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Chapter 101: Ability Lending 2
The recent experiment was only a preliminary test. In the bank lending process, only the lending part had been completed.
Next, George needed to experiment with how to maintain control over the lent energy and ensure that borrowers could successfully repay the loan.
These two experiments were relatively straightforward, so George brought back two more individuals from New York City. As for why he recruited them, it was simply a matter of timing and coincidence.
He happened to run into them. George had no time for ideology, and he held an utter disdain for all forms of racism or discrimination.
After testing, the use of the magic array was confirmed to achieve the desired results. Even if someone had the array tattooed on their body and successfully signed the contract, it didn't grant them unlimited borrowing rights.
George had hard-coded a total energy cap within each magic arrayâeach contractor could cast up to twenty spells. After reaching that threshold, they were required to meditate through the array and repay double the borrowed energy.
However, the contractors believed they were merely storing magic within the array, unaware that it was tracking a growing debt. George had no concerns about anyone escaping his control, even if the magic array was stolen or copied.
That's because, through a complex set of runes, he had embedded a True Name into the core of the arrayâa metaphysical anchor that bound the user's essence to him.
Once the contract was complete, the contractor was bound to George in a way that no one else could sever.
Moreover, George had control over every drop of lent energy. If someone, even someone as powerful as the Ancient One, borrowed energy and refused to repay it, they would find the array inert after the first use, completely cut off.
In addition, each array acted as a beacon; George could sense the contractor's precise location at any moment.
"Incredible! This is simply amazing," Ryan exclaimed, admiring the new tattoo on his upper arm. The ink etched there wasn't just ornamental, it was a restructured form of the magic array, featuring two Western dragons coiled around a shield.
Each dragon gripped one edge with its claws, while the Bauhinia crest of the Svente Family shimmered at the center.
After successfully trialing the new system, George brought Ryan into the fold as his first contractor.
Unlike others, Ryan was someone George trusted implicitly, not only because of his parents' dying wish, but because of Ryan's steadfast loyalty over the years.
For him, the tattoo granted six spells: four standard and two advanced ones, "Blazing Fire" and a powerful healing spell he dubbed "Renew Vitalis."
"This is magic; it makes the impossible possible," George told him. "Take your time. Learn it. Once you've mastered it, I'll roll out enhancements to the rest of the team. Regular members will receive four spells. Captain-level operators will receive five, including 'Renew Vitalis.'"
"Understood. I'll start organizing personnel," Ryan replied immediately.
George had no hesitation in entrusting Ryan with command. Over the years, Ryan had executed every assignment without question or delay. Now, George was ready to hand over the entire combat division to him.
Still, this world teemed with superpowers and hidden threats. No system was foolproof. Skrulls could extract memories. Mentalists could hijack thoughts.
To counter that, George had embedded a custom-designed "Brain Sealing Spell" into every identification badge worn by key members of the Iron Order of Orwell. This ensured that, should a contractor be captured or manipulated, their core memories and loyalties could not be accessed.
Under Ryan's leadership, Blackshield Security's elite forceâthe Iron Order of Orwellâhad grown to 1,100 contractors. Each one had been implanted with an Elemental Seed by George himself.
This allowed them to perform techniques such as instant transformation and substitution. But the most significant benefit of Elemental Energies is in the physical body.
In the original Naruto world, figures like Rock Lee and Might Guy had risen to prominence through pure body tempering.
George followed the same path, not by teaching spells, but by forging soldiers. He invested in martial training, weapon proficiency, and modern combat tactics.
The result: men and women who had reached the peak of normal human strength, bolstered by chakra-like enhancements and surgical precision. They were a force to be reckoned with.
George's next step was simple: extend the contract system to every member of the Iron Order. With the added magic arrays, their power would climb to a whole new tier.
Their training wasn't theoretical. Blackshield Security handled dozens of high-risk missions each year, often involving close protection for the ultra-wealthy or intervention during major incidents. These weren't showpiecesâthey were hardened field agents.
Beyond the Iron Order, Blackshield Security also employed nearly 10,000 regular personnel across the U.S., spread among local offices and private clients.
