Season 1 chapter 5
The New Leverage
Klove let out a defeated, shaky breath. "Fine... the search stops now. The account will be ready. Just... stay away from my office."
The line went dead.
Malesh hung up the receiver and looked at Kniya. "80,000 credits? Nice touch, bro. But where did that 'other ministers' bullshit come from? You don't have any real connections with the higher-ups."
Kniya stepped out of the booth, lighting a crumpled cigarette he'd swiped earlier. He took a long drag and looked up at the dark spires of the city.
"What's wrong with saying it?" Kniya replied with a smirk. "Lies are just truths that haven't happened yet. We don't have the leverage now, but we're going to spend the next few years developing it. This town is built on secrets, Malesh. We just found the first one."
Malesh nodded, a cold, hungry look in his eyes. "Yeah. It's required. If we're going to live in this shithole, we might as well be the ones holding the shovel."
They walked away from the booth, disappearing into the fog, two kids who had just blackmailed a General and walked away with a fortune.
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The Fall of the "Hero"
At the Central Police Precinct, the atmosphere was thick with confusion and bitter resentment. Officer Vane, the man who had been shot in the forest, sat in a wheelchair with his leg heavily bandaged, expecting a medal and a promotion.
Instead, a high-ranking Internal Affairs colonel walked in and tossed a manila folder onto his lap.
"You're done, Vane," the colonel said, his voice flat and bored. "The official report says you tripped over a root and discharged your own weapon like a rookie. You're being dishonorably discharged for negligence. If you open your mouth to a journalist, you'll find out how deep the river really is. Pack your shit."
Vane sat there, mouth agape, as the "hero" narrative was incinerated by the very system he served.
The Great Retreat
The "Game of Chaos" didn't just stop; it imploded. Across the city of Seistain, the gears of the military machine ground into a screeching halt. One minute, the city was a cage; the next, the guards were fumbling over themselves to disappear.
The Iron Bridge, which had been choked with armored steam-trucks and soldiers with bayonets, suddenly echoed with the sound of frantic orders. Sergeants were screaming at their squads, not to find the targets, but to pack the crates. The massive steam-tanks, idling like metal beasts in the public squares, belched thick plumes of black soot as they pivoted on their treads, rumbling back toward the Naurkov barracks.
"Move it! Move it, you worthless shits!" a captain barked at a group of men who were frantically scrubbing a brick wall.
They weren't just taking down the posters of Kniya Anderson and Malesh Bulwadi—they were trying to erase the very memory of them. The charcoal sketches were torn down with such violence that the paper shredded in their hands. Men with buckets of lye and stiff brushes scrubbed at the posters until the brick was raw and bleeding.
The searchlights that had been scarring the clouds, turning the night into a sickly artificial day, were flicked off. The sudden silence and darkness that fell over the city was heavy, almost suffocating. The citizens of Seistain peeked out from behind their curtains, watching the "mighty" army retreat in a state of confused panic. They didn't know about the fund transfer notes. They didn't know about the oil fire. All they knew was that the State had spent millions of credits to hunt two kids, and by sunrise, the State was running away with its tail between its legs.
By the time the sun began to peak over the industrial horizon, the only thing left of the thirty-thousand-man hunt was the smell of coal smoke and thousands of wet, grey scraps of paper clogging the city's drainage grates. The fortress had turned back into a city, but the scars on the streets remained.
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The Lies at the Doorstep
As the sun began to bleach the smog-filled sky into a pale, sickly grey, two high-end military cruisers—armored, sleek, and black—glided into the elite district. This wasn't the industrial zone of brick and filth; this was the land of manicured hedges, marble fountains, and silence that smelled like money.
The first cruiser stopped at the Bulwadi Estate. The gates, forged from reinforced steel and topped with family crests, slid open with a low hum. Mr. Bulwadi was already standing on the porch, his silhouette sharp against the morning light. He wasn't wearing pajamas or a robe; he was in a charcoal-grey vest, his pocket watch glinting, looking every bit the high-society shark he was.
