Chapter 142: [143]: The Guild Master, Panic at the Gala

The grand ballroom of the Inner Spire was a massive monument to corporate excess. It was a place designed specifically to mock the absolute misery of the lower sectors.

While the refugees in Sector 4 starved and died from mutated rat bites, the Vanguard Syndicate top executives danced under floating chandeliers. The floor was a flawless expanse of polished obsidian laced with glowing veins of gold that pulsed in time with the swelling orchestral music.

The room was filled with the savory scent of roasted digital beasts. Massive multi-tiered fountains were scattered across the edges of the room but they did not pump water. They pumped a shimmering pink wine that cascaded down into carved crystal basins.

The guests were a collection of the highest-level NPCs and the most arrogant wealthy beta testers on the server. They wore flowing gowns and tailored sharp suits made from the hides of high-tier monsters.

But the most ridiculous part of the entire affair was the masks.

It was a masquerade. Every single elite in the room wore a mask carved from pure crystallized mana. They were shaped like elegant foxes, roaring lions, and weeping angels. The masks pulsed with a bright aura of magical energy.

The sheer amount of raw power casually strapped to their faces could have easily

powered the failing water filtration systems of the slums for an entire decade.

Instead, it was being used as a flashy fashion statement.

A low-level NPC waiter dressed in a crisp spotless white tuxedo nervously navigated the edge of the dance floor. He was carrying a silver tray loaded with glowing mana-infused caviar.

His assigned route was to deliver the appetizers to the secluded VIP booths on the upper balconies.

He carefully walked up the plush velvet-lined spiral staircase, keeping his head down to avoid making eye contact with any of the terrifyingly powerful guests.

He reached the second-floor landing and turned the corner toward the private alcove reserved for Inquisitor Vance and General Kael.

The waiter stepped into the dim quiet alcove.

"Pardon the interruption, my lords," the waiter murmured politely, bowing his head as he raised the silver tray. "I have the..."

His foot slipped.

SQUELCH.

The waiter looked down. He had not slipped on spilled wine. The thick plush velvet carpet was completely soaked in a massive expanding puddle of dark blood.

The waiter’s hands began to tremble. He slowly raised his head as his programmed

AI routines struggled to process the visual data in front of him.

Sitting on the expensive velvet couch was General Kael. But the massive heavily

armored man was not laughing. His head was tilted at a completely unnatural broken angle, and his chest plate was caved inward and completely shattered.

Sitting in the chair next to him was Inquisitor Vance. The psychic’s throat had been violently laid open, and a ceramic combat knife was buried hilt-deep directly into the center of his forehead.

And hovering three feet above the ruined mahogany coffee table was a perfectly

smooth geometric cube of compressed meat, bone, and black fabric, slowly dripping blood onto the floor.

The waiter dropped the silver tray.

CRASH!

The heavy tray hit the marble floor, the crystal glasses and glowing caviar shattering into a million pieces. But the sound of the breaking glass was entirely drowned out by the sound that tore from the waiter’s throat.

"AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

It was a shrill scream of pure terror. It echoed down from the balcony, cutting through the ambient chatter and the orchestral music like a physical blade.

Down on the main floor, the music abruptly screeched to a halt. The cellists dropped their bows. The dancing couples froze in place, their glowing mana masks turning upward toward the source of the scream.

Standing near the central wine fountain, Guild Master Regis snapped his head up.

Regis was a Level 85 Technomancer. He was the absolute ruler of the Vanguard Syndicate, a man who had spent millions of real-world credits to secure his position. He wore a mask carved from a Level 70 Diamond Golem core, shaped like a snarling wolf.

"Who dares interrupt my gala?!" Regis’s voice boomed, magically amplified to shake the very walls of the ballroom.

The waiter stumbled out to the edge of the balcony railing, his pristine white tuxedo now stained with the dark blood of the Vanguard generals. He pointed a shaking terrified finger back into the dark alcove.

"Blood!" the waiter sobbed hysterically. "They are dead! They are all dead!"

Regis frowned beneath his diamond mask. He quickly opened his guild management

UI, checking the life signs of his top lieutenants.

Vance. Offline. Kael. Offline. Sterling. Offline.

The glowing green text of their status indicators had all turned a flat dead grey. They had not just logged out. Their digital signatures had been violently erased from the local server grid.