These operatives, while not magically enhanced, underwent rigorous screening and brutal training. Many were deployed to guard George's domestic and overseas assets, while others liaised with police or military to deal with high-level criminal threats.
And when such operations turned ugly, it was the Iron Order that stepped in to finish the job.
After going over some operational updates with Ryan, George watched him exit the castle.
George then turned to the next phase: equipment. He planned to outfit every contractor with custom-designed combat suits, optimized for their techniques and the magic array system.
These wouldn't just serve as armorâthey were channels. The suits would help synchronize their actions with the energy network George controlled.
The more his people used magic through his arrays, the faster his energy pool grew. George knew this. Every transaction was a two-way current. The real bank was himself.
"Monday, notify Fred to come over," George ordered aloud.
"Yes, Master," replied a smooth, mechanical voice.
The castle's integrated AIânamed Mondayâhad streamlined operations to a degree few could comprehend. Fred, the young human butler, had initially been overwhelmed by its presence, but George had encouraged interaction. Now the two worked as a seamless team.
"Master," Fred said, stepping into the study.
George handed him a document. "Take this to Paul. He'll know the next steps."
"Understood, Master. Anything else you require?"
"No, you may go."
"Very well."
The document Fred carried outlined a proposal for privatized prisons. In American history, the rise of private prisons dates back to the postâCivil War era, when freed slaves could no longer be used as free labor. Corporations had then turned their eyes to the incarcerated.
George hadn't originally cared for the prison industry. But now, with his focus on large-scale energy production, he saw potential in prisoners, particularly those serving life sentences. Free labor, running forever.
His proposal included the construction of a mega-prison using the Undetectable Extension Charm to contain an enormous training facility inside what appeared to be a modest wooden structure.
Each inmate would be brainwashed and granted speedster-level movement. Their continuous running would produce kinetic energy, which George could harvest directly through his custom magical infrastructure.
Food would be awarded only in exchange for performance. The worst-performing inmates would be "eliminated." And what did elimination mean? Not death, but dissolutionâreturning to Chaos Energy.
In the DC Universe, speedsters vanished into the Speed Force. In George's worldview, the Speed Force was merely a visible layer of Chaos Energy. To die as a speedster was to return to source code.
While his clones laid the groundwork for the prison, George poured himself a glass of wine and stepped out onto the castle balcony. The wind was still, the stars clear. Soon, the network would be ready.
And once it was, the world would never be the same.
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Spin-Off -- Orwell Junction â The First Badges
August 1935
The town didn't even have a proper name yet. Folks called it Orwell Junctionâmore out of convenience than affectionâbut the signs weren't official, and maps still showed the old dirt trails and farmland that had been bulldozed into dust.
The town itself had sprung up like mushrooms after rain, a result of sudden, silent investment from the Orwell Group, a major arm of the expanding PL Holding Group empire.
The Holding Group had poured money into infrastructure, bought up swaths of land at cutthroat prices, and put down blueprints for a future that most nearby cities wouldn't see until the year 2000.
There was already an Orwell Shelter, a hospital equipped with a shockingly modern operating room, and a newly erected police outpost.
The streets were wide and grid-aligned, clearly designed for motor vehicles, though hardly anyone in the town owned one.
It was the kind of place where everything felt temporary yet inevitableâa blank canvas for power to inscribe its future.
That's where Officer Jonathan Grimes met Officer Patrick Walsh for the first time.
They were both in their late twenties, wearing crisp new uniforms without a wrinkle on them. The Orwell Security HQ had just handed them their assignments that morning.
Jonathan had a quiet seriousness about himâgrey eyes that scanned without blinking and a jaw set like he was already bracing for something.
Patrick, on the other hand, had the charm of a man used to defusing bar fights with a grin and a shrug. The two shook hands outside the Orwell Shelter.
"First post?" Patrick asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah," Jonathan replied. "You?"
"Same. Used to work logging up north. Got laid off last winter. Heard Orwell Group was hiring down here, with benefits. Didn't ask too many questions."
"Same."
Neither man knew much about the other, but something about the handshake said they would be seeing a lot of each other.
