The Madam planted her feet before the door. Behind her was a small army of workers and specialist.

Super Rider Ω: General Good and Medicine.

A goddess poked her head to greet the guests.

“Are you part of Rem’s plan?”

“His back-up plan in case Orwell starts a war rather than keels over and saves us the drama,” Madam Marmel confirmed. “Your friend tossed this idea onto the table for the scenarios where the city got thrown into an open conflict with anyone opposing Orwell crushed.”

The Madam stared hopelessly at the monstrous moon.

“My, to think the situation spins out of control this quickly,” the Madam mused. “Win or lose, we will never recover from this.”

“Okay, what is Rem’s plan,” Cytortia looked at the army of blue-collar workers behind the Madam. “He said I only need to worry about Giorno Giovanna when it happens.”

The Madam chuckled.

“Simple, dear, your friend request the full aid of my capital might in the Wind-quarter to arm the civilian against the army Orwell might throw at us. I and my corporate partners are now pitching every workers, factories and machineries to mass produce tools and consumables needed to retake the city on a scale never seen before in Phantasia.”

Cytortia nearly keeled over from the expectation.

…

Hence, Cytortia began presenting their humbled ventures to the cooperate guest.

“Holy Blues,” Cytortia slammed a jar on the table. “Our prior investigation into Orwell’s activity revealed — to no one surprise — that Orwell’s brand of evil-sprit is vulnerable against holy energies and weapons.”

Workers and engineers ran in a frenzy around the goddess holding the meeting. Two men stood next to the Madam. An ageing head of Phantasia-wide provider of private security and law-consultant infamous for his vehement opposition to the Mandatory Recruitment Order and reclusiveness — Zenith Lochwain. And a philanthropist owner of Phantasia’s largest food company — Santo Ahoy.

The Madam had called the two men and told them about the Orwell Mehest’s case four-days ago in case of emergency. In a showing of their aged wisdom, the two men ordered an evacuation the moment they felt the oppressive aura and headed straight to their facilities in Wind-quarter’s industrial site to regroup with the Madam.

Santo Ahoy peered at the chemical.

“Must admire a craft of an S-rank Alchemist,” the middle-age entrepreneur peered inside. “I am surprise it is not an ointment. Traditional Alchemist either used liquid-potion or pills—not a slurry.”

“It is not practical for industrial use,” Cytortia answered. “I am not my master. Moreover, solutions have a boiling-point below the application temperature I desire.”

“Application?”

Cytortia started explaining.

“You can coat the slurry on the weapon during heat-treatment to create a Holy layer over the weapons and tools. For a more active use, the slurry is re-crystallizable in alcohol into a soluble-salt that produces holy radiation when activate with electricity. My friend suggests placing these electrified salts around our territory will be a perfect way to keep the undead at bay.”

Lochwain rubbed his chin.

“And may I ask what does this miracle substance made out off?”

“Holy water and crushed Holy stone, catalyzes with electricity and a portion of Jade Moon Plant's solution,” Cytortia told him. “I can tell you more, but my master dedicate a few of her useful lessons on not sharing specific formula with a merchant.”

“I understand why the Queen of Heaven taught you that but we are in a crisis, dear,” the Madam chided.

“Let me finished,” Cytortia sighed. “My organization has a strict contract agreement regarding protection in external dealing. In case anyone asks, my friend wrote the bell, and I signed it. The bill stated that the external contract must have a trustworthy guarantor. If they ever broke the deal, the guarantor must ensure reparation and punitive measure. If not, we will put both the guarantor and the under a blacklist and forbid anymore access to our future IP.”

The trio of elderly business experts looked at each other.

“I believe I can work as a guarantor,” the Madam spoke. “But why did you draft that law?”

Cytortia sighed.

