Chapter 59: I Came, I Conquered

Hello Everyone, hope you are doing well and everyone around is also doing well, so I'll try to keep this short, I was with fever for couple of days and now I'm better so I'll be posting again and will insure that such situation will not occur again, not my fever of course, but the chapters, I'll be prepared in advance. 

Also, about the side stories, why I am adding side stories, well, honestly, I agree with you guys, although in this story many references and crossover happens, there's this lack of depth, as I should say, on emotional, on background, on just world-building level.

Frankly, everything feels small like as if it's just our little Georgy and his own thoughts, kind of like me trapped in my room with my thoughts, so it doesn't really feel close or real or attached to us on a personal level.

In my opinion, a good story is told not by literally spoonfeeding what is happening, but by showing, through dialogue, through that vibrant and expressive vocabulary that writers use, take writers of Lord Of the Mysteries, or The Shadow Slave, or Reverend Insanity.

When I was going through recap videos for these novels to catch up on what I might have forgotten over the years, I realized, something it was that if you take the recap as draft, you see that the draft is simple, stroy is also simple, you have characters, your destinatiosn, and you have basic plot, simple now just add more words right?

NO, that's where it stops being simple, now expression comes in, now you unleash your talent as a writer, what is this talent?

Your pit of knowledge, all the vocabulary, all the material, all the emotion, all the vibrant fantasy unimaginable by none except you, that's talent. It's not a mythical gift; it's just neurons firing in your brain, and now it's up to you as a good author to decide where to use them.

Now I'm no Cuttlefish who loves to dive, but I can understand such a basic thing, so I have decided that whenever the story becomes inactive, basically what I mean by that is, when the story feels slow, or dull, or something that you just want to skip over.

I will, as a reader and now the editor of this fan-fic, will ensure that there is a side story that explores not George, but people around him.

People like, some random guy living in a monoplistic world of George Orwell, maybe Howard Stark making some very peculiar friend for life on George Orwell's ship, all in but name literally a Floating City, The Crown Jewel of the Sea.

Or some guy finding his way to one of George Orwell's shelters for anyone and everyone, during the dark age of market crashing in Pursuit of Happiness, and such interesting conversation, reaction, or similar scenario.

I will show you so that you can see and feel, and understand for yourself what is happening in this wonderful world.

Now I said to keep it short, but clearly I didn't, sorry for that, if you read till now, through the whole message from me, you have respect, and I will work hard to respect the respect you have shown me. 

Well, again hope you do well. Things are not good on my side. A lot of money has been spent on my father's medical and continues to be, the more painful part is that he didn't tell me until recently, where he told me that almost 50 - 60k has already been spent on his medical.

And I'm shocked because that's like literally barely any savings left that he was saving, and most importantly, his health is barely stable. His health is just not getting better, he is coughing more close to more than 2 months and seems he will not get well, he has other health issues, also, and frankly, I'm scared for the worst that could happen.

Leaving that aside, I want you guys to know shit happens, but try to maybe do or do not, depending on your situations, but spend what time you have with yourself and your loved ones as much as you can.

Whatever moment you spend with them, make it meaningful. I understand many of you come home tired from work, and it can happen that I will join your ranks soon, in 2 years, but try to live in the moment.

Cause friends, what is life if you never lived it and we just kept chasing that perfect moment, work hard, work smart, choose your option as best to your situation, and please for the love of god, do not stop what you want to do that can define you just because of self doubt.

You have nothing to lose, or you may have a lot to lose, but well, friends, we gotta take risks, or be trapped here all our lives, and pass this trap to your future.

In the I wish All the best for you all, I just wish you all do the very hardest, bestest you can, for yourself, please, have a good day. Love you guys.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Vito and Tessio stepped forward and offered a formal bow—measured, precise, the way a loyal attendant might show respect to a master. Nothing theatrical. Just a quiet acknowledgement.

Then they moved to the side, leaving the space open for what came next.

George placed a hand on Philip's shoulder—not gently—and turned to face the table of patriarchs.

"I heard you were planning how to deal with me," he said. His voice was calm, almost amused. "So I came to listen. See what you had in mind. Retaliation, was it? With this Nigo, you just let him walk free?"

He flicked his finger.

A sharp crack split the room. A perfect hole opened in the man's forehead. He collapsed on the spot. Silence followed.

