Constantine was extremely busy.
When he strode out of the castle, still trailing the cold stench of blood, the field commander quickly straightened up, ready to receive orders from the Royal Guard for Fimbulwinter's First Confidential Division. "At ease, Captain Andrew," Constantine said, his genetically enhanced, handsome face breaking into a faintly pleased smile at the sight of a familiar face. Having fought in the Battle of Fimbowinter and performed admirably as an ordinary human, Andrew had earned Constantine's goodwill—especially since Constantine knew the man had been scared out of his wits during the fight and had acted purely on instinct. Still, it didn't stop Constantine from encouraging further contributions to the Sovereign's cause.
"You may begin operations," the Royal Guard said. "I have other tasks."
"Of course, sir." Andrew saluted, then turned and gave the command for the Fifth Intelligence Squad and Sixth Assault Squad of the First Confidential Division to proceed as planned. They would begin by working through the castle's surviving non-combatants to assume full control of the two Mafia families' operations and intelligence networks. A new mafia organization, essentially a subordinate organ of the Immortal City, would rise from the ashes—its public face a puppet handpicked by Constantine. Through this shell group, they would manipulate Italy's government by dominating economic crimes and using stricter "Omertà" protocols, elite armed personnel, and immense capital resources provided by the Confidential Division to gain electoral and financial influence.
Naturally, many unacceptable operations would be terminated—such as drug trafficking and human smuggling—crimes that the Immortal City's Supreme Sovereign would never tolerate.
Constantine didn't linger. He boarded his gold-plated, gem-studded, high-tech, weaponized anti-gravity hoverbike and launched into the night, its blue plasma trail streaking across the dark sky. On this otherwise ordinary evening, a brutal purge of Italy's two largest Mafia families began. It would soon spread to mainland Italy, Sicily, and the entirety of continental Europe. Even those hiding in the U.S. and South America would not escape the relentless pursuit of the Fimbulwinter Division.
For the level of equipment assigned to the First Confidential Division—jet fighters and heavy firepower—hunting down mafia members was clearly overkill. Even dispatching the Sixth Assault Team, trained to SEAL Team Six standards, was more than sufficient. But Constantine had designed the plan this way. He wanted the Division to work seamlessly with the rest of the Immortal City, not operate as an isolated wolf pack.
The leaderless Mafia leadership would be subject to precise decapitation strikes. Apart from those who voluntarily surrendered, none would be spared. Those who had survived the bloody Corleonesi Mafia wars of the '70s to '90s once again felt the chill of dread. Corrupt officials in the Italian government, who had taken bribes, scrambled to find out who this new mafia boss was so they could realign themselves with the new power.
A full report on the Mafia operation would appear on Solomon's desk by the following day.
If he happened to watch the morning news during breakfast, the report would provide the full context. If he didn't turn on the news, it would still explain everything—because Solomon had not been informed in advance. The Royal Guard had been granted high levels of autonomy because Solomon trusted him completely. That trust was the result of complex genetic alchemy and scientific conditioning, creating unwavering loyalty. As long as Constantine believed it was in Solomon's interest, he had the authority to act without prior approval.
Even if Solomon created more Royal Guards in the future, few—if any—would share this level of freedom.
"My lord."
Solomon nodded slightly, motioning for the armored Royal Guard to sit across from him at the breakfast table. Dana brought over a specially modified chair designed to accommodate the size and weight of the power armor, sparing Constantine the awkwardness of having to crouch and lock his servos. As ordered, she served him a breakfast of a two-kilogram tomahawk steak, garlic butter bread, and fortified vitamin wine. Constantine silently dug in with his custom utensils.
Master and servant finished their breakfast, followed by a dose of special drugs produced by the city's bio-genetics lab.
For both of them, this meal was barely an appetizer. The Royal Guard's usual diet consisted of nutrient slurries infused with compounds and medications lethal to ordinary humans. This gourmet breakfast felt more like Solomon treating him to snacks. Neither of them mentioned last night's events—it was treated like an insignificant footnote.
"Do we have candidates?" Solomon asked.
"Yes, my lord." Constantine nodded and pulled out a list. "One percent compatibility from a pool of a thousand boys—it's a miracle."
"Projected survival rate?" Solomon sipped his sweet hot tea, trying to wash the bitterness from his tongue.
He glanced at the printed list. Most of the boys were war orphans or former child soldiers from the Middle East captured by the Immortal City, along with some offspring of the Mafia brought in after last night's operation. Filtering out those too old or genetically incompatible, the bio-genetics lab had narrowed it down to ten potential candidates. But that didn't guarantee success—becoming a Royal Guard meant surviving genetic enhancement, alchemical alteration, and gestation in mechanical wombs.
Constantine had succeeded because he was… special—something that could be traced back to the secrets of the Macedonian dynasty in the 10th century. These boys, though genetically adaptive, might still die on the operating table or during alchemical fusion.
Even if they survived, they would face brutal alien trials and rigorous education. Only those who endured it all would don the ornate power armor, shed their past identities, and serve Solomon on battlefields against humanity's enemies—offering counsel in royal halls.
Solomon set down the papers and began recalling the boys' backgrounds.
Kāf — Male, age 7, Iranian. Black curly hair, war orphan, parents killed in shelling.
Badiya — Male, age 6, Iranian. Brown-black hair, alcoholic father, mother missing.
Giuseppe — Male, age 7, Italian. Straight black hair, son of a Mafia accountant executed for refusing to surrender.
Lukas — Male, age 5, Persian. Victim of human trafficking by Cosa Nostra.
"Dr. Maya Hansen said the max success rate is 0.01%," Constantine shook his head. "But I've reviewed the profiles. Most are in good health—at least one of them should survive the transformation. I believe my future subordinates are among these ten."
"Don't get too optimistic, Constantine. I'll make a bet with you—my favorite short blade," Solomon replied. "Keep screening candidates. Keep testing. The Royal Guard must scale up. Only then can we win the first invasion battle. Tell Stephanie to prepare a meeting space. I'll speak with the children myself. Tonight."
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