Ch 160

  Matt felt as though he was at the end of his rope, having lost all sense of time while running through the dark, twisting corridors of the dungeon. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay, and shadows danced menacingly along the walls. He was acutely aware that someone, or something, was pursuing him, even without tangible proof; each time he checked in, he noted that more and more of his members were abandoning Scattered Stars. Thankfully, there were no accompanying death reports, and his puppet, stationed among the others, confirmed that they were all spending their merit points before making their exits. To incentivize this behavior, Emily had even begun offering double the usual rate for each point spent.

  Another crucial element in his strategy involved the owl-man he had transformed into a puppet, who now served as an informant. While Matt consciously avoided exerting control over him, the mere fact of his existence allowed Matt to gather valuable insights on how to persuade those hoarding their merit points to part with them. It turned out that the Interstellar Administration and its affiliated organizations were doing much of the heavy lifting for him.

  They were incredibly eager to acquire any and all monster materials harvested from the dungeon, and both Matt and Emily had begun listing full carcasses for sale. However, the situation was complicated by the relentless scrutiny faced by anyone identified as a member of Scattered Stars. To his astonishment, through the owl-man's eyes, Matt witnessed multiple instances of beast-men defending his actions, proclaiming that he had acted to liberate them from the tyranny of their former masters. Nevertheless, Scattered Stars had been declared illegal, and anyone refusing to leave—except for those wishing to spend their trapped merit points—was met with hostility. Only these specific cases were permitted to remain, but only under the strict condition that they purchased what the Interstellar Administration mandated.

  Matt was beginning to believe it was only a matter of time before everyone not from Earth would be forced to leave his organization. The exception was Rudan, who he hoped would start recruiting from wherever he was hiding, though that seemed unlikely since he had yet to make any moves in that direction. Instead, Matt placed his greatest hope in those who were deep within the labyrinthine dungeon, like Kal, who wouldn’t abandon their post unless absolutely compelled to do so. Her plan was to remain in the shadows of the dungeon, subsisting on monster meat while waiting for Greg to gather everything necessary to summon her. They had secured a means to accomplish this after navigating through the instance dungeon where Matt’s puppet had triumphed over the grotesque tentacle abomination.

  As Matt gasped for breath following yet another seemingly futile skirmish—this one yielding merely two experience points thanks to his recent entry into the level 40 area—all he could focus on was the relentless question of how much longer he could endure. He had a rough estimate of how long he had been sprinting through the darkened corridors, but with all the selves managing his puppets, accurately gauging the passage of time had become nearly impossible. Just as he settled against the cold, damp stone wall to catch his breath, a figure emerged from the shadows; it was someone he never expected to see again.

  “Seems like you’re not doing so well,” Hanklin remarked, his voice low and gravelly. The wolfman, who had once captured Matt and set off a cascade of missteps leading to their current predicament, leaned against the stone wall, his eyes glinting with a predatory curiosity. “Word is there’s a massive bounty on your head, and they don’t even want you alive. They don’t need you breathing to confirm your death when your organization will crumble with you.”

  “Are you here to talk me to death?” Matt shot back, pushing himself upright with a slight wince. “I’ll admit I’m worn out, but my HP is full, and I’ve got more than enough energy left to handle you.”

  “Nope, I don’t need the trouble that comes with killing you,” Hanklin replied dismissively, crossing his arms. “At least you valued us back in the day. These new jerks only see us as risky investments, and from what I’ve seen, Godfrey Enterprises doesn’t stand a chance against them.”

  “Ha! You should have seen how that guy I trapped on a swarm world fought,” Matt chuckled, a smirk creeping across his face. “I think I really pissed off this group because he turned out to be part of their ranks—and a significant figure at that.”

  “You did what?” Hanklin asked, incredulity etched on his features as he shook his head. “You’re insane, though I already knew that from our previous encounters.”

  “Did you really track me down just to chat?” Matt inquired, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, I want to join Scattered Stars,” Hanklin stated earnestly, his expression shifting to one of determination. “That is, if you promise to return and reclaim this world someday.”

  “Only after I’ve taken down the Interstellar Administration,” Matt replied firmly. “And that won’t happen until I’ve reached S rank and it’s time for me to start harvesting them for experience. You should lay low, find some random organization that will let you do your thing. Share stories about our first fight to earn their trust, and then either challenge me when I come back or stab them in the back. Either option works for me, but don’t waste your life waiting for me to return—that’s just sad.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” Hanklin conceded with a chuckle, the tension easing slightly. “Still, it’s good to know you’re not planning to run away like a coward. Now, let’s have a fight so I can say I tracked you down and got my ass handed to me again.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Won’t they find it strange that I didn’t kill you?” Matt asked, frowning as he prepared himself for an impending clash.

  “Not really,” Hanklin laughed, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “You not killing those who tried to kill you, plus the fact that the only confirmed kill you’ve made was that A rank owl-man. All the deaths attributed to you during dungeon fights are under question since you left their bodies behind as a show of force.”

  “That logic seems a bit backward,” Matt muttered, confusion flickering across his face. “I would have thought that would make everyone sure I killed them.”

  “Nah, everyone thinks your party did,” Hanklin countered, shaking his head. “They believed you did at first, but it doesn’t align with your other actions at all.”