“It is not my forte, but my friend has to balance his paranoia about our trade-secret getting leak, and obligation to increase Phantasia’s technological progress. He observes most organization in Phantasia is a monopoly that cannibalize smaller organization, or powerful families with muscle and influence. Chance of average people succeeding on their own is nil. My friend understands the system and strongly oppose to it. That why he wanted our organization as the first to universally celebrate the value of intellectual property.”

Both men glanced at each other. They never heard of such an organization, but it took no effort to realize this newest group operated differently than the rest in Phantasia.

A door opened to reveal one Alexi Martynov carrying a duffle bag,

“That boy is always big on capitalism,” Martynov gave a slight smile. “He never changes.”

Cytortia looked surprise.

“What brings you here, Mr. Martynov?”

Martynov sat down and unzipped the backpack.

“The Argentum believes in networking and investing in crisis,” Alexi produced an M16 from the duffle bag. “I take a liberty of making out with as many guns I can hoard. Cugino told me you need mass-produce, easy-to-use weapons, and he suggested I bring these babies to you for modification and reverse-engineer.”

Cytortia looked at the guns.

“Mel will be overjoy.”

Zenith Lochwain looked at the weapons with interest.

“Earth’s weapons?” Lochwain lifted an Italian-made M3 Shotgun. “I heard several rumors stories about Earth. Most of my colleague thinks of your world as savage and primitive wasteland for lack of Mana or magical heritage. Seeing these arsenals, that statement is grossly ignorant.”

Zenith investigated the gun.

“Interesting, it had triggers like crossbow but more mechanically oriented. I don’t see any propulsion mechanism. How do you use it?”

Martynov started explaining about gunpowder and firing-pin. Zenith was more than impress.

“You used Alchemical process and mechanical principle to launch high-speed armor-piercing projectiles. It appeared lack of Mana heritage do not hinder your creativity at all. In fact, witnessing these sophisticated models, it seems to enhance your inventiveness. Excellent. Armories like these answers our most pressing problem — training. It won’t take long to teach the citizen-recruit to aim this thing and fired — so much for sword being a king of weapons.”

Zenith turned toward Cytortia.

“Your friend is re-designing this so-called gun.”

“Yes, the weakness with guns is it had no answer for magic, so most in Phantasia ignores it. My friend is working to incorporate magical mechanism into guns to improve their performance against Phantasia’s threat.”

“Hmm,” Zenith rubbed his white bushy beard. “Guess Ahoy isn’t the only man who needs networking. Madam Marmel, do you mind being my guarantor?”

“It will be my honor, elder.”

“Thank you,” Zenith happily replied. “Now, can you take me to your friend?”

“I afraid that is no longer possible.”

A familiar voice rang out. Rem and Hikma walked into the room with the critically injured Luxinna and Melody trailing behind them.

“Ladies, Gentlemen,” Rem announced to the room. “I am Ms. Cytortia’s primary advisor, Samadi. Now that I returned, let me brief you on how fucked we are.”

…

They started with a briefing on consecutive clusterfuck that transpired the last 2-hours — no one took it well.

“Solomek Grandy better wish I don’t survive this,” Santo Ahoy growled. “Emperor, my ass. All my fucking tax-money and you let your psychotic nephew slipped right under your nose. That moron should have thrown Saul and his psychotic wife in a dungeon, not banish them with little a wrist-slap.”

Rem coughed.

“I am as harsh a critic on the Emperor on anyone, but I only learn about Sol Grandy recently,” Rem said. “Can you tell me about Sol’s branch of the family?”

Zenith Lochwain filled the information.

“To keep it brief, Saul Grandy was never an Emperor’s material. Hedonistic. Violent. Arrogant. Unpredictable. That man used his royal authority to rule the Empire’s slave-trade and criminal den. He loved using the slaves to fulfill his every whim and twist desire—forcing them to fight to the death, forcing them to be his cannibalistic bloodhound, killed their children and served their fresh to the nobility as a practical joke. Even the most pro-slave nobles cannot stomach the depth of Saul’s depravity. But his royal-status and the slaves’ lack of societal importance stifled the prosecution to the stand-still.”

