, it was bankers, traders, shareholders. War came with contracts first, bullets later.

In New York, at the top of a tower where glass reflected only itself, the man from the black sedan scanned the reports with practiced indifference.

"He thinks survival is free" he said coldly "He'll learn survival is the most expensive product we sell."

His aide Steven said nothing. He had learned silence was the safest currency here.

By nightfall, the first shots echoed across the southern desert. A convoy carrying aid supplies was ambushed. Two drones spiraled into the sand, smoke rising like thin questions into the dusk.

Adrian's voice sharpened over comms "We've contained the situation. Medics deployed instead of retaliation. The enemy's confused."

"Good" Lassen said. "Confusion is worth more than fear."

"Media coverage?" Adrian asked.

"Show them footage of water distribution. Schools reopening. Hospitals being stocked. Make sure the images survive the outrage cycle."

"You want to win Twitter?"

"I want to leave fingerprints the machine can't erase."

In Paris, a headline the next morning declared Macro Destabilizes Region, Violence Spreads. In Ankara, a parliamentarian demanded intervention. In Delhi, economists whispered that backing either side could collapse the rupee. Everywhere, the calculus was the same: not morality, not justice, risk management.

At the United Nations, diplomats pretended the chamber still mattered. Speeches looped in circles, each delegation waiting to see who would bleed first.

Kaela stormed back into Lassen's apartmen. "They're not just monitoring. Something's humming across their backbone. It's not code, it's a map. Not of presence. Of absence."

He raised an eyebrow "And it moves?"

"Yes."

The System stirred [Interesting.]

"What kind of hum?" Lassen asked.

"The kind that doesn't belong to humans" Kaela whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment before leaning back again "File it. We'll need it later."

Outside, Macro's skies filled with drones. Citizens filmed them with shaky hands, uploaded, debated. Half believed it was protection, half thought it was surveillance.

Inside, Lassen sat like a man at the center of the storm. Calm, sarcastic, untouchable.

"They've declared war" he said "That means they've admitted I exist."

[And when existence costs more than you can pay?]

He smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed no joy.

"Then we'll find out who can afford the bill."