  Matt shook his head, his brow furrowed in concentration as he weighed the quickest way to inflict a wound and escape from Hanklin’s grasp. Meanwhile, on the surface, an owl-man was embroiled in a heated argument with himself. “Is this really how you plan to leave things!?” he exclaimed, frustration lacing his voice.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” retorted Matt’s puppet, using the owl-man’s mouth to voice its thoughts. “The fact that I’m even engaging in this conversation with you right now is far more than I ever intended to do with your body again.”

  “You can make more puppets using my flesh, can’t you?” the owl-man pressed, desperation creeping into his tone.

  “No, I don’t think I can. It’s not as flexible as my real flesh, even if I’ve managed to convert it all to my control and genetics,” Matt’s puppet replied, irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

  “Then what about the cells that you put in me? Surely—”

  “Just stop arguing; there’s nothing I can do to change what’s happening,” it interrupted, exasperated.

  “They’re saying that if no one comes forward with your location in the next two galactic hours, they will start killing those who refused to leave your stupid organization,” the owl-man warned, his voice trembling with anxiety.

  “Then go ahead, tell them what I’ve done to you and how I can hear everything they say to me, yet I refuse to answer you,” Matt’s puppet shot back, a hint of defiance in its tone. “See how well that goes for you.”

  “We both know they would either kill me immediately, dissect me, or just lock me away for some other purpose,” the owl-man replied, a note of resignation in his voice.

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do, but you’re free to tell them that I’m in the dungeon, like so many others have already claimed. For whatever reason, they haven’t caught me yet, and I’m starting to think that they don’t want to,” Matt’s puppet said, its tone heavy with uncertainty.

  “That’s it,” the owl-man muttered, shaking his head in defeat as he turned and exited the dimly lit basement where their argument had unfolded.

  He rushed toward the location where one of the new organizations, eager to seize control of the world, had established its base. As he approached, he activated his skill, which transformed his appearance, allowing him to blend in seamlessly with the crowd. With a calculated smirk, he began to weave a rumor that would ripple through the ranks. The rumor was straightforward yet insidious: the Interstellar Administration was aware of Matt’s whereabouts but chose to ignore it, seeking only an excuse to eliminate those whose only offense was their loyalty to Scattered Stars.

  Though the group was small, numbering fewer than fifty, the presence of several off-planet members lent it an air of significance that could not be overlooked by the Interstellar Administration. It wasn’t a legitimate organization in the traditional sense; rather, it depended on the various factions that comprised it to reach consensus. Thus, the emergence of even one faction making waves was enough to compel the Administration to convene an emergency meeting before any executions could take place. However, such meetings were often drawn out, and this one would occur at the very last moment, leaving the fates of those who refused to abandon Scattered Stars hanging precariously in the balance.

  “Is it true that we know where Matthew Pierce is and are doing nothing about it?” inquired one of the two dozen hooded figures gathered in the dimly lit meeting room, their voices low and filled with tension.

  Each of those present was draped in hooded robes, woven with enchantments that obscured their identities, and they occupied random seats scattered throughout the dimly lit chamber. Although each member had been identified at the door, a strict code dictated that no one could reveal who spoke what. Even if suspicions arose about a particular individual, none would dare to act against other organizations based on spoken words. This was one of their most sacred rules; without it, fear and intimidation would reign over the Interstellar Administration.

  “We know he is in the dungeon, but the specific location continues to elude us since we lacked trackers willing to assist,” replied another hooded figure, their voice muffled by the fabric of their robe. “The one we sought for help refused, claiming that her hand had been healed by him, and she couldn’t repay kindness with malice.”

  “Then what makes you think anyone knows more than that he simply ran into the dungeon?” pressed the first hooded figure, their tone sharp with skepticism.

  “They could, and—”

  “None of us believe that,” interjected a third hooded figure, their voice steady and authoritative. “Even if most of us don’t care, don’t treat us like children. The real issue is that if we handle this poorly, our own members might fear that if our organization crosses the Interstellar Administration, the same fate could befall them.”

  “All recognized organizations have rights,” stated the second hooded figure, their voice low but firm. “Scattered Stars isn’t a recognized organization.”

  “The very act of outlawing it makes it one,” countered the first hooded figure, frustration creeping into their tone. “It would have been simpler to declare that all organizations refusing to sign the treaty are unrecognized and purge both of the groups present here.”

  “Am I to understand that you are fine with the execution proceeding, so long as we find better reasoning?” asked a fourth hooded figure, their voice laced with incredulity.

  “No, it’s too late for that,” replied the third hooded figure, shaking their head slightly. “We’ve already put forth our reasoning, and if we change it now, we’ll only expose the truth to even the most oblivious among us. Instead, we should admit our mistake and acknowledge that we acted hastily. Then we can quietly imprison all members of Scattered Stars, spreading them across our many worlds, ensuring they are forced into the slums.”

  “I see, show mercy and instead exile them from this world,” replied the second hooded figure, contemplating the implications. “But what do we do if they manage to rise from the slums?”

  “Nothing,” stated the third hooded figure decisively. “Why should we intervene when they are just as likely to resent their leader for allowing them to suffer through such hardship?”

  Nods of agreement rippled through the assembly as the grim fate of millions was sealed, and those gathered shifted their focus to the intricate details of what would come next.