For advance chapters /patreon.com/HandsomeDuckGod
As the Prestige points deducted, the knowledge flooded in.
But something was wrong.
The download felt incomplete. Like reading a book that started on page three hundred. The information was there, vast and detailed, but there were gaps. Structural assumptions that referenced foundations Ethan didn't have. Assembly sequences that called for techniques he hadn't learned. Component specifications built on manufacturing processes he couldn't access.
"System. What happened? The download feels fragmented."
"Detected: the Host has not exchanged for the foundational knowledge related to the Mark III. Specifically, the manufacturing technologies for Mark I and Mark II. The Mark III battle armor cannot be manufactured without this prerequisite knowledge."
Ethan stared at the interface.
Then he laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh.
"You're telling me I need to buy all three. The Mark III doesn't work without the first two."
"Correct."
"And you couldn't have mentioned this before I spent fifty thousand points?"
"The Host did not inquire."
Ethan closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. Bundled sales. Even in a parallel world with interdimensional technology systems, he couldn't escape bundled sales. The System's predecessor had clearly been a retail executive in a past life.
Mark I: 10,000 points. Mark II: 20,000 points. Mark III: 50,000 points. Total: 80,000. Which meant he needed to spend his remaining 30,340 on the first two generations to unlock the third.
And after that, he'd have... 340 Prestige points. Basically nothing. Back to square one.
In the past, he might have argued. Protested. Lodged a formal complaint with whatever cosmic customer service department administered interdimensional cheat codes.
But the fifty thousand was already gone, and he didn't think the System offered refunds.
"Exchange Mark I and Mark II manufacturing technology."
"Prestige deducted. Mark I and Mark II Battle Armor manufacturing technology transmitted to the Host."
The second download hit, and this time the fragments clicked into place. The gaps filled. The incomplete knowledge from the Mark III connected to the foundational engineering of the first two generations, and the entire architecture assembled itself in his mind like a puzzle finding its final pieces.
[Prestige: 340]
Three hundred and forty points. The cosmic equivalent of pocket change.
But the knowledge in his head was worth more than every mark in the Republic of Valoria.
After the download settled, Ethan spent a long time sitting in the dark living room, processing.
The Mark III was not the same category of technology as the reactor. The reactor was elegant, focused, a single piece of engineering built around a single principle. The armor was a system. Hundreds of interlocking components, each one a discipline unto itself.
Biomechanics: how the suit interfaced with the human body, distributing force loads across joints and muscles without crushing the wearer during high-speed maneuvers. Power distribution: routing the reactor's energy output to flight systems, weapons, life support, and sensors simultaneously without overloading any subsystem. Weapons integration: infrared lasers and miniature missile systems packaged into a frame light enough to fly. Flight dynamics: repulsor technology that allowed stable hover, supersonic acceleration, and precise mid-air maneuvering. AI architecture: the heads-up display, targeting systems, environmental sensors, and threat-detection algorithms that made the suit more than a powered shell.
Tony Stark had developed all of this alone, without a System, without downloaded knowledge, working from first principles in a world where the science was native rather than imported. Every piece of the armor reflected not just intelligence but a staggering breadth of expertise across fields that most people spent entire careers mastering one at a time.
That man really was a genius, Ethan thought. In any universe.
Across the ocean, in the capital of the Aurelian Republic, it was the early hours of the morning.
Defense Secretary Andrew Callister sat at his desk, frowning at an intelligence briefing that had ruined his sleep. The report was thin. Two pages, plus a photo of a teenager. Hardly the kind of material that justified a 3 AM reading session.
But the content was enough to keep him awake.
The phone on his desk rang. Not the regular line. The black phone. The one that connected to exactly one person in the world.
"Mr. President."
"Damn it, Andrew, how long were you planning to sit on this?"
President Harrison Wolfe was not a man who raised his voice often, which made it considerably more alarming when he did.
"Were you waiting for their miniature reactors to knock out ten thousand of our servicemen before you brought it to my attention?"
Callister rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Mr. President, the intelligence hasn't been confirmed. There's a high probability this is disinformation. Valoria has used technological bluffs before, and the claims in this case are extraordinary."
"Controllable nuclear fusion in a palm-sized device? Developed by a single teenager? Sir, our own research programs have spent decades and billions of marks on fusion without getting close. The idea that Valoria leapfrogged us by this margin strains credibility."
