The room existed in that peculiar space between corporate and clandestine, where legitimate business architecture met the needs of those who operated in shadows. It was vast—far larger than any conventional boardroom—with a ceiling that soared twenty feet above, supported by steel beams that had been painted matte black to blend with the darkness above. The walls were a deep charcoal gray, smooth and sound-dampened, the kind of construction that swallowed echoes and prevented any conversation from reaching beyond its boundaries.
Recessed lighting created pools of illumination at strategic points, leaving the periphery in comfortable shadow. The floor was polished concrete, industrial but expensive, reflecting the overhead lights in subtle, distorted ways that made distances difficult to judge accurately.
Along one wall, an array of monitors displayed various feeds—news channels from different countries, stock market tickers, social media trends, surveillance footage from locations that should not have had surveillance. The screens created a mosaic of information, constantly updating, constantly watching the world beyond these walls.
At the center of the room, elevated on a platform that raised it perhaps six inches above the main floor, sat what could only be described as a throne—though calling it such would have invited mockery, so those who gathered here referred to it by its proper designation: the Seat of Primacy.
It was constructed from materials that shouldn't have worked together aesthetically but somehow did—dark wood that might have been ebony or something rarer, inlaid with geometric patterns of metal that caught and reflected light in hypnotic ways. The back was high and imposing, carved with symbols that were neither entirely Eastern nor Western, borrowing from multiple ancient traditions and combining them into something unique.
And occupying that seat was a figure completely obscured by a heavy curtain.
The curtain hung from an unseen support structure, creating a barrier between the seated figure and the rest of the room. It was made from fabric that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, a deep purple so dark it appeared nearly black except where the overhead lights hit it directly. The material was thick enough to completely hide any details of size, shape, or form—whoever sat behind it could have been large or small, male or female, young or old. The curtain revealed nothing, which was precisely its purpose.
Before this elevated seat, arranged in a semicircle like supplicants before a monarch, were other chairs—expensive leather things with chrome frames, the kind found in executive boardrooms. Seated in these chairs were eleven individuals, all focused on a massive flat-screen television that had been wheeled in and positioned for optimal viewing.
The screen showed live security footage, though the camera angles and quality suggested something more sophisticated than standard CCTV. The feed displayed Elijah—or rather, his body—moving through what appeared to be his apartment building. The image quality was crisp, high-definition, the kind that came from cameras hidden in inconspicuous places, constantly recording, constantly transmitting back to this room.
The Elijah on screen moved with that distinctive trance-like quality, his eyes unfocused, his face expressionless, yet his body flowed from one defensive maneuver to another with practiced efficiency. The timestamp in the corner showed this was happening in real-time, not a recording. Right now, at this very moment, they were watching him operate like a weapon guided by instinct rather than conscious thought.
One of the eleven observers shifted in his chair, his considerable bulk making the leather creak in protest. He was a large man—not tall, but wide, with the kind of body that spoke of decades of excess. His face was round and doughy, small eyes set too close together above a bulbous nose that showed the broken capillaries of someone who drank too much, too often. He wore an expensive suit that fit poorly, the buttons straining, the fabric bunching in all the wrong places.
His mouth hung slightly open as he watched the screen, his expression one of confused alarm.
"What in the monkey crap am I seeing here?" His voice was nasal, with an accent that placed him somewhere in the Pacific—Polynesian, perhaps, though filtered through years of living elsewhere. "Clearly the guy is under our transmitted echo field, but like... he is still moving. And in more deadly and intimidating manner. This doesn't make sense. The echo field should have him locked in sensory limbo, completely helpless."
His name was Mata'vao, and everything about him suggested someone who'd risen to power through family connections and brute force rather than intelligence or cunning.
Seated three chairs to his left was a woman who presented the exact opposite image. Clara was middle-aged—probably early fifties—but maintained with the kind of care that money and discipline provided. Her hair was styled in a neat bob, more gray than brown now but worn with confidence rather than hidden with dye. She wore a tailored pantsuit in dove gray, conservative but expensive, with a silk scarf at her throat adding a splash of burgundy color.