"Or maybe with these?" George said, lifting a pistol from the confiscated pile.

He raised the weapon and calmly fired into the center of his palm.

The shot echoed like a hammer blow. Every man in the room flinched.

Then they watched as George slowly opened his hand. A deformed, yellow bullet sat in his palm. He tilted his hand. The slug fell to the table with a clink.

Now they understood.

Whatever Vito meant by "Do you know who you're provoking?"—this was it.

Even Philip sat frozen, his usual smugness drained. He shot a hard glare at Saidi—the new Jewish Gang leader. This had been his idea. Promises of wealth. Control of San Francisco. It had sounded good then.

Now it felt like a death sentence.

And Saidi knew it too. There would be no escaping what came next.

George tossed the pistol back into the pile and looked around the table.

"Only power you can control is real power," he said. "And you don't understand power. Not yet. Not the kind that changes everything."

He turned and gestured toward the silent group standing against the wall—BlackShield operatives, dressed head-to-toe in black combat gear, masks hiding their faces.

"These men do."

Everyone's attention turned to the masked unit.

George spoke again. "Clones."

Each operative raised a hand, forming rapid signs. A moment later, another black-clad figure appeared beside each one—identical, solid, and standing in perfect stillness.

Gasps slipped from a few of the seated patriarchs.

Then Vito stepped forward.

He disappeared in a blur and reappeared several feet away—no movement, no warning, no footsteps. Just a flicker of presence, like he'd blinked out of reality and returned.

"This," Vito said, "is the path we've begun training in. With this power, we evolve faster, stronger, and in more control of ourselves than ever."

One of the Family Head leaned forward, tense. "Vito… you've learned this?"

"I have indeed," Vito said simply. "With the boss's instruction, this is merely the beginning."

The message was obvious now. Everything George had done since entering—every move—had purpose.

First, he didn't come here to kill them. If that was his goal, they'd already be dead.

Second, Vito was no longer one of them. He'd already sworn loyalty—and likely fed George the details of this meeting.

Third, the power on display could be learned. Not inherited. Not bought. Learned. Through training. Through submission.

Philip, always the survivor, moved first. He dropped to one knee, placed his hand to his chest, and bowed his head.

"I, Philip Lachaud, pledge my loyalty to you, I will serve you until death."

George approached, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Smart, very well, I accept your loyalty, and I grant you power."

A pulse of Elemental Energy surged through Philip's chest as George planted the Elemental Seed. The man trembled for a moment, then went still.

One by one, the others followed. Knee to ground. Vows given. Seeds planted.

Only Saidi remained. Pale, sweating, kneeling before George.

"I accept your allegiance," George said. "And I'll overlook the past. But hear me now—betray me again, and I will erase you. You serve me alone. Can you do that?"

Saidi bowed his head lower. "I swear it. I will serve only you, until death."

George nodded, placed his hand on the man's shoulder, and the seed took root.

When it was done, George looked over the silent gathering.

"From now on," he said, "the Underground Council is gone. You serve the High Table now. I'm Chairman. Vito, Vice Chairman. The twenty-one of you—Elders."

He walked toward the head of the table and took his seat.

"You'll each oversee two states. Vito will manage assignments and logistics. Report to him. I'll train twenty elite agents for each of your families—each will receive an Elemental Seed."

He paused.

"And remember: if you carry the Seed, your life and death are for me to decide."

Vito dropped to one knee again and recited the oath of loyalty. The others followed suit, slow, solemn, controlled.

Once done, they took their seats again. George remained at the head of the table, calm and unreadable.

Vito outlined the new map—each family receiving regional responsibilities based on proximity and existing influence. It wouldn't happen overnight. But they'd grow. Expand. Enforce.

And George would watch from above.

Later, in private, he added the next phase to his plan:

A neutral assassination order. Quiet. Anonymous. Controlled by no one but him.

The High Table would give orders. The assassins would deliver outcomes.

No questions. No mistakes. No loose ends.

And no one in this room would ever speak of what happened tonight.

George couldn't control hearts yet. But fear would do for now.

Because even power couldn't fix one eternal problem:

Human hearts are unpredictable.

