Chapter 28: The Adversary Part 1

Deep inside the Appalachian Mountains, buried beneath six hundred and fifty feet of solid greenstone rock, sat the Raven Rock Mountain Complex—the underground Pentagon.

Outside, the unending deluge of Phase One had turned the valleys of Pennsylvania and Maryland into massive muddy lakes. The towns below were wiped clean off the map. Millions of displaced citizens had vanished under the cold brown tides.

Inside the subterranean command hub, however, the lights burned bright, cold, and steady.

A young man in his late twenties sat casually in the supreme commander’s leather swivel chair. He wore a crisp, tailored military dress uniform with no rank insignia on the shoulders. In his right hand, he idly twirled a heavy silver fountain pen between his fingers.

His name was Arthur Vance—no, he had discarded his common surname long ago. In the Trial registry, he was registered as Candidate #002: Malakor.

His chosen talent was an SSS-rank ability: [Sovereign’s Whispers — Absolute Telepathic Domination].

Unlike the brute idiots like Titan_01 who picked muscles, or ThunderG who picked sparks of lightning, Arthur had understood the true nature of power the moment he arrived in this mirror world two years ago.

He didn’t bother trying to fight tanks with his bare hands. He didn’t waste time hiding in abandoned basements or stockpiling cans of tuna.

Instead, he walked straight into Washington, D.C.

Within six months, Arthur had quietly rewritten the neural pathways of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Director of National Intelligence, and the President of the United States. He didn’t just read their thoughts; he burrowed deep into their brains, replacing their free will with unconditional, unquestioning devotion to his every whim.

By the end of his first year, the entire military-industrial complex of the world’s strongest superpower was his personal toy.

Standing in rigid rows across the tiered command floor below him were three dozen four-star generals, admirals, and senior strategic directors. Their eyes were glassy, completely devoid of self-awareness. If Arthur told them to put a pistol to their own heads and pull the trigger, they would do it with a smile and thank him for the privilege.

Arthur was looking at the massive war room display that covered the entire front wall of the bunker.

On the screen was the seismic and satellite data from the eight regional disasters that had just taken place.

The Canadian Shield. The Swiss Alps. The Sahara. Siberia. Patagonia. Australia. East Asia. Antarctica.

Eight massive red markers pulsed on the world map, each labeled with the same cold status: [CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE — ZERO SURVIVORS DETECTED].

Arthur leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. A slow, chilling grin crept across his pale face.

"Brilliant," Arthur murmured softly, his voice echoing in the dead-silent bunker. "Truly, absolutely brilliant."

He had watched the whole thing unfold through military spy satellites and deep-crust seismic arrays.

He had seen Julius Vance invite the starving players into those eight fortresses. He had seen the thirty-person limit trigger a savage bloodbath on every mountain doorstep. And then, the moment the winners were inside celebrating, Julius had simply pushed a button and dropped eight entire mountain massifs onto their heads.

Two hundred and forty metahumans, eliminated in less than four seconds.

"To think everyone mocked him for picking Infinite Wealth," Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "They thought money was worthless in an apocalypse. But money buys steel. Money buys forty tons of military explosives. Money builds eight identical slaughterhouses without raising a single red flag."

Arthur stood up from his chair and walked down to the central glass railing overlooking the primary tactical pit.

A four-star general wearing the uniform of the United States Strategic Command stepped forward, his back straight, his salute stiff and robotic.

"Command awaiting your instructions, Sovereign," General Bradley spoke, his voice completely flat, his mind totally subordinated by Arthur’s telepathic hold.

"General," Arthur said smoothly, tapping the rail. "Did our deep-space radar arrays manage to trace the transmission origin of the command signal that triggered the bunker detonations?"

General Bradley bowed his head slightly. "Negative, Sovereign. The detonator signal did not use public satellites or standard high-frequency radio bands. It traveled via an encrypted, low-frequency sub-oceanic quantum relay. It bypassed the global internet entirely. The signal origin is completely shielded."

Arthur hummed under his breath, not showing the slightest bit of frustration.

"An island," Arthur said to himself, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Or a deep-sea redoubt. He’s out in the oceans, far away from the landmasses, resting under layers of rock and water where land-based sensors can’t reach."

Arthur didn’t know Julius’s exact coordinates. Not yet. Julius had kept his personal citadel completely off the grid, hiding behind layers of shell companies and private contractors.

"No matter," Arthur smiled faintly, turning his gaze away from the Atlantic Ocean on the digital map. "Julius is a rat hiding in a very deep hole. Digging him out will take time. But the others..."

Arthur’s eyes flashed with a faint violet light—the glow of his telepathic power.

A year before the countdown had reached zero, while civilization was still functioning normally, Arthur hadn’t just sat in Washington controlling generals. He had sent out elite intelligence detachments across the globe, secretly hunting for other Trial candidates.

Using his mind-reading ability, Arthur had personally interrogated high-ranking politicians and intelligence directors from dozens of countries. Anyone who displayed abnormal physical feats, claimed to have magical abilities, or exhibited bizarre behavior had been flagged, tracked, and cataloged by the CIA, MI6, and the NSA under his direct orders.

He didn’t have Julius’s location, but he had the exact, pinned coordinates of nearly seventy surviving players currently stranded across North America, Europe, and Asia.

"General Bradley," Arthur commanded, his voice cold and devoid of mercy.

"Yes, Sovereign?"

"Bring up the continental heat maps. Target profiles Alpha through Echo."

The general tapped a series of keys on the master console. The global map shifted instantly.

Dozens of high-altitude thermal clusters appeared across the mountainous regions of North America and Europe. They were the candidates who had arrived too late at the Canadian and Swiss bunkers—the ones who had survived the bloody melee outside, only to be left freezing in the mud when the mountains imploded.

"Look at them," Arthur whispered, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Wounded, exhausted, out of food, and completely terrified. They think the worst is over just because they didn’t go inside the bunkers."

Arthur turned to the general.

"How many Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missiles are currently fueled and ready in the hardened silo fields of North Dakota and Wyoming?"

General Bradley didn’t flinch. "Forty-eight operational strategic missiles are online, Sovereign. All warheads armed and calibrated. Awaiting your launch authorization."

Arthur looked at the red clusters of surviving players on the screen.

"Julius gave them a show," Arthur whispered, his eyes gleaming with mad ambition. "It would be rude of me not to provide the finale."