[10:00 AM. New Babylon Upper Sector, Strategic Assessment Center]

  The atmosphere in the conference room was as cold as a morgue. On the massive holographic sand table, the red warning marker for the 13th Street was still flashing. Around it, the blue dots representing the Guild's Scavenger forces had vanished—three whole companies, wiped out.

  "Battle damage report."

  Mordred sat at the head of the table, his voice low, resonating behind his metallic mask.

  An intelligence officer stood up, trembling, and projected a set of shocking data:

  Personnel Losses: Heavy Infantry: 320 (Total Annihilation); Deconstruction Warlocks: 12 (Total Annihilation); Commander 'Wraith' (MIA/Confirmed KIA).

  Equipment Losses: Titan Mechs: 2 (Totally Destroyed); 'Heavy Hammer' Siege Beast: 1 (Sliced in Half); Gargoyle Drones: 50 (Total Annihilation); Leviathan Aerial Command Ship (Crashed).

  Estimated Repair Cost: 7 Billion New Currency.

  Reconstruction Cycle: 6 Months.

  "That's just the hardware," Moriarty said from the side, toying with an exquisite pocket watch. His tone was as elegant as if he were critiquing an opera. "The software losses... might need another zero added to the end."

  "What do you mean?" Mordred turned his head, the light on his mask flickering.

  "Deterrence."

  Moriarty snapped his fingers, bringing up another set of data—[City Security Index].

  "Since that single slash, the security index in the Lower Sector has dropped by 40%. Riots of varying degrees have broken out in at least 15 sectors. Workers are slacking off, gangs are robbing Guild transport trucks. Because they realized—'God' can bleed."

  "The potential economic loss from this is growing by hundreds of millions every day."

  Moriarty closed his watch and looked at Mordred.

  "High Priest, your 'Linear Thinking' has completely failed in this campaign. You thought that by inputting enough firepower (Input), you would get the expected suppression result (Output). But you ignored the variable—The Human Heart."

  "The Human Heart?" Mordred sneered. "That kind of thing only needs fear to control."

  "Fear has a threshold," Moriarty shook his head, as if teaching a stubborn student. "When fear exceeds the critical point, it transforms into anger. And when anger finds an outlet (like John Doe), it becomes... Revolution."

  "So, my suggestion is: Stop Loss."

  "Stop loss?"

  "Yes. Suspend all military actions against the 13th Street."

  Moriarty stood up and walked to the holographic map, tracing his finger over the red area.

  "We cannot give that 'Hero' a stage anymore. Every attack is giving him experience, giving him prestige. We are helping him ascend to godhood."

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  "So what do you want me to do? Surrender?" Mordred's voice rose, clearly infuriated. "Bow to a bunch of mud-legged peasants? Where does the Guild's dignity go?"

  "No, not surrender. It's 'Changing Lanes'."

  A cruel, elegant smile curled on Moriarty's lips.

  "Fortresses that cannot be breached by force are often easiest to crumble from within."

  "John Doe is a hero now because everyone has a common enemy (Us). Once the external enemy is gone, internal conflicts will surface."

  "Resource distribution, power struggles, even... jealousy."

  "We can withdraw troops, even send them supplies, send them money. We will turn that place into a 'Special Zone'. Make the surrounding districts jealous, make the people inside fight over the distribution of spoils."

  "This is called—Killing with Praise (捧杀 - Peng Sha)."

  "Corrode their will with sugar-coated shells, divide their unity with profit distribution. When that so-called 'Hero' is pulled down from the altar by his own people, we go in and collect the bodies."

  "This is the highest form of the art of war. Lowest cost, best effect."

  Dead silence filled the conference room. The executives looked at each other, forced to admit that while Moriarty's plan was insidious, it was indeed the only solution at present.

  Mordred remained silent for a long time.

  He looked at the 13th Street, still glowing red, his fingers gripping the armrest of his throne tightly, making a creaking sound.

  Reason told him Moriarty was right.

  But his pride, the arrogance of a supreme ruler, made it impossible for him to accept this suggestion of "showing weakness."

  If he withdrew now, if he engaged in some appeasement policy, wouldn't that be admitting... the Guild was afraid?

  Admitting that he, the High Priest, couldn't handle an E-Class Necromancer?

  "No."

  Mordred stood up abruptly, his black robes billowing.

  "I do not agree to a full ceasefire. That is trampling on the Guild's dignity."

  He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, turning his back to everyone, his voice cold.

  "But... I will not send troops to die anymore. Since that variable likes the limelight so much, we'll give him a chance."

  "Negotiate."

  Mordred spat out the word, as if forcing it through his teeth.

  "Send a delegation. Tell John Doe that the Guild is willing to 'temporarily' shelve the dispute and discuss the issue of 'Autonomy' for the 13th Street."

  "However, there is only one condition: He must hand over the core technology that allows him to summon War Gods (meaning that iPad)."

  Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he will give it up?"

  "It doesn't matter if he gives it up or not." Mordred turned around, his eyes sinister behind the mask. "What matters is, as long as we sit down and talk, as long as news of the negotiation spreads, those commoners who treat him as a god will start to doubt—'Is our hero about to be bought out (recruited)?'"

  "Once doubt is born, trust collapses."

  "That is what I want."

  Moriarty looked at the stubborn dictator, a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but also amusement.

  "Though lacking elegance and still full of the arrogance of power... it can be considered a form of... compromise."

  Moriarty bowed slightly, performing a standard gentleman's salute.

  "As you wish, High Priest. I will arrange for the best negotiation experts."

  He walked out of the conference room, his steps light.

  "However... this game probably won't follow your script."

  [Another Dimension, Imaginary Space]

  Sherlock Holmes sat on his worn-out sofa. Floating screens in front of him replayed the recent battle, the Guild meeting, and John's current status.

  He tapped his pipe, a rare look of approval flashing in his gray eyes.

  "Although overall it's still very rough, like a child just learning to walk."

  Holmes pointed to key nodes of John's actions during the battle on the screen.

  "But in this offense and defense, his progress is visible to the naked eye."

  "From initially only knowing how to hide shivering behind Heroic Spirits, he has now learned to 'Delegate'. He knew he didn't understand military command, so he didn't fight Leonidas for control for the sake of some 'Protagonist Halo'. Instead, he positioned himself as a 'Resource Dispatcher' and 'Special Forces Operative'."

  "What surprises me even more is that he learned to 'Borrow Power'."

  Holmes pulled up the image of John connecting with Qi Jiguang.

  "In that high-pressure environment, he didn't lose his head due to panic. Instead, he seized a gap of mere seconds to ask a professional (Qi Jiguang) for core tactics. This shows his tactical literacy has moved beyond 'how to win the immediate fight' and started contemplating 'how to win the war at the minimum cost'."

  The great detective blew a smoke ring, which formed an upward arrow in the air.

  "John Doe, you have finally... entered the game."

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