Before stepping out toward police headquarters, Valerian realized one crucial thing: he had to know The Syndicate's current status. His sudden death must have created a massive power vacuum. Like a school of sharks scenting blood, the lieutenants and faction bosses beneath him were surely preparing to tear one another apart for the empty throne.
He sat in front of Arthur's dusty old laptop. The machine let out a soft groan as it booted up. Valerian entered a series of commands through the command prompt terminal, bypassing the standard OS and connecting directly to the dark web through a highly specific onion-routing protocol.
His fingers moved with lightning speed, a visual anomaly for a lazy detective's hands. He entered a series of unregistered IP addresses, accessing a hidden communications node he had designed himself ten years ago—a digital penalty box accessible only through an algorithm that responded to an exceptionally distinctive pattern of cognitive keystroke dynamics. The machine recognized the rhythm of his mind. Access granted.
A simple black screen appeared, displaying lines of neon-green text. It was a one-way message box left by Victor, his trusted lieutenant, just a few hours after the Geneva facility exploded.
SENDER ID: V-01 STATUS: ECLIPSE PROTOCOL ACTIVE
Sir. If you're reading this, then the transition was successful. The world is mourning you. Interpol, CIA, and MI6 have halted their entire investigation into your charitable foundation and shifted their focus to hunting the fictional 'extremist faction' you created. You're beyond suspicion. The name Valerian Black is spotless.
However, just as you predicted, your absence has triggered internal chaos. Because I can't reveal to anyone that you're still alive, the Capos believe you're truly dead. The 'Triumvirate'—our three largest factions—has begun to move.
The Red Bull Faction (Russia) has begun taking over weapons-distribution routes in Eastern Europe. The Viper Faction (South America) is withholding our money-laundering funds. And most dangerously, the Raven Faction (Western Europe), led by Lorenzo, has begun killing our loyal operators in London to claim the territory as their new capital.
As you instructed, I will remain in hiding and monitor their movements. I will not attempt to contact you directly until you give the signal. Good luck on your new side, Sir.
Valerian gently closed the laptop, his face cold as marble.
Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned. The fake death wasn't merely a way to escape the law's pursuit; it was a test of loyalty. The Syndicate had grown too large, too bloated, and too deeply infiltrated by personal ambition. The only way to perfect his organization was to let the traitors and parasites crawl out of their nests and fight over the carcass of the power he had left behind.
"Lorenzo," Valerian murmured, naming the leader of the Raven Faction operating in Europe. Lorenzo was intelligent, but far too arrogant. He had always wanted the top seat. The fact that Lorenzo dared to kill Valerian's loyal operators in London proved just how arrogant the man was.
To Valerian, this was a perfect opportunity. Arthur Pendelton was a detective in London. Lorenzo was carrying out murders in London. The chess pieces seemed to leap straight into the Grandmaster's hand.
In the past, Valerian punished traitors by sending faceless assassins in the dead of night. Now? He would destroy Lorenzo with the law's hands. He would engineer a scenario in which the police themselves would ambush, interrogate, and imprison the rebels. He would wash his hands of it completely, standing on a podium as a heroic detective while his business rivals rotted in maximum-security cells.
Valerian smiled faintly, a dazzling sociopath's expression. He took Arthur's long coat from the rack, slid a standard .38-caliber revolver into the holster at his waist, and stepped out of the shabby apartment.
The streets of London welcomed him with thick fog and drizzle. The morning air bit into his bones. As Valerian walked along the wet sidewalk, several passersby instinctively stepped aside, as if their primitive instincts warned them of a passing predator. The body might belong to Arthur Pendelton, but the aura radiating from it belonged purely to The Syndicate's Heart. The underworld god now walked beneath the sunlight.