The clink of champagne flutes grated on Tigran Vartanian’s ears, each chime a tiny nail scratching across a high-gloss server rack. He stood by a panoramic window, ignoring the curated chatter of the Silicon Enclave’s wealthiest and observing the carefully arranged orbital patterns of the hovering dessert drones. Below, manicured 'data-gardens' glowed with bioluminescent flora, a stark contrast to the sterile, glass-and-chrome architecture of the engagement venue, the ‘Nexus Spire’. It was all too… optimized, too perfect, too artificial. Much like the forced smile Narine wore across the ballroom, accepting congratulations on her impending union with Hakob Sarkisian, a man whose primary virtue seemed to be his family’s stake in a global data analytics firm. Tigran’s gaze lingered on Narine’s profile, the elegant curve of her neck, the way her raven hair caught the scattered light from a disco ball. He mentally tabulated a hundred different variables, a hundred different optimal outcomes for her life, none of which involved Hakob. Regret registered as an unquantifiable error code in his chest. He purged the calculation. He watched Levon, the wedding planner, a whirlwind of panicked energy and perfectly pressed burgundy velvet, direct a trio of waiters toward a towering, multi-tiered confection. The cake, sculpted to resemble a miniature data server farm, pulsed with subtle, integrated LEDs. It was an extravagant, wasteful display. Tigran had just calculated the precise power consumption when the sky above the Enclave rippled like a corrupted display driver. The glittering expanse outside fractured. Emeralds bled into purples, then an angry, pulsating crimson. The air crackled with a sound like a million hard drives failing simultaneously. A collective gasp rose from the guests, instantly overridden by a tearing roar as a colossal, skeletal cyber-gargoyle, all jagged chrome and sparking wires, plunged from the fractured firmament. It was a missile of twisted metal and raw data, screaming through the window, obliterating the reinforced glass in an explosion of crystalline shards and shrieking alarms. The beast smashed through the frame, five tons of alloy and hydraulic fluid hitting floor tiles. It slammed directly into the grand banquet table, crushing Hakob Sarkisian and the 'data-farm' cake into a single, unidentifiable paste of sugar, flesh, and circuits. The entire room plunged into pandemonium. Screams echoed off the polished walls. Guests scrambled, heels snapping on marble as silk hems snagged on twisted iron. [SYSTEM INITIATING PROTOCOL: GRAND CASINO. PLAYER: TIGRAN VARTANIAN. CLASS SELECTION UNLOCKED.] [CHOOSE YOUR FATE: 'ARCHITECT OF RUIN', 'CYBER-NECROMANCER', 'SYNAPTIC WEAVER', 'VOID EMPATH'.] Tigran blinked away the static in his optic field, processing the feed. His analytical mind disregarded the chaos, focusing only on the data presented. 'Cyber-Necromancer' – the term resonated. It implied control, re-purposing, efficiency. He didn't hesitate. [CLASS SELECTED: CYBER-NECROMANCER. WELCOME, PLAYER. YOUR BET HAS BEEN PLACED.] A new interface flickered into existence at the edge of his vision. Icons, skill trees, numerical readouts. He noted the 'Recall Spectre' ability. He scanned the immediate vicinity, his gaze landing on a display pedestal where a museum-grade replica of an ancient Armenian assassin’s dagger, a 'Kamazak', had been showcased. It was embedded in a crumbling, cyber-infused plinth. Blue discharge sputtered along its edge, feeding off ambient static. Tigran reached out. Pale teal static sparked between his knuckles, anchoring into the fractured stone. [SKILL ACTIVATED: RECALL SPECTRE (LVL 1).] A translucent form shimmered into existence from the fragmented stone. It was human-shaped, but warped, like a digital ghost caught mid-transmission. Its eyes glowed with an ancient, cold malice, and a phantom Kamazak appeared in its ethereal grip. The being, The Phantom Blade, phased silently through the mangled remains of the cyber-gargoyle, its non-existent feet making no sound. “My God! My God! It’s alive! It’s… *undead*! And it’s… *phasing*!” Levon’s voice, a high-pitched shriek, cut through the general din. He had somehow managed to grab a tray of miniature baklava and was flinging them wildly at The Phantom Blade, each sticky pastry passing harmlessly through the spectral assassin. “Get back, you ghastly apparition! My gluten-free options are sacred!” Tigran ignored Levon, assessing The Phantom Blade. Its ability to bypass physical obstacles was a significant tactical advantage. Narine stood rigid against the shattered fondant, blood flecking her silk dress as her fingers gripped a broken brass candleholder. She was alive, unharmed. A primary objective. His gaze swept over the fallen guests, those who had been too slow, too unlucky. The wedding party, the security staff, even a few hapless waiters. Their bodies lay amidst the glittering debris, already starting to integrate with the invasive cybernetic flora now sprouting from the floor, small wires snaking from their veins. Resources. Unoptimized, currently. [SKILL ACTIVATED: MECHANIZED REANIMATION (LVL 1). TARGETS ACQUIRED: 7.] A sickly green-blue glow emanated from Tigran, spreading to the nearest corpses. With a low, grinding whir, their limbs began to twitch. Wires erupted from their skin, fusing with bone and muscle, replacing ruined organs with pulsating bio-mechanical components. Their eyes flickered to life, a vacant, digital blue. Their suits, now torn and stained, stretched over newly reinforced metallic frames. They rose, not as shambling zombies, but as efficient, if crude, automatons. The first was Hakob, his formerly pristine tuxedo now a patchwork of ripped fabric and gleaming steel, his face a silent, screaming mask of metal. Tigran directed his newly formed mechanical guard. “Perimeter. Protect Narine.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet the automatons responded with an unnerving precision, forming a bristling semicircle around a still-reeling Narine. She flinched as Hakob’s reanimated corpse took point, its metallic hand clutching a broken chair leg like a club. [ATTENTION, PLAYERS. WELCOME TO THE GRAND CASINO. THE PANTHEON HAS PLACED ITS BETS. THE HOUSE EDGE IS EXTREME. YOU HAVE EXACTLY 100 DAYS TO ENTER THE FINAL ADMINISTRATIVE TOWER AND DEFEAT THE REIGNING CHAMPION.] The disembodied voice, smooth and laconic like a bored croupier, echoed through the shattered ballroom, overriding the screams, the whirring of the reanimated, and Levon’s continued baklava assault. It was everywhere, in their minds, in the very air. [FAILURE TO COMPLY, OR EXCEEDING THE SERVER RENTAL PERIOD, WILL RESULT IN INSTANT DELETION. LET THE GAMES BEGIN.] One hundred days. Earth deleted. A factory reset. The ultimate hardware purge. His gaze sharpened, calculating the fastest, most effective way to build an army, to conquer the divine game, to force an exit. He had exactly 100 days to prevent a total system crash.

System Crash the Wedding