Regis’s eyes widened in absolute shock. "Impossible," he whispered.

Then, the realization hit him. The panic spread through the room like wildfire.

The aristocratic elites and wealthy players suddenly realized that the most heavily guarded room in the entire sector had been breached.

"Assassin!" a noble screamed, pointing up at the balcony. "There is an assassin!"

Absolute chaos erupted. The polished sophisticated facade of the corporate

elites shattered instantly. They shoved each other, trampled over trailing silk gowns, and sprinted toward the massive titanium double doors leading out of the ballroom.

"Silence!" Regis roared, his voice cracking like thunder. He slammed the butt of his heavy metallic staff against the obsidian floor.

A pulse of heavy purple Admin-code erupted from his staff.

"LOCKDOWN!" Regis commanded the server.

BZZZZT!

The system responded instantly to the Guild Master’s override. The heavy titanium doors violently slammed shut, crushing a decorative marble statue that happened to be in the way. Massive thick iron blast shields slammed down over the towering stained-glass windows, plunging the room into darkness.

A second later, the emergency lights flared to life. The entire ballroom was bathed in a harsh strobing blood-red glow.

The hundred or so guests were trapped. They huddled together in the center of the room, clutching their useless decorative staves and whimpering behind their glowing masks.

Regis stepped forward, his heavy mechanized boots clicking against the floor.

He looked up at the dark balcony, his hands balling into fists.

"Show yourself!" Regis yelled, the mechanical amplifiers in his throat making

his voice vibrate the floorboards. "You are trapped in a room with the Vanguard Elite! You have nowhere to run! Show yourself, you cowardly rat!"

For a long heavy second, there was no response. The only sound was the panicked

heavy breathing of the trapped nobles.

Then, a figure slowly stepped out of the deep shadows of the upper balcony.

It was The Blank.

Sebastian stood at the edge of the railing. He wore the featureless pitch-black tactical suit that absorbed the flashing red emergency lights.

His face was entirely obscured by the smooth blank dome of impact-resistant glass.

He did not look like a player. He looked like an empty void in the shape of a man.

Sebastian did not speak. He did not offer a dramatic villainous monologue or explain his motives. He just raised his right hand over the edge of the marble railing.

He was holding something by the hair.

He let go.

THUD.

The severed head of Commander Sterling hit the polished obsidian floor right at Regis’s feet. The aristocratic officer’s perfectly coiffed silver hair was matted with dark blood, his pale blue eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling in a look of permanent frozen surprise.

The crowd shrieked, scrambling backward and slipping on the spilled pink wine.

Regis stared down at the head of his top commander. His hands began to shake, not with fear, but with a deep rage.

"You," Regis hissed, his voice dropping into a dark synthesized growl. "I know who you are. The anomaly from the outer sectors. The Drifter."

Sebastian just tilted his featureless helmet slightly, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the railing.

"You think you can walk into my city? Into my Spire?!" Regis roared, taking a step back. He raised both of his hands into the air, his Level 85 mana pool exploding outward in a violent wave of purple energy. "I will grind your code

into dust!"

Regis did not cast a fireball. He did not summon a shield. He was a Technomancer, and he had spent his entire digital existence building the ultimate weapon.

"System Command!" Regis screamed. "Deploy the Aegis Protocol!"

The space behind Regis violently warped. The air tore open, revealing a massive swirling digital inventory space.

Chunks of heavy interlocking dark steel and glowing titanium flew out of the portal like guided missiles. They did not just land on the floor.

They slammed directly onto Regis’s body.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Massive hydraulic greaves locked around his legs. A colossal heavily plated breastplate clamped over his chest, fusing seamlessly with his spine.

Thick weaponized gauntlets the size of engine blocks encased his hands.

In less than three seconds, the Guild Master was completely swallowed by the Aegis Suit.

It was a towering ten-foot-tall mechanical exoskeleton powered entirely by condensed corrupted Admin-code. Thick glowing purple mana veins pulsed across the dark metal, radiating a heavy oppressive heat.

Twin depleted-uranium rotary cannons spun up on its massive shoulders with a terrifying high-pitched whine.

The final boss of Server 112 took a heavy earth-shattering step forward. The red

emergency lights reflected off its pristine impenetrable armor.

"Now," the Aegis Suit’s voice boomed, sounding like a chorus of grinding gears.

"Let us see how much damage you can take, glitch."