Chapter 17 The Zero-Series Experiment

Deep blue holographic coordinates flickered violently in midair.

Below, the water in the lower cell churned a thick, rust-red sludge.

Arthur’s shattered jaw forced out a rasping metallic squeal through his patch-mounted tactical vocoder. His left arm reached back, fingers pressing on the seventh bone relief at the throne’s base.

The gas valve hissed sharply.

A bulletproof, pressurized transparent column burst through the obsidian floor tiles, rising straight into view.

Inside, a tube of golden, glowing core gene serum locked onto a lattice of high-frequency thermal cutting mesh. Even the slightest gravitational shift would instantly char the serum.

The detonation valve snapped open.

Arthur’s half-mangled face was plastered with filthy, muddy water. The vocoder emitted a piercing, electronic screech.

“The game’s last card has just been played,” he rasped, coughing blood. He jabbed at the floating virtual projection. “See those coordinates? That’s the Alps private cemetery where the old hag was buried. Beneath it lies 120 tons of military-grade C4. Its detonation frequency is quantum-exclusive with this bulletproof column’s gravity sensor.”

He twisted his wrist. Mud and water rippled across the floor.

“Kneel. Climb the steps. Press your face against my boot. Grovel before it. Beg.”

“Take the serum. Watch your half-dead husband survive. The cost? Your mother’s remains turned to ashes.”

“Don’t take it. Hold the tube, and in ten minutes, this man’s sympathetic nerves will dissolve into a puddle of rot.”

The brutal choice slammed onto the table.

The vocoder jumped to the public channel. Volume maxed.

“Ten years ago, the old monster took your oocytes for gene chimerism to maintain power! Those two explosives along the flight path? My doing. You think that’s murder?”

“I was the scavenger who pulled you off that formalin-soaked dissection table!”

“I took the blame for patricide. I washed your original sin. I carried this rotting empire on my shoulders.”

“The scavenger went that far. What do you, a white-eyed brat, give me in return? A scrap of steel?”

The synthetic voice reverberated. Guards wavered in their heavy armor. Respirators stuttered.

Through unbroken data chains, Darknet overlords received every word.

Vivienne stood in the muck, boots caked with blood. Not a blink. Not a flinch.

Her heel slid sideways. Carbon fiber at the heel rasped sharply into Arthur’s left shoulder, still bleeding from the gunshot. She slammed down. Calves taut. Muscles coiled. The fiber ground between fractured bone.

Pain transmitted through the vocoder—a shrill, electronic scream.

“Agent, open intranet access. Pull the mainframe protocols,” Vivienne said, her voice icy calm.

The assistant slammed the return key. Thirty firewalls reset.

The 3D projection reconfigured. A yellowed digital archive appeared.

Bottom-right, the watermark of the Elders’ top-tier notarization glared: permanently sealed medical logs and property transfer files of the Alexander family.

In the middle, an MRI scan highlighted severe amygdala pathology.

Subject: Arthur. Diagnosis: congenital defects in the sixteenth pair of chromosomal telomeres; severe high-frequency manic disorder. Elders’ ruling: lacks empathy, stripped of primary inheritance, lifelong medical surveillance.

Vivienne’s left leg pressed down. Leveraging her weight, she hyperextended Arthur’s left arm.

“A scavenger who calls himself the savior of gods? Pack up that nauseating martyrdom. You wanted to ignite the jet fuel because your broken brain couldn’t handle a woman crossing your head to carve her name in the family crest.”

Her gaze followed the metal-cutting groove downward.

“Your inferiority to perfection, that jealousy that steals your sleep, maintained only through murder and lies. You were never a victim—just a mad clown.”

Three hundred armored guards’ arms dropped. The low-frequency network buzzed. Fear shattered.

Arthur twitched in the filthy puddle. Vocoder sputtering, he clawed at the mud, spitting nonsensical curses.

“That biased old bastard! I blocked .50 AP rounds on the Siberian tundra at thirteen! Why hand the chassis to a woman who only knows beakers? I want to rip out your spines as specimens!”

He rolled in excrement and mud.

Vivienne lifted her left hand, delicately brushing the hidden icon at the terminal’s corner.

Through a top-tier P2P live feed, the scene flashed instantly to 700 Dark Shield leaders and hidden arms dealers.

The underground went silent. Then, chaos erupted.

The giant circular screen flashed red. Green markers fell like waterfalls—loyal nodes disconnecting.

In under thirty seconds, every overseas mercenary depot, underground bank, and info hub voted Arthur off the network.

He collapsed. Chest barely rising. Throat emitting a broken rasp.

Vivienne stepped over him onto the white stone stairs.

She stood before the bulletproof column. Fingers brushed the tube of golden serum. Thumb pressed the gravity valve. Left palm struck with a sharp horizontal force.

The C4’s quantum detonation chip crumbled to dust. The casing followed. The circuit was severed.

Removing the syringe cover, she crouched by Alexander and pushed the golden serum into his neck vein.

The molecular reconstituting agent worked instantly. Heat faded. Damaged pleura and blood vessels began to repair. Organs restarted.

Alexander knelt, muscles taut, veins bulging, eyes bloodshot. Coordinates hovered in midair.

Calloused fingers traced the thick, deep scar over his left ventricle—where the filthiest experimental toxins had once been injected.

“Look closely at these coordinates,” he said, hoarse and Siberian-cold.

“This isn’t the Alps private cemetery.”

His gaze locked on Vivienne.

“This is the origin point of the zero-series live experiment chamber. My body was filled with first-gen anti-rejection toxins, crawling through no-man’s land like a stray dog for three days and nights to escape.”

His chest heaved violently.

“Your mother… she’s been alive all along.”