Inside the Sun-Glow Guild's grand hall in the heart of Cloud-Spire City, tension hung as thick as smoke. Bronze censers released fragrant sandalwood mist, but it did nothing to calm the enraged man pacing before a massive rosewood desk.
Eldritch Master Vane, chief overseer of the guild’s apothecary network, slammed a heavy fist onto the desk, shattering a teacup into fine porcelain dust. On the table before him lay three clear ceramic bottles bearing the stamp of the Immortal Pavilion.
"Ninety-two percent purity!" Vane roared, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and greed. "And sold for forty silver coins apiece! It costs us fifty silver just to refine a eighty-percent batch! Where are they getting the herbs? Who is behind this 'Bassam'?"
Across the desk, a bowed guild scout shivered. "Master... our informants searched the records. Bassam registered as a lone trader from the outer wilderness. But..." The scout hesitated, lowering his voice. "We caught wind of a rumor circulating among the Iron-Clad Sect enforcers at the northern border. They claim Bassam is a secret proxy for the Cloud-Rest Guild's surviving remnant, fencing stolen spirit-crystals to fund high-grade pill production."
Vane’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "The Iron-Clad Sect believes he holds their stolen crystals? And yet they haven't raided his shop inside our city walls?"
"The Iron-Clad leaders fear the City Guard's defensive array, Master," the scout explained rapidly. "They are amassing enforcers outside the eastern gates, waiting for Bassam's supply caravans to leave the neutral zone."
A dark, cruel smile spread across Vane's face. "Idiots, the lot of them. Why ambush a caravan outside when we can force him into a corner inside? Send twenty of our elite guards to the Immortal Pavilion tonight. Inform 'Merchant Bassam' that he either surrenders his pill recipes and signs a monopoly contract with the Sun-Glow Guild, or his shop burns to ash—city array or not."
High above the grand hall, perched seamlessly within the deep shadows of the carved wooden rafters, Clone Three—the Assassin—hung motionless. Its pale, slitted eyes reflected Vane’s furious expression, capturing every word, every gesture, and every tactical detail.
Through the shared neural link, Lylin sat cross-legged atop his stone platform in the Sinkhole Sanctuary, thirty miles away, watching the scene unfold in real time. Beside him, Clone Nine—the Diviner—closed its eyes, tracing glowing golden lines in the air with its fingertips as it calculated probability vectors.
"Host," the Diviner spoke, its voice crisp and detached. "Probability of the Sun-Glow Guild initiating a violent raid tonight: 94%. Probability of the Iron-Clad Sect taking the bait and storming the eastern city gates upon hearing false reports of a Sun-Glow ambush: 87%. Vector convergence indicates an ideal window for mutual destruction."
"Execute the sequence," Lylin commanded coldly into the mental link.
The web reacted instantly across all nodes:
In the Iron-Clad forward camp, Clone Six—the Infiltrator, wearing the face of the dead scout—approached the iron-clad commander's tent, shouting a frantic report that the Sun-Glow Guild was currently seizing the stolen spirit-crystals directly from the Immortal Pavilion's vault.
In Cloud-Spire City, Clone Four—the Merchant—quietly instructed the former Guild leader to clear out all physical inventory from the Immortal Pavilion, leaving behind only empty crates rigged with microscopic volatile explosive runes forged by Clone Seven and Clone Eight.
And at the subterranean base, the system counter in Lylin’s mind space reached its daily mark.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
DAILY REFRESH COMPLETE.
HOST ENERGY RESTORED: 100/100.
AVAILABLE CLONES: 2/2.
CURRENT ACTIVE CLONES: 9.
Lylin stood up, his dark robes rustling in the damp cavern air. The pressure within his mind space was staggering—nine active streams of perception operating simultaneously—yet his willpower held the vast network in absolute, unbroken equilibrium.
"CREATE CLONE."
One hundred units of energy vanished from his display. Two new figures coalesced beside the azure pool.
Clone Ten emerged as a stern, heavily armored vanguard warrior carrying an ethereal tower shield; Clone Eleven materialized as a dark, hooded figure whose hands flickered with raw, unstable spatial energy—a Spatial Manipulator capable of short-range teleportation doors.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
CLONE TEN GENERATED: CLASS - GUARDIAN (TALENT: UNYIELDING WALL).
CLONE ELEVEN GENERATED: CLASS - VOID WEAVER (TALENT: SPATIAL BLINK).
Lylin looked at his eleven creations—a complete shadow vanguard spanning brute force, tactics, assassination, commerce, alchemy, espionage, forgery, manufacturing, divination, defense, and spatial transport.
"The trap is primed," Lylin whispered into the dark, his voice carrying the weight of an unseen deity. "Let the capital bleed."