Most distinctively, she held a delicate bone china teacup in both hands, the saucer balanced perfectly on her lap. Steam rose from the tea in gentle spirals, and she brought the cup to her lips with precise, controlled movements—pinkie not extended, as that was actually considered gauche in proper British tea culture, but curved naturally with the other fingers. She took small sips, her lips barely touching the rim, her eyes never leaving the screen.
She finished her sip, lowered the cup to the saucer with barely a sound, and spoke in an accent that screamed British upper class—clipped consonants, elongated vowels, every word precisely enunciated.
"What's wrong, Mata'vao?" Her tone carried that particular condescension that only those born to privilege could truly perfect. "Why are you so surprised, as though it's your first time witnessing instinct-level attacks? Doesn't your tiny Fa'ate'a'iloi lineage have any experience with intent-perceived experts? Or are you all just brainless brutes who only identify with muscle?"
She took another sip of tea, the picture of composed superiority.
Mata'vao's face underwent an immediate transformation. His confusion was replaced by ugly rage, his small eyes narrowing to slits, his fleshy jowls quivering. His face flushed red, the color spreading from his collar up to his receding hairline. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair hard enough that his knuckles went white.
"You know, Clara," he said, his voice rising in volume, the nasal quality becoming more pronounced, "you and your type, on the other hand, are from the loose kind who operate on the base of spreading your legs the fastest."
The vulgarity hung in the air, crude and deliberate.
Clara's composed expression cracked. Her teacup rattled against the saucer as her hands tightened involuntarily. Her spine went rigid, her shoulders pulling back, her chin lifting in offended dignity. Color rose in her cheeks—not the flush of embarrassment but the red of suppressed fury.
But Mata'vao wasn't finished. He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his theme, a nasty grin spreading across his doughy face.
"Come on, your specialty is just being tasked with neural transmitters and just throwing yourself and your partners to be the targets' escorts. If I may say, basically you and that Janet chick are at the bottom of pieces. Better my tiny Fa'ate'a'iloi than your kind, who I can compare to that of chewing gum that is shared by multiple people."
He delivered the comparison with particular relish, his grin widening at his own wit.
The other nine observers had all turned their attention from the screen to this exchange, their expressions ranging from uncomfortable amusement to secondhand embarrassment to poorly concealed schadenfreude. A few exchanged glances—that universal look people share when witnessing someone else's humiliation, simultaneously glad it's not them and unable to look away.
One man, thin and severe-looking with steel-rimmed glasses, actually winced and looked at Clara with something approaching pity.
A woman with elaborately styled hair and too much jewelry covered her mouth with one manicured hand, her eyes wide with the kind of horrified delight that came from watching social disaster unfold.
Others simply watched, faces carefully neutral, filing this moment away for future reference, for leverage, for the complex social calculations that governed interactions in groups like this.
Clara's reaction was volcanic.
Her chest heaved with sharp, rapid breaths, her composure completely shattered. The teacup and saucer were set down on a nearby table with shaking hands, the porcelain clicking together more loudly than intended. Her face had gone from flushed to nearly purple, her jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles stood out in sharp relief.
She turned to face Mata'vao directly, and if looks could kill, he would have died a thousand deaths in that moment. Her eyes—normally cool and calculating—blazed with pure, undiluted hatred. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite a snarl. Her entire body trembled with the effort of containing the rage that wanted to explode outward.
Her mouth opened, breath drawn to deliver what would undoubtedly be a verbal assault designed to cut as deeply as his had—
"Enough."
The single word cut through the tension like a knife through silk. It wasn't shouted, wasn't even spoken particularly loudly, but it carried absolute authority, the kind of command that brooked no argument, no discussion, no continuation of what had come before.
The voice was feminine, melodious in a way that made it difficult to determine age—it could have belonged to a woman in her twenties or her sixties or anywhere between. There was a quality to it that suggested multiple tones occurring simultaneously, harmonics that shouldn't have been possible from a single human throat.
It came from behind the curtain, from the figure seated in the Seat of Primacy.
Clara's mouth snapped shut, her prepared invective dying unspoken. Her expression cycled rapidly through shock, fear, and then forced calm as she remembered where she was, who was watching, who had spoken.
Mata'vao's nasty grin evaporated instantly, replaced by wide-eyed alarm. His body actually flinched, shoulders hunching as if expecting a physical blow. The flush of anger drained from his face, leaving him pale and sweating.