Cytortia and Rem cringed. They were dealing with human-right-abuser on epic-scale — how wonderful?

“Worst is that his wife also shared the same twisted sadism,” the Madam sighed. “But on the positive-note, the couple unrepentant sadism caused them to slip, resulting in a death of a noble girl, giving the court enough ammunition to force the royal family to banish them. Thankfully, the shadow Sual Grandy cast shifted public opinion to sympathize with the slaves, resulting in the current status-quo where the slave-trade is at its most humane in Grand Empire’s history. But who would have thought Saul’s child would come back to enact his vengeance?”

“I do,” Ahoy gritted his teeth. “A monster like Saul deserves an execution. Solomek is too soft on that evil piece of shit. That devil-spawn just leveled the Fire-quarter.”

“And now the son of Solon Grandy returned with a vengeance,” Rem concluded. “He took out the entire military-sector of Venistalis, removing our reserve military asset with it. To make the matter worse, the royal-mages got reduced to one able-body man. The question is; do we have anyway to contact the royal-knights and force them to retreat?”

Zenith Lochwain snorted.

“Don’t bother, boy,” Lochwain said. “Stuart Hex is a man of character and a staunch patriot, but his pride in Grand Empire is fanatical. Unless the order come from the Emperor, he would never taint the Empire’s valor with the prospect of retreat.”

Rem got only disdain.

“Idiot,” he said. “No one disrespects the secret art of Joestar’s family and survives for long.”

“Joseph Joestar is surely a man of wisdom,” The Madam—the richest weeb in Phantasia—nodded in agreement. “Now that Hex is a lost cause. Our chance of recovering any fighting forces from the Fire-quarter is zero. The Earth-quarter—the civilian area—is a war-zone. Meanwhile, the Water-quarter—the recreation and financial section of Grand Empire—is the center of Orwell Mehest’s activity. Our surveyor showed that the garrison is holding the City-center, which enclosed the royal palace. Orwell was wasting no time to purge the nobilities.”

Hikma walked into the room, and he only got bad news.

“Guys, there are skeletons attacking the Wind-quarter,” he said. “I and several of Mr. Lochwain’s men repelled their attack and set up a barricade, but they just keep coming.”

Rem activated his [Clairvoyance]. What he saw subtracted several odds in his favor, and he hated it.

“Orwell put four Spiritium crystal in each sector of the city. These crystals are creating Amalgam wrath that is attacking us. The catacomb underneath is a lost cause, but luckily, they are in Water and Earth-quarter. His big hitters are seizing the city-center. Only one man can stop Orwell from taking the City-center, and I don’t see Samael Wayward taking our side.”

Rem rose and announced to the room.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t want to do this, but I am putting my name up as supreme commander of this alliance. I know I am a mystery, but the Madam and Alexi Martynova can vouch for my experience as a commander. All in favor?”

“Aye,” the Madam agreed.

“Aye,” Martynov replied.

“Aye,” Cytortia said.

“I trust Madam Marmel’s judgement,” Ahoy voiced. “Aye.”

“I want to see for myself,” Zenith Lochwain spoke. “But the decision is unanimous, I guess.”

Rem accepted the position and started directing.

“Our directive is to rescue the citizen traps in Earth-quarter and bring them here. The Wind-quarter will be our head-quarter; thus, it must be airtight from Orwell’s attack. I am now appointing Elder Lochwain in charge of our security and border. Archeologist, Martynov, your expertise will help the men hold the line. The Madam and Santo Ahoy will be in charge of handling supplies. Cytortia, you are manning the medical. We are fighting a losing war. It will be a tough job, but I believe all of you can handle it. Last, if I never comeback tomorrow, the command will go to Elder Lochwain. I know it is highly improper for a commander to leave his post, but the strenuous nature of our situation force me to abandon my post for a private mission. Cytortia, is your newest anti-enchantment formula is effective against Orwell’s more sophisticated Amalgam?”

