A guttural roar ripped through the suddenly silent conference floor, followed by the shattering of glass in the distance. Rinzen, still slumped in his chair, felt the vibration grow stronger, a deep, unsettling shudder that traveled from the reinforced durasteel beneath his palms right up to his molars. Vylia Mabari’s face, etched with a bizarre mixture of terror and a lingering, delusional satisfaction, stared blankly towards the shattered windows, now showing nothing but the black expanse of the power outage. Even the emergency lighting had sputtered out, leaving them in near absolute darkness, illuminated only by the faint, sickly green glow of dormant data ports and the distant, sparking crackle of damaged wiring.
“My… my EMP,” Vylia stammered, her voice a reedy whisper. “It was only supposed to disable internal systems, not… not the external blast doors!” Her earlier cackle had curdled into something pathetic.
From the depths below, the heavy footsteps became a rhythmic stomp, accompanied by the clatter of gear and the menacing chant of Garmon’s insurgents. “For the True Path! For the Unseen Fist! Down with the Screens! Down with the Lies!”
Rinzen, who had been contemplating whether this was a good time to finally lean his head back and catch a few more minutes of peace, stiffened with a shock that had nothing to do with the vibrations. The chants were getting closer. He’d recognized the sound of those heavy boots. He’d heard them in the lower levels, chasing him. He’d heard them from Garmon’s men. And he knew exactly where they were headed.
The VIP lounges. His VIP lounges. Paldor’s tea room. His *orthopedic mattress*.
His eyes, which had been half-closed, snapped wide open. A spark of genuine alarm, foreign and unwelcome, crossed his face. He didn’t care about the corporate sponsorships, or the Chi-Net views, or the Mabari clan’s crumbling reputation. He didn’t even care much for being beaten up, usually. But his *mattress*? The one Paldor had personally commissioned, triple-layered with pressure-relieving synth-gel and memory foam, delivered via anti-gravity drone straight to his suite?
The thought of Garmon’s grimy, real-steel-plated thugs trampling through his sanctuary, planting their crude chi-disruptor bombs on his plush furnishings, near his tea set, *on his custom bedding*, sent a cold prickle of offense through Rinzen. It wasn’t fear. It was… indignation. It was the absolute, unadulterated fury of a man whose carefully cultivated laziness was being violently interrupted and whose most precious comfort was under threat.
He slowly pushed himself out of the chair, his movements no longer languid, but deliberate. The sudden shift in his posture drew the attention of Tirza, who had been guarding the door, her own stance coiled and ready. Even Vylia, cowering, looked up at him.
“They’re going for the upper levels,” Rinzen stated, his voice flat, devoid of its usual sleepy drawl. “They’ll plant their bombs in the most vulnerable points. The network hubs. The VIP lounges.” He straightened, the subtle shift of his weight radiating an unexpected pressure. “My bed. My tea room.”
“Your… your bed?” Tirza echoed, an edge of bewildered amusement crossing her tense face before she caught the cold glint in Rinzen’s eyes. This wasn’t a joke. This was… serious.
Just then, the emergency lights in the hallway outside flickered back to life, casting long, distorted shadows. And striding down the corridor, robes billowing, was Master Paldor, his usually serene face carved into cold, unyielding resolve. He moved with an agile grace that belied his age, his hands already glowing with a faint, internal energy. Behind him, a half-dozen raiders, their faces obscured by crude metal masks, gave chase, brandishing ugly-looking dart launchers.
“Rinzen! Tirza!” Paldor’s voice boomed, cutting through the din. “I tried to delay them, but they’re too many. They’re swarming the upper floors! The Chi-Net nexus, the private chambers, your… *chambers*!” His gaze locked onto Rinzen, a silent plea passing between them.
Rinzen didn’t need the plea. His teeth clicked shut. He took a step, then another, towards the door, ignoring the Mabari family’s frantic cries to stay put. “They will not defile my mattress,” he growled, a low, dangerous sound. “Or Master Paldor’s finest tea leaves.”
Tirza, momentarily stunned by Rinzen’s sudden ferocity, recovered instantly. A fierce grin spread across her face. “Finally! Some motivation!” She sprang into action, moving to cover Rinzen’s flank as Paldor reached them, his Chi-infused fists already deflecting a flurry of hostile darts aimed at his chest.
One of the attackers, a hulking figure with a crude, spiked mask, lowered his dart launcher, aiming specifically for Rinzen’s exposed neck. Paldor, his back momentarily turned as he slammed an intruder into a data terminal, twisted in alarm. He saw the trajectory, saw the target. Without hesitation, he threw himself sideways, a shield of aged muscle and ancient power. The dart, trailing a faint, sickly green vapor, embedded itself deep into Paldor’s shoulder with a wet thud.
Paldor let out a sharp gasp, his formidable Chi wavering like a guttering flame. He staggered, his hand flying to the wound. The glowing energy around his body dissolved, leaving him suddenly vulnerable. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, glazed over. His legs buckled.
“Master Paldor!” Rinzen cried, moving with a speed he hadn’t known he possessed. He caught Paldor just as the grandmaster’s knees gave out, cradling the heavy, slumping form. Paldor’s weight was substantial, but Rinzen held him steady, his own body trembling, not from exertion, but from a sudden, cold dread. The dart’s tip, visible now, pulsed with a venomous green light.
Paldor coughed, a rattling sound, and a thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. His eyes, unfocused, struggled to meet Rinzen’s. “The… the ultimate technique,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “The Slumbering Dragon… you must… you must master it, Rinzen. Only you…” He clutched Rinzen’s robes, his grip surprisingly strong, even as his body grew heavy in Rinzen’s arms. “The scroll… Garmon… he has it.”
Rinzen stared down at his master, the man who had given him everything, now pale and weakening in his arms, his life draining away. His gaze flicked to the poisoned dart, then to the thundering chaos of the syndicate bombers advancing down the hallway. The Slumbering Dragon technique. Garmon had the scroll. An impossible burden, dropped squarely onto the shoulders of the laziest man in Obaro.