The twenty-mile vertical silo of the Tartarus Command was completely silent.
The deafening, subterranean shockwaves of the Abyssal Legion dismantling the final Old World military faction had ceased exactly fourteen minutes ago. The localized destruction had been so mathematically flawless, so entirely devoid of wasted kinetic energy, that not a single plume of smoke rose from the massive, dark throat of the bunker.
Ren stood exactly at the edge of the scorched glass crater, his perfectly smooth, pitch-black silhouette casting absolutely zero shadow under the brutal Australian sun.
He did not need to wait for a physical report. He was perfectly, permanently tethered to the vascular network of the four thousand Praetorians below. He felt the exact microsecond the final heavily augmented scientist was instantly depressurized. He felt the localized quantum-fusion reactors of the facility completely submit to his administrative override.