The other nine observers straightened in their chairs, attention snapping back to the curtained figure like students caught misbehaving by a strict teacher.
The voice continued, still at that same measured volume that somehow filled the entire vast space.
"You both are just players doing your parts based on the instructions I gave you. Don't waste your energy on bickering and meaningless things, for energy itself is very special."
As those final words were spoken—"energy itself is very special"—something happened that made everyone in the room draw in sharp breaths.
A sound emerged from behind the curtain, a deep resonance that felt more than heard, vibrating in the chest cavity, in the bones, in places sound shouldn't reach. The curtain itself began to move, not swaying as if caught by a breeze, but rippling with precise, geometric patterns that suggested interference waves, standing frequencies, deliberate manipulation.
And then the light appeared.
It emanated from where the figure sat, glowing through the heavy fabric of the curtain, turning it translucent. The light was greenish, but not the green of nature—this was the green of certain chemical reactions, of phosphorescence, of things that glowed with their own internal luminescence.
It pulsed in rhythm with some unheard beat, growing brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again.
The light spread outward from its source, creating visible currents in the air around the curtain. The atmosphere itself seemed to move, flowing in patterns that could be seen as slight distortions, heat-shimmer effects, the visual signature of energy in motion.
A gale of air current erupted from the curtained figure, radiating outward in a perfect sphere of force. It was gentle—no papers flew, no objects toppled—but undeniable, a pressure wave that pushed against skin and clothes, that made hair move and breath catch.
The currents of air resonated with something, producing visible harmonics, the kind of patterns usually only seen in carefully controlled physics experiments with lasers and fog. The greenish light traced these patterns, illuminating them, making the invisible visible.
And underlying it all was that sense of power—not aggressive, not threatening, but vast, controlled, immense in a way that made everyone watching feel very small and very aware of exactly how outmatched they were.
One of the observers—a man with sharp features and nervous hands—spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, unable to contain his shock.
"That's... that's the flow of self. But it's of energy influx type power, not essence influx. How is that possible? I have never seen anything like this before. The records, the ancient texts, they all say—"
He cut himself off, apparently realizing that continuing might draw unwanted attention, but the damage was done. Everyone had heard. Everyone was thinking the same thing.
Clara's mind raced, her earlier anger completely forgotten in the face of this display. Her expression was carefully neutral now, but behind her eyes, thoughts tumbled rapidly, connections being made, theories forming and being discarded.
If I remember correctly, the Orrhion Condensate path only allows physical-type enhancements—strength, agility, attack, defense, skill, and insight. It's all of the body, internal cultivation, working with what exists within oneself. There aren't any records of any arts from the ancient past that could allow one to use environmental energy from the surroundings like this.
She studied the greenish light carefully, watching how it moved, how it interacted with the air currents.
But the energy that came out of that person appears to be coming from her, not from the surrounding environment. It's being generated internally and then projected outward. Just what type of monster is this person?
What path are they following that allows this kind of manifestation?
Her face remained calm, but a small line appeared between her eyebrows, the only visible sign of her intense concentration and growing unease.
The voice spoke again, the greenish light pulsing in time with each syllable, the air currents shifting to accommodate the sound waves.
"That boy wasn't supposed to break away from the echo field." The tone was contemplative, curious rather than angry.
"It appears there is a traitor amongst my side, or perhaps the opposition—other sides who decided not to play by the rules. Hmm."
There was a pause, and somehow that pause felt weighted, significant, as if immense calculation was occurring in the silence.
"This is really interesting. It might make my boredom be lessened. The other players weren't this surprising. I wonder how far this boy can progress... and just who is aiding him to accomplish this from the shadows?"
The greenish light flickered once, twice, then gradually faded, the air currents settling, the pressure wave dissipating. The curtain returned to its normal state, completely opaque, hiding whatever secrets it had briefly threatened to reveal.
The eleven observers sat in silence for a long moment, processing what they'd just witnessed, each dealing with their own reactions—fear, awe, curiosity, calculation.
Clara's face remained neutral, but her eyes showed a puzzled look, something not quite adding up, some piece of the puzzle refusing to fit where logic said it should.
One of the observers—a man with gray hair and an expensive watch that probably cost more than most people's cars—cleared his throat and spoke with forced confidence.
