Liam's bedroom was a model of purposeful simplicity—clean, minimal, and composed. Muted tones washed over sleek surfaces, with not a single object out of place. There were no flourishes, no indulgences. Just function and calm.
The serenity was shattered.
"Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!"
Liam groaned and slapped his hand across the bedside table, blindly searching for the alarm clock. He hit everything except the device itself. The ringing persisted, sharp and insistent.
"AISAR, shut the alarm off!" he growled, still groggy.
The AI's voice replied evenly. "Sir, you specifically instructed me not to disable your alarms."
With a grumble, Liam sat up, rubbing his synthetic eyes and stretching. His body, though bionic, moved with uncanny realism—flexing like a human's, yawning like one too. He finally reached the alarm and switched it off with a sigh.
"Why did I do that again?"
"You said, quote: 'It's loud enough to be intolerable, and if I can't reach it, I'll have to get up to stop it.' Your logic, sir."
Liam smirked. "Genius. Of course it was."
"Would you like coffee?" AISAR asked.
"Black. No sugar, no milk." Liam stood, rolling his shoulders. "Funny how the body doesn't strain, but the mind? That's different. I could run for days without rest, but if I skip sleep, it's my brain that starts to fry. That's how I'll die—not a system failure, just… brain death."
The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, a small comfort against the sterile calm of the room.
"AISAR, make noodles too. I'm done living off burritos and shakes like I'm trapped in some dystopian corp-world under a black company contract."
"Breakfast will be ready shortly," AISAR replied.
"Has the tunnel to the underground bunker opened?"
"Yes, sir. The tunnel is operational."
"Good. Begin transferring all non-relocatable labs and chambers into sealed stasis. Move your mainframe underground and seal it shut. Also, relocate my Alchemy-Tech Fabricator. I want it operational in the bunker."
Liam was halfway through a bowl of noodles when AISAR interrupted.
"Sir, General Hadrek Vorn has arrived with his subordinates and is requesting a meeting."
"Let him in. But only him."
"General Hadrek Vorn, only you are welcome inside. The others must wait outside," AISAR announced calmly at the door.
One of the subordinates bristled. "We go where the General goes. Who are you to stop us?"
"Stand down, Lieutenant Garran," Hadrek ordered. "Wait here."
The general stepped inside, his eyes scanning the minimalist interior with mild surprise. As a noble, Hadrek was more accustomed to extravagance—oil portraits of ancestors, taxidermied beasts, armor displays in precious metals, and clockwork marvels littered the homes and towers of his peers. Liam's space, by contrast, was sparse. A few plants, abstract paintings he didn't understand—one marked "GUNDAM," others showing humans with strange eyes—gave it a distinctly alien feel.
'Art is subjective,' Hadrek thought to himself. 'Even in the army, we have our fair share of eccentrics.'
Guided by AISAR, he entered the dining room.
"General," Liam said, without looking up, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I wanted to speak with you face-to-face. Your inventions have helped the army tremendously. Our communication lines are more efficient than ever. Your vehicles have revolutionized logistics and troop movement. I even petitioned the Emperor to fund your train system, but the council refused—paranoid about it being used by invaders. And of course, your bolt-action rifles… give me an army, and in a week, I can make soldiers."
"Appreciate the praise," Liam said flatly, "but I doubt you're here just to shower me with compliments."
Hadrek gave a faint smile. "No, I'm not. I've seen your other machines. Don't tell me those rifles are the limit of your ingenuity."
"You have a nose for war, General."
"I am a Warmaster. So you're not denying it?"
"There's no point in hiding it anymore. Come. I'll show you."
He led Hadrek into a secure chamber, where he and Layla had once tested his psychic resonance.
Liam unlocked the storage units, revealing weapons from another world. The AK-47. The M-16. Fully automatic rifles with rates of fire that made the bolt-action seem like a museum piece. High-caliber kinetic guns sat on padded racks, capable of tearing through dragon hide in a single shot—so powerful that even mana augmented wielders risked broken bones from the recoil.
Hadrek stood awestruck.
Then he picked up a Gatling gun and began to laugh manically as he fired it into a reinforced target.
"If the Knights or the Mage Association knew you had these, they'd have declared you an enemy of the Empire," he said between bursts of laughter.
Liam nodded. "That's why I kept them hidden. Back then, rebel cells from the old kingdoms were still active. If these fell into the wrong hands, they could've assassinated sword masters and archmages."
"You're telling me… that these weapons could kill them?"
"Yes," Liam said without hesitation. "With enough bullets and the right tactics—even the mightiest can fall."
Hadrek shook his head slowly. "Becoming a sword master or an archmage takes talent, decades of training, a moment of enlightenment… You're telling me someone without any of that could kill them with the right tools?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Liam replied. "I never had the gift for greatness. So I built it."
Hadrek stared at him, then laughed again—this time not out of madness, but understanding.
"You didn't climb the mountain," he said. "You built a ladder no one else saw."
"And now," Liam said, voice steady, "I decide who climbs it."