Chapter 30: A Deal

Deep within the subterranean belly of Raven Rock, Arthur Vance—Candidate Malakor—leaned back in the supreme commander’s leather chair, swirling two fingers of bourbon in an etched crystal glass.

Around him, the heart of the American nuclear apparatus hummed with sterile, emotionless precision. General Bradley and two dozen staff officers stood frozen in their posts, minds entirely subdued under the velvet iron of Arthur’s telepathic grip.

Across the giant central board, sixty-four red markers from the recent nuclear barrage were already fading to cold ash. The stragglers who had survived the mudslides and the mountain cold were gone, vaporized by three-hundred-kiloton warheads.

Out of five hundred candidates, only one hundred and seventy-two remained alive.

Arthur glanced at his phone. In the corner of the display, the Trial interface sat pinned to his private messaging panel.

He tapped open the direct messaging protocol, selecting the user profile that had dominated the global chat for days: [Julius (Rank 456)].

Arthur’s thumbs moved lightly over the screen.

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "Let’s skip the posturing, Julius. I saw your handiwork with the eight regional bunkers. Forty tons of high explosives per site, synchronized across four continents with zero communication leaks. That wasn’t luck. That was clean, corporate slaughter."

He paused, took a sip of his drink, and sent the hook:

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "The animals who picked swords, fire, and dragon bloodlines are practically extinct now. What’s left out there are a hundred-odd cockroaches hiding in caves, terrified of their own shadows. They’re irrelevant. The only two players on this entire planet who understand modern operational power are you and me."

Four hundred meters beneath the churning waves of the North Atlantic, inside the warm, wood-paneled study of St. Jude’s Spire, Julius Vance’s smartphone vibrated on the marble desk.

Julius, who had been reviewing agricultural yield projections for Sector 4 with Clara Chen over the intercom, picked up the device.

He read the message with a completely flat expression.

Beside his desk, Colonel Mercer stood at parade rest, his sharp, scarred face watchful.

"Sir?" Mercer inquired quietly. "More chatter from the American mainland?"

"The puppet master from the Pentagon," Julius replied smoothly, leaning back in his velvet armchair. "He wants to chat."

Julius typed a short, dry reply:

[Julius (Rank 456)]: "I prefer the term ’cost-effective management.’ What do you want, Malakor?"

A response flashed back within three seconds. Arthur was clearly glued to his console.

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "A partnership. A mutual liquidation pact."

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "Listen to me carefully, Vance. My talent is telepathic domination. I hold the complete command structure of the United States military. I have the keys to nineteen hundred active nuclear warheads, two hundred deep-sea submarines, and the global satellite tracking grid. What I lack is unhackable offshore infrastructure and autonomous long-term supply reserves. My continental silos are vulnerable to secondary flooding and supply decay."

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "You, on the other hand, have infinite financial capital and the most hardened subterranean citadel on Earth. You have food for thirty years and clean geothermal power. Together, we can divide the globe into sectors. I’ll feed you satellite tracking vectors on every remaining candidate hiding in the mountains. We cross-reference their locations, saturation-bomb them into oblivion, and clean the board within thirty days."

Julius rested his chin on his steepled fingers, his dark eyes fixed on the glowing text.

Arthur sent another line immediately:

[Malakor (Rank 2)]: "Once the other one hundred and seventy candidates are wiped out, we share the final podium. The system never explicitly stated there can only be one survivor until the final phase. We survive together, secure the Trial’s highest-tier clearance, and return as kings. What do you say?"

Julius let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

He didn’t just laugh—he smiled, shook his head, and set the phone face-up on the desk.

"Colonel Mercer," Julius said, his tone casual and light. "If an enemy general with twelve hundred nuclear missiles calls you and offers to be your best friend until everyone else is dead... what do you think his next move is?"

Mercer scoffed, his lips curling into a cynical sneer.

"He finds your coordinates, sends three warheads to your front door the second his own threats are cleared, and claims the sole bounty for himself, sir. Anyone who suggests a coalition in an absolute elimination trial is either an amateur or an executioner looking for an easy angle."

"Precisely," Julius said, picking up his crystal tumbler of water. "Malakor isn’t an amateur. He controlled the Pentagon before the world even started raining. He’s sharp, he’s ambitious, and he’s terrified of me."

"Terrified of you, sir?"

"Of course," Julius said, taking a sip. "He understands conventional force. He has missiles and generals. But missiles require coordinates, and generals require satellite networks. He knows I have an island, but he has no idea which quadrant of the ocean I bought. My supply chains were routed through forty thousand shell companies in Zurich, Panama, and Singapore before the banks drowned. He is blind to my location, and blind men always offer handshakes so they can feel where your neck is."

Julius picked up his phone. He had zero intention of allying with anyone.

This Trial was not a cooperative board game. In Heaven’s Realm, the celestial voice had been absolute: Survive at all costs. In a room with five hundred killers, the man who trusts a partner is simply the second man to die.

Still, you never hang up on an enemy who is willing to talk. Information was currency, and Julius Vance had infinite wealth in every sense of the word.

He began typing.