Partners in places like this didn't switch often. The Orwell Group, through its subsidiary Blackshield Security, had negotiated a deal with the state that gave it jurisdictional autonomy in the area; essentially, Orwell Junction was a private city in everything but name.
"You hear about the highway?" Patrick asked.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "They're laying down foundations already. Straight through the south ridge. Some folks think it'll be the fastest freight route from New York to the Gulf in a few decades."
Jonathan didn't respond. He was staring at a group of contractors unloading metal parts from a Blackshield-marked truck. "You ever heard of a holding group building a town from scratch?"
Patrick gave a crooked smile. "Heard of a few mining companies that tried it. Always ends badly."
"Maybe," Jonathan said. "Or maybe it's just the new model."
They were both assigned patrol of the southern quadrant, which at the time was mostly dirt roads and new concrete foundations.
Their shift started quietly, with only the odd animal sighting or worker dispute to report. But both men noticed things others might not.
At night, Orwell's Junction gleamed through the darkness. The lighting was powered by a private energy loop; rumors said it didn't even tap into the state grid.
Some nights, the light would hum with a pitch just high enough to rattle your molars.
Jonathan Grimes was already writing letters to his fiancée in Alabama. Patrick had none. Just a flask and an address in New Jersey that no one had ever seen him write to.
But in the months that followed, the two would become inseparable. They would respond to shootouts on the outskirts, quietly detain agitators, and sign reports without asking too many questions.
The Orwell Group kept investing. Schools. Parks. A courthouse. The population ballooned from three hundred to five thousand in a year. And with every new street laid, every housing block built, Blackshield Security extended its reach.
It wasn't long before other faces began shaping the town.
Mateo "Matty" Rivera, a second-generation Mexican-American in his early 30s, ran the depot at the southern yard.
A welder by trade, he'd been sidelined by a hand injury and now kept the Orwell trucks running on time.
He spoke fluent Spanish, cussed like a sailor when frustrated, and kept a transistor radio on a shelf behind his bench.
Patrick and Jonathan met him when a Blackshield truck's engine seized up. Matty fixed it in twenty minutes, grumbling about the cheap parts.
"If Orwell wants these trucks lasting five years, tell 'em to stop buying from crooks in Philly."
There was also Anneliese "Annie" Vogel, mid-20s, who arrived from Germany six months ago.
She taught at the temporary Orwell school, held classes in the church basement, and refused to let language stop her from tutoring half the kids in town. Jonathan stumbled into her classroom while chasing a runaway boy.
The moment lingeredâchalk dust in the air, children frozen mid-lesson. She offered him coffee, then asked if the boy could stay through the lesson. Jonathan nodded, standing awkwardly in the corner for the next hour.
Thomas "Tommy" Reed, a quiet man in his early 40s, ran the only barbershop in Orwell Junction.
A WWI veteran with hands like bricklayers, he said little but remembered every name. When Jonathan came in for a cut, Tommy offered no small talkâjust a nod.
Patrick got his first cut for free, on the condition he didn't ask questions about Tommy's limp or the medals nailed to the wall.
As Orwell Junction grew, these men and women would form the background of something bigger. A quiet town with watchful eyes.
A project where capitalism wore a polite smile and handed out benefitsâwhile keeping the ledger tight.
But no oneânot even Grimes or Walshâknew what was buried beneath the foundation of Orwell Junction. Or what was being tested inside the walled compound a few miles west of town, marked only by a brass sign that read "Orwell Research Annex â PL Holding Division."
For now, they were just two cops. New boots. New badges. Learning each other's rhythm one step at a time.
They didn't know they'd both have grandsons.
One would become Rick Grimes, a small-town sheriff who'd survive the end of the world.
The other would be Shane Walsh, the man who'd walk beside him.
But that day was decades off.
And maybe this world wouldn't end.
Maybe their friendship wouldn't crack. Maybe they wouldn't wear capes or leap over buildings or destroy half a city to prove a point.
Maybe they would save the world the way real men do, by filling out paperwork that no one wanted to read, by walking slow patrols in the rain, by listening before drawing a gun.
For now, they were just two friends.
Lost in the quiet peace of a town that hadn't been named yet.
And that was enough.
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