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Chapter : 288
And somewhere high above them, in a private elevator ascending to the top floor, Niro stared at his own reflection in the polished steel doors. His face was a mask of controlled fury, but his mind was racing with questions that had no easy answers.
That power. That impossible, incomprehensible power hiding beneath that ridiculous exterior. What was it? Who was Ken Eliot, really? And why did the very thought of that hidden strength make him feel something he hadn't experienced in years?
Fear. Pure, cold, primal fear. And in the back of his mind, a new thought was forming. A thought that would have terrified him even more if he had let it fully take shape.
What if the 13th Unit's buffoon was the most dangerous person in that entire lobby?
The elevator continued its ascent, carrying Niro away from the confrontation but not from the questions it had raised. Questions that would keep him awake for many nights to come, staring at the ceiling of his luxurious apartment and wondering what kind of monster wore the mask of a fool.
In his years of service to the 1st Prince, Niro had encountered many powerful mages. Grandmasters, legendary warriors, even a few individuals whose abilities bordered on the mythical. But he had never felt anything like the presence he had sensed beneath Ken Eliot's lazy smile.
Those individuals had always been obvious about their power. They radiated it, flaunted it, used it to dominate every room they entered. But this was different. This was power that was deliberately hidden, carefully suppressed, like a star that had been buried underground. Why would anyone hide that kind of strength?
---
The executive suites of the Benjamin Group occupied the top three floors of the corporate headquarters, a glass-and-steel kingdom above the clouds where the air was cleaner, the views were spectacular, and the people were considerably less pleasant than those on the ground floor.
The difference between the lobby and the executive suites was the difference between a handshake and a slap. The lobby was designed to impress. The executive suites were designed to intimidate. Every surface, every angle, every carefully placed object communicated a single message: you are not welcome here.
A private elevator carried the 13th Unit upward in uncomfortable silence. The elevator was lined with mirrors and soft lighting designed to make its occupants look their best, a feature that felt particularly ironic given the team's current state of controlled fury.
Ira stood at the back of the elevator, her face once again an unreadable mask. Whatever emotion had surfaced in the lobby had been carefully packed away, locked behind the familiar walls of her composure. But there was something different about her posture now, a subtle straightening of the spine that hadn't been there before.
Ken stood beside her, still casual and unbothered, though he had positioned himself slightly closer to her than usual. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but Ira noticed it. She noticed everything.
The elevator doors opened onto a reception area that made the lobby below look like a bus station. The furniture was imported from three different continents. The art on the walls was original, not prints, and several pieces were recognizable from Sayma's books on famous painters.
One painting near the entrance depicted a pastoral scene that was pleasant enough until you noticed the tiny figures in the background, workers bent double under the weight of enormous burdens. It was a subtle commentary, whether intentional or not, on the relationship between beauty and exploitation.
Ken paused to look at it for a moment. "Subtle," he murmured. "Very subtle. Like being hit in the face with a painting."
A impeccably dressed assistant met them with a smile that was warm enough to be polite but cold enough to communicate that their presence was unwelcome. "The Vice Director will see you now. Please follow me."
They were led through a corridor of glass walls that looked out over the capital city. On a clear day, you could probably see the Imperial Palace from here. The view was a statement of power, a reminder that the Benjamin Group operated at a height, both literal and figurative, that ordinary people could only dream of reaching.
The Vice Director's office was a cathedral of corporate excess. The room was enormous, easily the size of the 13th Unit's entire ground floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city. A mahogany desk the size of a small ship dominated the center of the room.
Behind the desk sat the Vice Director himself. He was a plump man with a round face and small, calculating eyes that were the color of old coins. His suit was worth more than the 13th Unit's entire annual budget, and he wore it with the easy confidence of someone who had never worried about money in his life.
He barely looked up from his glowing magical tablet when the team entered. His fingers continued to scroll through whatever document he was reading, and he waved a plump hand in their general direction without making eye contact.
"I'm afraid I'm feeling rather unwell today," the Vice Director said, his voice dripping with insincere regret. "I simply cannot entertain baseless conspiracy theories from a low-ranking Royal Unit. Perhaps you could submit your concerns in writing, and someone from our legal department will respond within six to eight weeks."
Laxmi's hands were already sparking. "Six to eight weeks? I'll give you six to eight seconds to start talking before I turn this office into a bonfire."
The six-to-eight-week timeline was not an accident. It was a standard corporate delay tactic designed to outlast the attention span of investigators and the patience of officials. By the time any response arrived, the original complaint would have been buried under layers of bureaucracy and forgotten.
It was a strategy that the Benjamin Group had perfected over decades. Stall, delay, obscure, and ultimately bury any investigation that threatened their operations. The technique had worked against regulators, journalists, and even other Royal Units. But something told Iris that it would not work against the 13th Unit.
This unit was different. They didn't follow the rules of corporate warfare. They stumbled into secrets, crashed through hidden walls, and decoded encrypted journals that should have been impossible to crack. They were chaotic, unpredictable, and deeply, persistently annoying.
They were like water finding cracks in a dam. No matter how many obstacles you placed in their path, they found a way around, over, or through. And unlike previous investigators, they had something that corporate delay tactics couldn't neutralize: genuine, unshakable belief in what they were doing.
The dismissiveness was calculated and deliberate. He was treating them like nuisances, like door-to-door salespeople who had wandered into the wrong building. It was the corporate equivalent of a slap in the face, and it landed exactly as intended.
Iris stepped forward, her composure unshaken. "Vice Director, we are conducting an official investigation into the murder of Dr. Carrion and the illegal suppression of a life-saving medical treatment. This is not a conspiracy theory. This is documented evidence."
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