The S-Rank's Son has a Secret System

He gestured vaguely towards a nearby monitor, which was playing a news report about the ongoing political firestorm that was consuming the DGC.

"You took a stick," he grunted, "and you poked the biggest, angriest hornet's nest in the city."

"And now," he finished, his gaze settling on Michael, "the hornets are angry."

Jinx, standing by the door with her arms crossed, just snorted. "Tell us something we don't know, old man."

Forge ignored her. His focus was on Michael.

"The council is in chaos," he explained, his voice a grim, no-nonsense report.

"Half of them want to give you a medal. The other half want to hand your heads to the DGC on a silver platter to calm things down."

"And Sterling," he added, a flicker of something that might have been grudging respect in his eyes, "has been very, very busy."

"He's painting you as a public menace. An unstable, rogue element led by a walking, talking anomalous time bomb."

He was talking about Michael.

I'm not a time bomb, Michael's inner monologue retorted. I'm more of a surprise party. You don't know when I'm going to show up, but you know it's probably going to be loud and someone's going to end up crying.

"He's good at it, too," Forge admitted. "He's got the corporate sponsors spooked. He's got the politicians sweating."

"He's building a coalition. He's pushing for a vote to have Thanatos officially classified as a hostile entity."

"Which would give him, and any other Guild that wants a piece of you, the legal justification they need to hunt you down like dogs."

The weight of his words settled over them, a cold, suffocating blanket.

"So we're back to being public enemy number one," Jax said, his usual cheerfulness a little strained. "I was just starting to get used to being a beloved local hero."

"What's your point, Forge?" Chloe asked, her voice a sharp, clean line of pure, analytical focus. "You didn't call us here to give us a political science lecture."

Forge let out a long, weary sigh.

"The council is deadlocked," he said. "They're cowards. They won't make a move until they know which way the wind is blowing."

"So," he said, his tired eyes meeting Michael's, "we have to give them a little push."

"To prevent an all-out war between the Guilds," he explained, "and to give you a legitimate path forward, the council has invoked an old, and frankly, stupid tradition."

"The Gauntlet."

The word hung in the air, heavy and cold.

"It's a rite of passage," Forge grumbled. "A test. A performance. A way for the old lions to see what the new cubs are made of."

"The rules are simple," he continued. "A new guild, seeking recognition, must clear a high-level, unclosed Gate under the direct observation of the council."

"You go in, you kill the boss, you close the Gate."

"You succeed, and they have no choice but to grant you official Minor Guild status. You get the protection of the Guild Charter. Sterling can't touch you without declaring war on the entire system."

"And if we fail?" Michael asked quietly.

Forge gave him a grim, humorless smile.

"Then you die," he said simply. "And your problem, and the council's, is solved."

It was a test. A performance. And a death sentence, all wrapped up in a neat, politically convenient package.

"So they're throwing us to the wolves to see if we're strong enough to become wolves ourselves," Jinx summarized, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Typical."

"Where's the fight?" Jax asked, a new, manic gleam in his eyes. He was already imagining the explosions.

Forge's face turned even grimmer.

He brought up a holographic map on the table. It showed a section of the city that was a chaotic, angry red. An unstable, permanent rift zone.

"The target is a B-Rank rift that opened a week ago in the old garment district," he said, his voice a low, final, and utterly terrifying command.

"The initial scans were… inconclusive. But the energy signatures are unlike anything we've seen before."

He zoomed in on the Gate, its form a shimmering, jagged tear in reality.

"The place is a maze," he said. "The internal structure is unstable, constantly shifting. The monsters inside are made of… something else."

He looked up at them, his face a mask of profound, weary sympathy.

"The survey team that went in called it the 'Crystal Labyrinth'," he finished, his voice a quiet, final verdict.

"They didn't come back out."

The hour before the Gauntlet was a symphony of quiet, focused preparation.

The Thanatos warehouse, usually a chaotic mess of half-finished projects and terrible jokes, was now a silent, professional armory.

Each member of the team was in their own corner, locked in their own private ritual of readiness.

Jax was the loudest.

He was humming a cheerful, off-key tune as he carefully, lovingly, packed his new toys into a custom-built bandolier.

"Behold!" he had declared earlier, holding up a sleek, cylindrical grenade. "The 'Crystal Calamity'!"

"It doesn't explode," he had explained with the pride of a new father. "It releases a high-frequency resonant pulse. Tuned to the exact molecular frequency of crystalline structures. It won't blow them up. It'll just… vibrate them into a very fine, very sparkly dust."

Jinx had just rolled her eyes. "Your names are terrible, Boomer."

"They're a work in progress!" he'd shot back.

Now, she was a silent, deadly shadow in the armory, methodically checking every component of her long-range rifle.

Her movements were economical, precise, a physical manifestation of her own cold, hard focus.

She was a professional, and she was going to work.

Luna, their newest and most fragile member, sat in a quiet corner of the common area, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady.

She was meditating, building her own mental walls, preparing her mind for the psychic assault that was to come.

Michael found Chloe at the main holographic table.

She was a statue of pure, analytical focus, her fingers a blur across the keyboard as she ran a final series of predictive combat simulations.

She didn't look up when he approached.

"Your stealth harness is calibrated," she said, her voice a crisp, clinical monotone. "The power cell has been stabilized. Jax's modifications have reduced the probability of 'personal electrical shock' by eighty-seven percent."

"So, only a thirteen percent chance of getting zapped," Michael's inner monologue drawled. "I like those odds."

"The mission parameters are clear," she continued, her eyes still fixed on the screen. "Luna will navigate. Jax will handle structural threats. Jinx will provide overwatch and deal with long-range targets."

"Your role," she finished, her gaze finally lifting to meet his, "is primary close-quarters engagement and crowd control. The Revenant will be your shield. Use it to draw aggro. Do not engage the primary boss until the support structures have been neutralized."

It was her usual, no-nonsense, tactical briefing.

But he could feel it.

His [Void Sense] was a constant, low hum in his mind, and it was screaming at him.

The calm, professional facade was a lie.

Beneath the surface, she was a raging storm of pure, undiluted anxiety.

"Chloe," he said, his voice quiet, cutting through her stream of tactical data.

She stopped. She looked at him, her gray eyes wide with a flicker of surprise.

He had never called her by her first name so directly before.

"The plan is good," he said simply. "We're ready."

She just stared at him for a long, silent moment.

She reached for a small, military-grade auto-injector on the console beside her. It was the last of the high-potency healing agent she had given him before Conduit Zero.

She held it out to him.

"The operational status of the primary asset is paramount to mission success," she said, her voice stiff, the words a pre-programmed, professional shield.

He reached out to take it.

Their fingers brushed.

And she didn't let go.

The touch was a live wire. A jolt of pure, unadulterated, and utterly unprofessional panic that shot straight up his arm.

"Michael," she said again, her voice a quiet, almost desperate whisper, the use of his name a shocking, intimate thing.

"The Alkahest," she said, her professional mask cracking, just for a moment. "It is not just a mission-critical objective."

She took a small, shaky breath, her gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight.

"It is… a personal priority."

It was the closest she could come to saying it.

Your survival is important to me.

Don't you dare die on me.