Wolfe was quiet for a moment. He was an Ardmore University graduate, management and policy, not physics. But he understood enough to know that controllable fusion wasn't a marginal improvement. It was the kind of breakthrough that redrew maps and rewrote the balance of power between nations.
If it was real.
"You're probably right," Wolfe said, his voice cooling. "It's probably a bluff. But Andrew, you're the Secretary of Defense. Not a gambling man. Even if there's a one percent chance this is genuine, I expect you to treat it with the seriousness it deserves."
"Yes, sir."
"Get eyes on this kid. I want to know what he eats for breakfast, who he talks to, and what he's building next. If Valoria has actually cracked fusion, we need to know before they figure out what to do with it."
The line went dead.
Callister set the phone down and stared at the intelligence report. A seventeen-year-old orphan from a provincial city in Valoria. No institutional backing. No corporate affiliation. And according to Valorian media coverage, the kid had been expelled from high school for being a "bad student."
Either this was the most elaborate piece of disinformation in modern history, or the world had just changed and most people hadn't noticed yet.
He picked up a second phone.
"Activate our assets in Valoria. I want round-the-clock surveillance on an individual named Ethan Mercer. Priority classification: maximum."
Eight hundred miles from the Holloway house, in a private residence in the capital that appeared on no public registry, Adrian Voss stood with his head bowed.
The room was tasteful in the way that old money is tasteful. Dark wood. Leather chairs. A rug that cost more than most people's cars. And behind a mahogany desk, in a leather chair that might as well have been a throne, sat Edgar Whitfield.
Adrian Voss had built an empire. He'd crushed competitors, acquired patents, negotiated with generals, and walked through military checkpoints like they were garden gates. In every room he'd ever entered, he was the most powerful person present.
Except this one.
In this room, Adrian Voss was an employee.
"What's the status?" Edgar's voice was level. Unhurried. The voice of a man who had never needed to raise it because the consequences of disappointing him were understood without being stated.
"The reactor remnants have been transferred to our laboratories. All non-essential projects at Voss Industries have been suspended. Every relevant researcher has signed non-disclosure agreements. Decryption is ongoing around the clock."
Edgar nodded. The Voss brothers were competent tools. That was why he'd cultivated them.
"And the boy?"
A bead of sweat traced its way down Adrian's temple.
"We're... still in discussions."
The room went very quiet.
Edgar Whitfield had spent fifty years in politics. He'd survived purges, factional wars, and the kind of institutional violence that left lesser families ruined. He'd built the Whitfield dynasty into the most powerful political machine in the Republic through discipline, patience, and an absolute refusal to tolerate failure.
He did not tolerate evasive language.
"Still in discussions," he repeated.
"The boy rejected our initial offer. I'm preparing an alternative approach that—"
"Let me be clear, Adrian."
Edgar's voice didn't change volume. It didn't need to.
"I watched Director Graves mark my family yesterday. I watched the Chancellor signal that the Whitfields are being observed. I understand what that means."
He leaned forward.
"The Whitfield family is not invincible. We are powerful, but power without leverage is a castle built on sand. And right now, the most valuable piece of leverage in the Republic of Valoria is a seventeen-year-old boy and the technology inside his head."
"If that technology is in my hands, the government will not dare to move against this family. Not now. Not ever. Because the moment they try, I can sell it to the Aurelian Republic, the Meridian Commonwealth, or any of the other dozen nations that would mortgage their futures for controllable fusion."
The implication settled into the room like poison gas.
"So when I ask you about the boy, and you tell me you're 'still in discussions,' I need you to understand something."
Edgar's eyes were flat. Empty. The eyes of a man who'd weighed lives against interests so many times that the scale no longer moved.
"If you can't persuade him, use other methods. I shouldn't have to explain which ones."
Adrian swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
He was dismissed with a nod.
Walking out of the Whitfield residence into the night air, Adrian straightened his jacket and pulled out his phone.
The kid had embarrassed him at the military compound. Rejected him to his face, in front of reporters, with words designed to cut. "Be more sincere. Don't treat everyone like a fool."
Adrian hadn't forgotten. He wasn't built for forgetting.
And now Edgar Whitfield had given him permission to stop asking nicely.
He opened his contacts and began making calls.
Ethan Mercer. You had your chance to do this the easy way. What comes next is on you.