__________________________________________________________________________

🧾 The Accountant: Bloodlines

Part I – "Balance Sheet"

New York City

Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Floor 47 – Ridgewood Equity Holdings

Wesley Gibson hadn't blinked in about twenty minutes. He leaned in, one hand rubbing his temple, the other hovering over his keyboard like it might punch in an answer for him.

He hated nights like this. The office was dead quiet, all the usual noise—phones, fake laughs, microwave beeps—gone. Just the sound of the HVAC and his screen, everyone had gone home, except for him.

His fourth cup of coffee sat cold next to a spreadsheet that wouldn't balance. He wasn't even on deadline. Just... stuck.

Some numbers weren't lining up. Not in the normal "you missed a decimal" way. This was deeper—old accounts, old routing logic, stuff buried so far down in archived PL Holdings assets that he had to override two access warnings just to open the page.

Which was weird.

He scrolled again. Two numbers matched that shouldn't: a dormant corporate trust—"Orwell Group, Holding Class A"—and a transaction log from three days ago showing a quiet movement of $812 million.

Routed through five different ghost firms. Final destination: a numbered account in Switzerland marked "LIVE."

Wes frowned.

At the very bottom of the ledger, a footnote flickered in pale gray text:

Orwell Directive – Legacy Unit Active

Class: Bloodline Protocol

Status: Cleared

"...the hell is that?" he muttered.

He clicked again, and the field is locked.

Access Denied. Level Black.

Wes blinked. That wasn't a regular clearance level. It wasn't even on the internal tree. He sat back and reached for his coffee out of habit, forgetting it was cold.

Then he noticed the cursor wasn't moving.

His screen froze. Just for a second. Then returned to normal.

He looked over the edge of his cubicle.

The lights in the hall outside the office had dimmed. Not off—just lower.

A shadow passed behind the glass of the conference room.

Wes stood up slowly.

Through the frosted panel, he could just make out the shape of someone standing there. Not moving. Not talking. Just standing. Watching.

It was Ms. Owens. HR. But she wasn't wearing business clothes. No blazer. No badge.

Just black.

She didn't wave. Didn't smile.

She just waited.

Wesley turned—just in time to hear the ding of the elevator behind him.

Two security guards were escorting someone out.

It was Rich Bennigan, an "intern" who'd been there longer than the building's carpet. Mid-forties. Silver temples. Loud suits. Pocket square. Ring on every finger. Always had something to say about how the world was going to hell—because kids didn't read, or presidents didn't think.

Most days, he moved like a man who'd fought gravity and lost.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Benny was standing straight. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes sharp.

He walked toward Wesley's desk, cane tapping lightly. No slouch, no limp. Just smooth confidence, like he belonged in a better room than this one.

He stopped at Wes's desk and looked at him for a long moment.

Then:

"You have a blood debt to pay, Gibson."

Wes opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"Don't say anything. Just listen."

Benny tapped the cane once on the tile, a dull knock.

"From this moment, your life isn't what you thought it was. You're not in danger. You're in motion."

Then he smiled—casual, almost warm—and added:

"I'll make sure you don't screw it up. That's my job now."

Behind them, the lights began shutting off in sequence—one row at a time.

Wesley turned back to his screen. A new prompt had appeared:

Confirm Receipt of Summons – Level Black

[YES]   [NO]

He didn't click anything.

Not yet.

Scene Cut: Elsewhere – Remote Black Shield Site

Two older men sat on a bench beneath a concrete overhang, watching light rain fall onto an empty training yard. No sound but distant boots on wet pavement.

One of them was Gibson Sr.—grayer now, tired around the eyes, but still carrying the posture of a man who'd once worn a mask and dropped targets.

The other man lit a cigarette.

"You ever think about what would've happened if I hadn't stopped you?" the man asked.

"I try not to," Gibson Sr. said.

"You were about to shoot a fellow operative in cold blood. Over nothing."

"Not nothing," Gibson said. "I thought it was the right thing. Like I was exposing something. I was Stupid."

The man looked over. "You read too many comics as a kid, Gibson."

"I know."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Do me a favor," Gibson Sr. said. "Watch over Wesley."

The man nodded once.

"He's like my son, too."

Gibson looked down. "Don't tell him what I did. Just… let him be better."

The other man smiled faintly.

"That's why we left him with Benny."

END OF PART I

To be continued in Part II: "Live Evaluation"