In Ethereal, the Fortress Wars, the brutal struggle for control over the capital cities, had finally come to an end.

The so-called "Initial City Phase" was over. The system-mandated twelve-hour window had expired, and with it came a sweeping reset of power. Every guild, without exception, was ordered to relocate its headquarters out of the capital cities. From now on, survival meant ownership. Either you secured a fortress of your own, or you negotiated with a higher-tier guild willing to lease you a plot of land and accept you as a dependent settlement.

Ethan had obtained the Divine Ability Scroll: Sundering Shot just before the Fortress Wars began. He logged out shortly after the Initial City Phase concluded, the moment the scroll's forced cooldown expired. He had not used it yet, but at least he could finally disconnect without consequences. Before that twelve-hour contested period ended, the only way to log out while holding the scroll was to drop it. Now, it was just another item sitting quietly in his inventory.

His sudden disappearance barely caused a ripple within Ethereal, or even within the Renegade Alliance itself. He had been an absentee leader for so long that his rare appearances felt more like ceremonial events than actual leadership. A brief appearance, a surge in morale, and then silence again. If he had stayed too long, the carefully cultivated mystique surrounding him might have cracked.

This time, however, his logout coincided with a noticeable shift in how the guild operated.

Until now, the Renegade Alliance had effectively been run by its Honorary Leader, Tears of the Fallen. Her leadership style was cautious and methodical, more reminiscent of corporate governance than guild warfare. Every decision passed through layers of risk assessment, every confrontation weighed against projected profit and loss. It kept the guild stable, efficient, and profitable, but also restrained.

Now, with Druid God offline, though not before securing all four capital cities in the Harmony City region and triggering the Energy Seal Unlock, the sheer scale of what lay ahead became impossible to ignore.

How many fortresses existed in the Northern Frontier Region alone? Just within Harmony City's territory, there were four Advanced-tier fortresses, twelve Mid-tier fortresses, and sixty-four Starter fortresses. And that was only part of the picture. Across all major leveling zones, teleportation hubs were beginning to appear.

The age of endless travel on foot was over.

These hubs allowed instant movement between grinding zones and fortresses, transforming logistics overnight. But convenience came at a price. Teleportation hubs had to be captured, named, and defended, and once claimed, every transit fee flowed directly into the treasury of the controlling guild. Whoever held the routes controlled the money.

Ethereal had officially entered the Era of Total War. From now on, every scrap of profit would be contested, defended, and bled for.

At the same time, sharp-eyed players began to sense that something was off about the so-called "unsealing" of the Energy Pool in the Northern Frontier. The system interface was clear on one thing: purchasing Multi-Energy buffs required nothing but coins. No reputation, no quests, no rare items. Just coins.

But what exactly was "Energy" used for?

No one knew.

Not a single player, even those already operating in the Northern Frontier, had actively purchased it yet. The feature existed, visible but untouched, like a locked door no one dared to open.

A handful of Renegade Alliance members had tapped the Energy Pool button out of curiosity. For them, the interface already displayed Double Supply. The cost was staggering: ten coins for twelve hours. Beside the price sat a small but ominous note: (Dynamic Pricing).

So the cost was not fixed. That alone raised alarms.

Ten coins translated to roughly twelve thousand dollars in real-world currency, a sum equivalent to two months of income for the average person. And yet, every single member of the Renegade Alliance was receiving this Double Energy supply for free, continuously. The implied daily expenditure was obscene, nearly twenty-four thousand dollars per person, burned without explanation.

No one fully understood the Energy Pool System, but the prevailing theory linked it directly to the VR Capsules. Otherwise, it made no sense. Players using basic VR Headsets could not even see the Energy Pool interface. It simply did not exist for them.

And that brought up an even more alarming development.

Ethereal was about to start hemorrhaging money.

All headset users were being offered a free upgrade to a basic VR Capsule. No payment required. Premium models were still available at a cost, but the baseline capsule was being handed out as a gift.

The in-game Harmony City region did not just correspond to the real-world Ember City. It encompassed the entirety of Magnolia Valley. Every player from that region was funneled into the same in-game territory. Which meant the number of free capsules Aeon was preparing to distribute was effectively impossible to calculate.

Calling it a financial bleed was generous. It was more like a controlled detonation.

Ethereal, after all, was a fully free-to-play game. Aside from a limited early sale of initial headsets, basic VR Headsets had eventually been distributed for free, one per government ID. There were no subscription fees, no cash shop, no pay-to-win shortcuts. Everything was earned in-game.

That left Aeon Corporation with only one source of revenue: advanced headsets and capsule upgrades.

Even now, people wondered how Aeon managed to stay solvent. Headsets and capsules were not consumables. They were long-term purchases. Who was buying them in sufficient quantities to sustain a global monopoly?

And yet, Aeon had not merely entered the market. It had erased it.

Within six months of Ethereal's launch, the global gaming industry had been systematically dismantled. Every major MMO and PC game shut down one after another, until only a single title remained. Ethereal. One game, one company.

The consequences rippled outward at terrifying speed.

Even the personal computer, a technological cornerstone for centuries, was becoming obsolete. Operating system updates slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether. Corporations began adopting Aeon's Virtual Office Headsets, using neural interfaces for daily operations. What once required desks, monitors, and keyboards now existed entirely in virtual space.

It felt like the end of an era.

Aeon's rise sent shockwaves through the global economy. Computer retail chains collapsed almost overnight. Longstanding tech giants declared bankruptcy. In Ember City, the legendary Tech Strip, once a congested nightmare of traffic and neon signs, became a hollow stretch of empty storefronts and flickering lights.

Ethereal had first shattered the gaming industry, then quietly put the PC market out of its misery.

And yet, the benefits were impossible to deny.

Globally, the effects were unmistakable. Vice-related crimes such as prostitution, gambling, and drug trafficking declined sharply. Violent crime rates fell across multiple regions. Population health metrics showed clear improvement. Pollution levels dropped by an astonishing eleven percent in just six months.

Even demographic trends began to reverse. In developed nations where marriage and birth rates had been declining for decades, the numbers ticked upward. Marriage registry offices that once operated with a single, half-forgotten window now had people taking numbers and waiting in line.

The connection was undeniable. The timing was too precise, the impact too widespread.

Faced with such sweeping, and largely positive, global change, governments around the world welcomed Aeon with open arms. Permits were approved instantly. Licenses were granted without hesitation. Any official request sailed through bureaucracy unopposed.

Yet for all their cooperation, world leaders encountered an immovable wall.

Every attempt to establish direct contact with Aeon's upper management ended in silence. No replies. No meetings. No acknowledgment of any kind.

That silence was beginning to strain patience, especially among those accustomed to leverage and control. In the Sablon Republic, political smiles were growing thinner by the day, their edges sharpening into something far less friendly.

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