A colonel stepped out of the car, sweating despite the morning chill. "Sir... regarding your son, Malesh. There has been a... grave misunderstanding."
Mr. Bulwadi didn't move a muscle. He didn't even blink. "A misunderstanding? You turned this district into a war zone. You put my son's face on every gutter in Seistain. And now you're standing on my gravel telling me it was a mistake?"
"It was a... highly classified youth drill, sir," the colonel stammered, his eyes darting to the security cameras. "A simulation of urban evasion. The posters were part of the 'realism.' The General himself sends his deepest apologies. Your son... he performed admirably."
Mr. Bulwadi let out a cold, sharp breath that was almost a laugh. "Admirable. Tell Knorwin Klove that if a single hair on Malesh's head is out of place, or if a single legal document regarding this 'drill' remains in the public record, I will liquidate his department's pension fund by noon. Get off my property."
The colonel scrambled back into the car. The lie had been delivered, but Mr. Bulwadi wasn't buying—he was just collecting the debt.
A few miles away, the second car reached the Anderson Estate. This place was different. It didn't just look expensive; it looked ancient. The architecture was royal, the pillars thick with history. Kniya's parents didn't meet the officers at the door. They made the military wait in the foyer for ten minutes—a calculated power move.
When the Anderson elders finally appeared, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. They listened to the story of the "clerical error" with a terrifying, hollow silence. Unlike the Bulwadis, who were loud in their power, the Andersons were quiet. They were royalty in a world that had forgotten kings.
"A clerical error," Kniya's father repeated, his voice like velvet over a blade. "And the search? The gunfire reported near the Archives?"
"Internal security testing, Lord Anderson," the officer whispered, bowing his head.
"I see," the father replied, his eyes dark with a secret knowledge the officer couldn't comprehend. "My son will be home shortly. You may tell the General that the Anderson family does not forget 'errors.' We simply wait for the right time to correct them."
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The Long Walk Home
Kniya and Malesh were walking down the center of the Grand Boulevard, the most expensive street in the Republic. Their boots, caked in sewer slime and dried blood, left dark stains on the pristine white pavement.
"Look at this shit," Kniya muttered, gesturing to a crew of workers frantically power-washing the base of a statue where a wanted poster had been pasted. "They're scrubbing like their lives depend on it. Klove must be shitting bricks right now."
Malesh adjusted his torn, blood-stained sleeve, trying to maintain some level of dignity. "He should be. We didn't just blackmail him, Kniya. We embarrassed him. A General getting outplayed by two kids? That's a stain you can't wash off with lye."
"Bro," Kniya said, stopping for a second to look at the massive Anderson gates appearing in the distance. "What are we going to do when we walk in there? My parents... they aren't like other people. They don't scream. They just... watch. It's creepier."
Malesh wiped a smear of grease from his chin. "My old man is going to be a fucking statue of ice. He won't ask if I'm okay. He'll ask if I followed the 'protocol.' He loves that professional bullshit. But hey, at least we've got the 80,000 credits coming. We can buy a whole new wardrobe and a private telephone line just to prank-call Klove's office."
Kniya laughed, but it was a tired, heavy sound. "School is going to be the real nightmare, though. The posters are gone, but the kids... they saw us. They saw 'The Terrorists.' Every teacher, every student, every gossip-mongering brat in that building is going to be staring at us tomorrow."
"Let them stare," Malesh snapped, his eyes flashing with that new, dangerous edge. "Let them wonder how we got away with it. We aren't the 'perfect students' anymore, bro. We're the guys who burned the General's desk and lived to tell the tale. If they want to whisper, let them whisper. They'll be too fucking scared to ever get in our way again."
They reached the fork in the road. The morning sun was fully up now, illuminating the two young heirs—covered in the filth of the lower city but walking with the arrogance of kings.
"See you at the gates tomorrow, bro," Kniya said, a smirk finally returning to his face. "Try to find a suit that doesn't have blood on it."
"Fuck you, Kniya," Malesh grinned, waving a hand over his shoulder. "I'll see you in class."