“The Spark-in grenade is complete.”

“Excellent, I need a set for my mission.”

“May I inquire, what is this mission?” Lochwain asked.

“I need a search and rescue division,” Rem spoke. “We need the Liberator.”

Rem left, and Hikma blinked.

“Acheologist?”

“You need a codename,” Cytortia. “Start coming with a better one or Rem will settle on Mel-2.”

…

A man emerged from the smoking, corpse-filled ruin of Venistalis’ Primary Hospital. An hour ago, this place bustled with night-shift’s nurses and doctor. Now, any doctors or patients who stay-put laid dead on the floor. Blood splattered the pristine ward, turning the hospital into a gruesome house with body-parts scattered across the hallways.

None of this disturbed Wayward who walked out of the Primary Hospital with a folder tucked underneath in his right-arm. His left hand grabbed an attacking skeleton and crushed it to dust.

Orwell distastefully proved his thirst for vengeance by swarming the most prosperous sector of the Empire with Amalgam troops sourced from all the four-sectors. Citizens got to pick between flee or die. Wayward didn’t like this operation one-bit. He understood Orwell’s needs to enforce territory-control, but mass-murdering civilian hit below his standard.

What made it worse was the folder he found proved the Grand Empire’s innocence. Grigios’ autopsies report pointed toward the use of sophisticate poison popular in the Willow Heart Street. It was bad. He must find the log in the Nobility Museum — fighting blind against the Isle of Knowledge is suicidal.

Wayward stepped over the charred remains of bones he roasted a few minutes prior. Attempt to break into the overrun hospital was brief but destructive. Orwell’s army didn’t separate friend from foe to their detriment. The skeleton couldn’t scratch his body while the wrath was a joke. The heat and destructiveness of his attacks reduced the hospital land to crater filled ash and melted the window closed to the fight. Despite the intensity of the battle, the hospital’s white-paint remained pristine from Wayward’s habit of avoiding collateral damage.

But facing the company in front of him, Wayward knew the collateral bill was inevitable.

“Samael,” Hex greeted. Behind him was the entire royal-knight division with their weapon drawn. Shyme stood among them, her magical staff in hand. “You really are a spy.”

“Stuart,” Wayward spoke. “I won’t deny that I am your enemy, but we both have a more pressing concern than petty spats. I am officially removing myself from this mess, so do a smart thing and don’t waste time better spent to evacuate the civilian.”

“You betray the Empire,” Hex murderously rumbled. “You must pay a price fitting for a traitor.”

“Hex, last warning, move aside,” Wayward’s posture was loose. “I am sparing you out of goodwill for my newest partner. Press further, and not even Samadi can save you.”

“I don’t know who is this Samadi, but the Grand Empire’s honor will be avenged,” Hex drew his flaming sword. “The Emperor gave you status, power and fame. Is this how you repay his grace, your ungrateful scum?”

Wayward snorted.

“You of all people have no right to criticize my action,” Wayward stepped down. “Move.”

Shyme decided that it was her time to speak up.

“Why are you doing this, Samael Wayward?” Shyme questioned. “You abandon your fame, your wealth, your legacy to upset the status quo keeping the world balance. A mortal such as you should be grateful for these gifts.”

“I am grateful enough to return your investment with six-years of service,” Wayward answered. “But let me teach you one lesson, Miss. Demigods. Mortals owed you nothing. That entitlement will end your precious system.”

“The balance will never fall,” Shyme’s conviction was unshakable. “No one can shake the gods’ foundation.”

“Someone plans to,” Wayward replied. “I bet my service that those sham foundations will crumble soon.”

Wayward eyed the opponent.

“Last warning — move.”

“For the Empire,” Hex yelled. “All royal-knight! Bring him down!”