It wasn't until the following day that the report on N'Jadaka's actions reached Solomon's desk. The report, wrapped in brown kraft paper, bore the black emblem of a spread-winged eagle and a mountain crest with the Roman numeral I—marking it as a report from the Fimbulwinter First Secret Regiment. It was 3 a.m., over an hour since the incident, and the monarch of Eternal City had already returned home. The report was then spotted by Stephanie, who was still working late.
She put aside the parchment documents Solomon was scheduled to review the next day, paid no heed to the rules she was technically bound to uphold, twisted the desk lamp on, and casually flipped through the report.
Without hesitation, Stephanie picked up a pen and signed her name, placing the report at the very bottom of the stack of pending files—signaling that the Internal Affairs Department had reviewed it. This wasn't some red box trick from 10 Downing Street, where civil servants would bury important reports at the bottom of the minister's folder stack, padding the volume to exhaust the politician's patience or attention. That old game, a favorite of the civil service before Thatcher's reign, had long lost its effectiveness—by now, most politicians instinctively pulled out the documents at the bottom first.
The game of cat and mouse between bureaucrats and politicians continued, albeit with less intensity. Stephanie, however, didn't bury the file for manipulation—she simply knew that Solomon wouldn't care about such trivialities. There was no need for the monarch to know every move of such a minor character.
What N'Jadaka did didn't matter. His sole value lay in the role he played, and as long as he fulfilled that role, nothing else was relevant.
With that settled, she switched off the desk lamp.
Suddenly, brilliant firelight filled the dark office. A crimson mist ignited mid-air above the desk, and the air turned searing in an instant, expanding rapidly and then exploding in a low, thunderous boom. Stephanie calmly squinted, shielding her eyes from the gusting hot wind and dazzling light. Then, just as quickly, the heat collapsed inward, perfectly contained to a narrow radius. Aside from a few loose pages rustling, there was no damage.
As expected, she saw a golden-red bird flap its wings and emerge from the star-like sphere of flame. Despite the spectacle, her expression barely changed—this wasn't the first time she had seen it.
"Phoenix, what does the Lord need from you?" asked the head of Internal Affairs.
"The Lord just forgot to bring his watch home. Do you know where it is? If the Witch sees he left her gift behind, she might be upset!" The bird flapped slowly in the air, answering honestly. "Oh, thank you! You're so kind, Lady Malik," it chirped as Stephanie retrieved the watch she'd casually pocketed earlier and handed it over. The Thirty-Seventh Demon Pillar shifted its tone slightly, "By the way, Lady Malik, please remember to check your mail—I put you down as the recipient."
"Hmm?" Stephanie raised a brow.
"The Lord contacted a publisher. My poetry collection has been published," said Phoenix, sounding both shy and proud. Stephanie nodded—she already knew about it. Solomon had brought it up during afternoon tea, which took place two hours after lunch. At midday, Solomon would as usual open the food box he brought from home, filled with lunch lovingly prepared by Bayonetta. While not exactly gourmet—often bordering on inedible compared to Dana's exquisite dinners—he had eaten like this for years.
Stephanie, despite her modest literary sensibilities, could still detect in Phoenix's verses a longing for the aesthetics of the Aesthetic Movement, and a deep admiration for Oscar Wilde's works. Such writing deserved the stage and acclaim of a literary star, but Phoenix, unable to appear publicly, had to publish under a pseudonym—a small but real regret. "I figured the royalties could be used as military funding," said the Thirty-Seventh Demon Pillar, sheepishly. "I know the Lord needs war resources, and I want to help however I can."
Even weary from overtime, Stephanie couldn't help but chuckle.
"I imagine your master would prefer you to spend those royalties on snacks. Eternal City isn't so broke that it needs your poetry earnings to fund munitions. Don't worry—we're not short on funds to make another shell for the Macro-Cannon. And I think the Lord would be happy enough just to know how loyal you are."
The self-propelled artillery named in honor of Gustav, inheriting both its name and caliber, was Eternal City's siege weapon of choice. Though it had a WWII steel beast aesthetic, it incorporated the world's top advancements in materials science, artillery design, and even anti-gravity engines. Without such tech, even with treads, its immense weight would render it immobile in most terrain. The shells alone—upgraded by research labs with new propulsion fuels—had a mass of around ten tons for armor-piercing rounds, and even high-explosive variants weighed seven tons. During the Fimbulwinter campaign, a hundred Gustav-class anti-gravity cannons were deployed, pounding the ridges relentlessly. Without that sustained bombardment, even two low-yield hydrogen bombs wouldn't have flattened the mountains.
Naturally, such shells came at a steep price. Each high-explosive round could level a small town, and advanced fire-control systems and targeting radars enabled pinpoint accuracy. Nearly a thousand shells were used in the campaign. Afterward, recovery teams found shell fragments so intermingled with the mountain's soil they couldn't be separated.
Currently, these shells could only be produced in limited numbers at Eternal City's own munitions factories. Mars foundries were tasked with making even larger war machines. Overall, these artillery shells cost less than missiles, but Phoenix's royalties still couldn't come close to covering them.
The golden-red bird gave a couple of soft chirps, delicately picked up the watch in its beak, affectionately nuzzled Stephanie's shoulder, then let out a melodious cry before vanishing back into the fireball. With Phoenix gone, the office fell back into darkness. Stephanie looked around, then exited and shut the door behind her. A few hours later, that door would be opened again by Constantine of the Praetorian Guard—unless he was engaged in one of the top-secret missions even Stephanie wasn't privy to. Her monarch would once again sit at that desk, commanding steel and fire with the tip of his pen, forging dreams that seemed far out of reach.
The young secretary stifled a yawn, eyes watery from fatigue. Stephanie's glance snapped her out of it. The granddaughter of Dr. Liszt had neither undergone modification surgery nor consumed alchemical elixirs, so she couldn't keep up with the grueling pace.
"Bring the interrogation records and summon the transcription clerks to verify them," said Stephanie Malik, daughter of HYDRA, striding as she spoke. The blonde secretary scurried to follow. "We need to have the Skrull interrogation report on the Lord's desk by six. Also, tell our foundation managers to clean up the evidence. The SEC is on our tail—they suspect insider trading."
The secretary paled. "Did we really do that?"
Stephanie gave the clueless girl a sharp glance. "That's how the market works, sweetheart," she said. "How else do you think we make money?"
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