"This is clear cheating. Clearly, we and other sides all serve a common interest, so I don't understand why they would try this cheeky move. It violates the agreements, the protocols we all established."
Another observer, a woman with severe features and wire-rimmed glasses, nodded and added her own thoughts. "Oh, haven't you forgotten that basic principle? Trust no one but only thyself. If you ask me, we should first deal with the boy, then through him once captured, we can conduct tests to analyze and finalize who is behind him. Trace the interference back to its source."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Heads nodded, eyes brightened with the satisfaction of having a plan, a course of action that made sense and could be implemented.
Mata'vao, having recovered some of his earlier bravado now that the mysterious figure's attention had shifted away from him, turned his gaze toward Clara. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been genuine curiosity.
"Hey," he said, his tone conversational but with an edge underneath. "Do you think it's that cocky brat back at that rotten company who decided to start messing with others? You know who I mean—your colleague, the one who thinks he's so clever."
Clara's jaw tightened slightly, but she maintained her composure. She picked up her teacup again, took a small sip—more for the ritual comfort than actual desire for tea—and set it back down before answering.
"It couldn't be him," she said, her voice flat, certain. "In fact, it would do him more good if the Elijah kid is more ignorant, defenseless, and controlled than being like this." She gestured toward the screen, where Elijah's body was still visible, still moving with that eerie efficiency. "He doesn't want the kid to replace him. This boy becoming capable, becoming dangerous? That threatens his position, his usefulness, his entire purpose. No, whoever's helping Elijah, it's not him."
The voice from behind the curtain spoke once more, cutting off any further speculation.
"If the boy proves to be a nuisance, we can use one of the contingency plans made specifically for him." A pause, weighted with meaning. "And don't kill him. Many, including myself, want to see how far this boy can go. His potential... his development... these things are valuable. More valuable than the temporary inconvenience he might cause."
Confused looks spread across the observers' faces. Eyebrows furrowed, heads tilted, glances were exchanged that clearly communicated: Why? Why preserve someone who's threatening the operation? Why show such interest in one piece when we have dozens of others?
But no one voiced these questions aloud. The mysterious figure's word was law here, and questioning that law—especially after the display of power they'd just witnessed—seemed profoundly unwise.
Clara stared at the screen, her eyes locked on Elijah's moving form, and her mind continued its rapid calculations.
Why is it that our leader has such high expectations for this kid? What do they see that we don't?
Her memory pulled up a file, a name, a face.
If I remember correctly, my former station employee Aubrey has a past close relationship with this boy. They knew each other, spent time together, before... before she disappeared.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying Elijah's face on the screen, the way he moved, looking for... something. Some connection she couldn't quite articulate.
And the more I look at this kid, the more I have this bugging feeling. A suspicion that won't go away. Perhaps he might have a connection to Aubrey's sudden disappearance. The timing was so close. She vanished, and shortly after, he became... interesting. Noteworthy. Worth watching.
Her lips pressed together in a thin line, annoyance coloring her thoughts.
If it weren't for him, I would have been using that Aubrey girl as a doll which I could dress and instruct to be one of my many honey traps, my tasked ladies. She was perfect for it—the right look, the right personality, malleable enough to be shaped. But she slipped away before I could fully implement her conditioning.
And somehow, somehow I think this boy is connected to that loss.
She continued to stare at Elijah, but her expression had shifted subtly. The puzzlement was still there, but underneath it now was something predatory. The look of a hunter studying prey, calculating weaknesses, planning approaches, deciding exactly how and when to strike.
Her fingers drummed once against her teacup—a small, unconscious gesture that betrayed the intensity of her focus—then stilled as she forced herself back to perfect composure.
On the screen, Elijah's body continued its journey through the building, dealing with threat after threat with mechanical efficiency, guided by instincts and enhanced senses while his conscious mind remained trapped in whatever prison the echo field had constructed for him.
And in this room, in this modern lair of those who shaped narratives and controlled information and manipulated the world from behind curtains both literal and metaphorical, eleven people watched and planned and calculated.
While behind the heaviest curtain of all, a figure whose true nature remained hidden considered this new variable in an ancient game, this unexpected deviation from carefully laid plans, and found it... interesting.
Sufficiently interesting to be preserved rather than eliminated.
Sufficiently interesting to change everything.