Chapter 78: The Lion’s Den
The Guild Council convened in a place that made Michael’s teeth ache.
It wasn’t a room.
It was a statement of power, carved from polished obsidian and shimmering chrome, a hundred stories above the wounded city.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic, god’s-eye view of a Manhattan that was still smoldering from their victory.
A massive, circular table, so black it seemed to drink the light, dominated the center of the room.
Around it sat the lions of the city.
The Guild Masters.
Okay, so this is the final boss’s throne room, Michael’s inner monologue drawled, his sarcasm a flimsy shield against the crushing weight of the room’s importance.
But with more old guys in expensive suits.
And significantly fewer health bars.
Forge, their grizzled, reluctant sponsor, sat at the head of the table, his massive warhammer leaning against his chair like a sleeping, two-hundred-pound dog.
He looked as comfortable as a bear in a tuxedo.
He gave them a single, grim nod as they were escorted in.
It was their only welcome.
Jinx walked with a coiled, predatory stillness, her eyes scanning every exit, every shadow, her hand never straying far from the pistol hidden under her jacket.
Jax, hobbling on a high-tech crutch he had probably built himself, just looked around with a wide-eyed, almost childlike awe.
"Whoa," he whispered, his voice a little too loud. "This place is fancy. Do you think they have snacks?"
Chloe walked beside Michael, a silent, rigid statue of pure, analytical focus, her datapad held in front of her like a shield.
Michael could feel the waves of calculation rolling off her, her mind dissecting the room’s political dynamics with the same cold precision she used on a battlefield.
Then there was Sterling.
The Vanguard’s golden boy sat opposite them, his gleaming silver armor a stark, arrogant contrast to their own scavenged, battle-worn gear.
His handsome face was a mask of smug, condescending amusement.
He looked at them like they were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his very expensive boot.
Other Guild leaders were there too. A shrewd-looking woman in a sharp business suit who radiated the cold, clean energy of corporate power. A stoic old man in traditional robes who seemed to be carved from ancient, unyielding stone.
This wasn’t a meeting.
It was a tribunal.
Forge cleared his throat, the sound like rocks grinding together.
"The council is convened," he rumbled, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We are here to discuss the status of the entity calling itself ’Thanatos’."
Sterling didn’t wait for permission to speak.
"Entity?" he purred, his voice a smooth, mocking sound. "Let’s call them what they are, Forge."
"A bunch of sewer rats playing dress-up."
His glowing, energy-infused eyes swept over them, lingering on Michael with a look of profound disdain.
"An unregistered, unsanctioned, and frankly, embarrassing collection of Undercroft strays who got lucky."
"They endangered a city-wide operation, interfered with a Vanguard-led containment effort, and deployed an unknown, highly volatile power without any regard for collateral damage."
He leaned forward, his hands steepled, the picture of calm, corporate reason.
"They are not a Guild," he declared, his voice a final, damning verdict. "They are a liability. A bug in the system."
"And I propose," he finished, his smile turning into a cruel, sharp thing, "that we squash them."
Jinx let out a low, dangerous growl, her hand inching towards her weapon.
Chloe’s face was a mask of cold, hard ice, but Michael could feel the spike of her fury, a sharp, clean line of pure, analytical rage.
Before either of them could speak, Michael took a step forward.
He felt the eyes of every leader in the room lock onto him.
He was the asset.
He was the Dragon Tamer.
He was the one they were all here to see.
"Lucky?" he asked, his own voice quiet, but cutting through the tension like a razor.
He met Sterling’s smug gaze, and a faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"That’s a funny way of saying ’we did the job you and your army of high-tech action figures couldn’t’."
Sterling’s smile tightened, a flicker of genuine annoyance in his glowing eyes.
A direct hit.
"We cleaned up your mess," Michael continued, his voice gaining a cold, hard edge he didn’t know he possessed. "We ended a city-level threat while your ’A-team’ was busy getting itself incinerated."
"And as for collateral damage," he added, his gaze sweeping over the other Guild leaders, "the only thing we broke was The Vanguard’s pride."
"Which, I have to admit," he finished, his smile turning into a full, genuine, and deeply sarcastic grin, "was a pretty satisfying bonus."
A low chuckle rumbled from Forge’s chest.
Even the stoic old man in the corner cracked a smile.
They had underestimated him. They had expected a scared kid.
They had gotten a smart-ass.
Sterling’s handsome face was no longer amused. It was a tight, ugly knot of pure, personal fury.
He stood, his chair scraping loudly on the polished floor.
"You are a child," he snarled, his voice no longer a purr, but a venomous hiss. "Playing with a power you stole. A power you don’t deserve."
"You hide behind a name you have no right to," he spat, his eyes blazing. "The name of a failed experiment. The legacy of a woman who broke and ran when the real fight started."
The world went silent.
The air in the room didn’t just get cold.
It died.
Michael’s sarcastic armor, his witty remarks, his entire carefully constructed "gamer" persona—it all dissolved into nothing.
He had just insulted his mother.
A low, guttural growl, a sound that was not entirely human, rumbled from deep in Michael’s chest.
The whispers in his head, which had been a low, chaotic hum, suddenly coalesced into a single, cold, and terrifyingly ancient voice.
The voice of the dragon.
The air around Michael began to warp and shimmer. A profound, unnatural pressure descended on the room, a weight so immense that the other Guild leaders instinctively recoiled, their faces paling.
Michael’s posture changed. He was no longer a slouching, sarcastic kid. He stood tall, straight, his presence filling the room with a quiet, ancient, and utterly overwhelming authority.
He looked at Sterling.
And when he spoke, his voice was not his own.
It was a layered, resonant, and deeply inhuman sound, a chorus of his own voice, the whispers of a dozen dead monsters, and the low, patient, and all-consuming rumble of a god.
"You speak of legends, little whelp," the voice echoed, a sound that seemed to vibrate in their very bones.
Sterling froze, his face a mask of pure, slack-jawed shock. The confident, arrogant prince was gone, replaced by a terrified boy who had just realized he had poked something he should not have.
"I have devoured legends," the voice continued, its tone a cold, calm, and utterly terrifying statement of fact.
Michael took a slow step forward, and the pressure in the room intensified, the reinforced glass of the windows beginning to groan under the strain.
His eyes... his eyes were no longer human.
They were vertical slits of molten, crimson gold, burning with an ancient, cosmic fire.
"You are not a legend," the voice of the dragon concluded, its gaze locking onto Sterling’s, a look of profound, cosmic pity in its ancient, terrible eyes.
"You are but a fleeting noise."
"And I," the voice whispered, a final, chilling promise that hung in the sudden, absolute silence.
"Am growing tired of your sound."
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
The golden light faded from Michael’s eyes, leaving them wide and confused.
A wave of dizzying, head-splitting vertigo slammed into him, a psychic backlash so violent it felt like his brain was being torn in two.
He staggered back, a thin trickle of blood leaking from his nose.
He clutched his head, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat.
"I... I’m not..." he stammered, his own voice a weak, terrified whisper.
He looked up at the horrified faces around the table.
He looked at Jinx and Jax, who were already rushing to his side, their faces masks of pure, panicked alarm.
He looked at Chloe, whose analytical composure had shattered, replaced by a look of raw, undisguised terror.
"That wasn’t me," he managed to choke out, the words a desperate, final confession.
"I couldn’t stop it."
His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed, his world dissolving into a screaming, chaotic blizzard of white-hot static and a single, final, and damning realization.
He was losing.