[New Babylon Upper Sector, Guild Power Group Headquarters]

  This was a tower of crystal and steel reaching into the heavens, symbolizing the Necromancy Guild's absolute control over the city's energy. In the dispatch center on the 108th floor, a massive circular holographic screen displayed the flow of power across the entire city. Every green line represented an endless stream of profit.

  The manager of the dispatch center, Charlie, sat in his ergonomic—yet uncomfortable—high-end leather chair, holding a cup of expensive synthetic coffee. His bespoke suit was spotless, his hair slicked back with oil—the quintessential image of a Guild elite.

  "Manager, data anomaly in District 13's grid."

  A young operator reported nervously. "That severed node... there's a sudden, extremely high load feedback."

  "Feedback?" Charlie let out a contemptuous chuckle without even looking up. "What feedback could those paupers generate? Probably just stealing power with some old generator. Don't make a fuss. Increase the voltage and burn out their equipment."

  This was arrogance.

  In Charlie's mind, the Lower Sector was just a parasite clinging to the city's body. They had no technology, no resources, and certainly no capacity to resist. The Guild giving them power was charity; cutting it off was punishment. Fighting back? That was a joke.

  "But... the waveform of this feedback is wrong." The operator's voice trembled. "It's... Ultra-High Frequency Alternating Current (AC). And the frequency is rising. It's approaching the resonance frequency of our main transformer."

  "AC?" Charlie finally looked up, frowning. "What nonsense are you spouting? Our grid is standard High-Voltage Direct Current (DC). Where would AC come from?"

  "Report! Transformer 3 temperature warning!"

  "Report! Line 5 load at 120%!"

  "Report! Something's wrong... The energy source doesn't seem to be coming from the grid, but... from the air?!"

  Alarms rang out one after another. The usually quiet and orderly dispatch center instantly descended into chaos.

  Charlie put down his coffee cup, stood up, and walked to the main screen.

  He saw that bizarre curve.

  It wasn't a smooth power supply curve, but a violently jumping, aggressive waveform. It looked like a saw, trying to cut through the defensive walls of the Guild's power grid.

  "This is an attack." Charlie's face darkened. "Someone is attacking our grid. Who is it? Which hostile faction?"

  "Source untraceable! The signal is shielded by a strong magnetic field!"

  "Then cut it!" Charlie roared. "Sever all physical connections to District 13! Fuse all lines in that area!"

  "Executing... Execution failed! The control system is... Locked!"

  "What do you mean, locked?!"

  The operator was sweating profusely, fingers flying across the keyboard, but the [Disconnect] button on the screen remained grayed out.

  "The opponent's frequency... has locked our control signal! That's... that's the specific frequency of a Tesla Coil! It's using our grid to charge itself while pouring the excess energy... back into us!"

  "Tesla?" Charlie froze. "That madman who's been dead for a century?"

  In that instant.

  The red curve on the screen breached the critical point.

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  HUMMM—!!!

  A low, deep hum, seemingly coming from the depths of the earth, resonated through the entire building.

  That was the wailing of the transformers.

  That was the start of the Resonance.

  [Underground Substation]

  The massive transformer units began to vibrate violently. The coils, which should have been running smoothly, began to heat up and glow red due to frequency resonance.

  "Quick! Activate the backup cooling system!"

  "Coolant pressure insufficient! Pipes are clogged!"

  "How can they be clogged? Didn't we inspect them last month?"

  "The inspection report was... was outsourced to 'Bob's Engineering Team'! They might have... never actually fixed it!"

  This was bloat. This was corruption.

  In the colossal machine of the Guild, every link was subcontracted layer by layer, every maintenance fee skimmed at every level. It worked fine when things were calm, but under this level of shock, the concealed hazards collapsed like dominoes.

  "Manager! The transformer is going to explode! We must manually cut the main breaker!"

  "Who's going? That area is full of high-voltage arcs right now!"

  No one moved.

  The engineers, who usually enjoyed high salaries and benefits, looked at each other. No one wanted to die. They were here to make money, not to sacrifice their lives.

  "Push it to the night shift crew! Say it was their operational error!"

  "Right! Write the accident report first! Clear our liability!"

  In the face of disaster, the first reaction of this group of elites wasn't disaster relief, but—passing the buck.

  This was systemic rigor mortis.

  Everyone's brain was filled not with emergency protocols, but with liability waivers.

  BOOM—!!!

  The first explosion rang out.

  Transformer 3 couldn't withstand the pressure of the resonance and blew apart. Boiling insulating oil sprayed out, instantly igniting the surrounding cables.

  Flames shot into the sky.

  Then came the second explosion, and the third.

  The chain reaction had begun.

  The shockwave of the blast traveled along the cable ducts, rapidly spreading through the entire Upper Sector's power supply network.

  POP! POP! POP!

  The lights in the dispatch center went out.

  The holographic screens went black.

  The cup of expensive synthetic coffee was shaken off the table and shattered.

  Charlie stood in the darkness, the arrogance on his face finally turning into fear.

  He pulled out his emergency communicator, trying to call his superiors.

  "Hello? Hello? This is the Power Center! Requesting support! We need..."

  ZZZT...

  Only static came from the communicator.

  Because the signal towers had lost power too.

  [New Babylon, Citywide]

  Tonight, the city known as the "City that Never Sleeps" faced an unprecedented blackout.

  The neon lights of the Upper Sector extinguished.

  The climate control systems in the wealthy districts stopped.

  The automated factories running, the data streams transmitting, even the holographic billboards maintaining the fa?ade of prosperity—all fell into dead silence at this moment.

  Panic spread.

  "What's happening? Why is the power out?"

  "My ventilator! Where's the backup power?"

  "The elevator is stuck! Help!"

  And in this pitch-black silence.

  Only one place was shining with light.

  That was the Lower Sector.

  That was the 13th Street.

  Under the illumination of that miniature Wardenclyffe Tower, the slum that was usually the darkest and most looked down upon now acted like a lighthouse left by God in the mortal world, emitting a soft and stable blue glow.

  John Doe stood on the rooftop, holding a cup of hot tea, looking at the distant Upper Sector plunged into darkness.

  "This is resonance."

  He recalled Tesla's words.

  "When the frequencies of the weak align, even the heart of a giant can be shattered."

  Downstairs, the neighbors walked out of their homes.

  They looked at the glowing tower above their heads, then at the pitch-black wealthy district in the distance.

  At first, they were afraid.

  But soon, a never-before-felt, extremely absurd yet incredibly satisfying thrill spread through the crowd.

  "Hey! Looks like God is standing with those who can't pay their electric bills tonight!"

  "Look! The lights over there are out! Those rich bastards have to pee in the dark too!"

  Someone took the lead, bringing out their high-power speakers (electricity was free now, use it all you want).

  THUMP THUMP THUMP!

  Cheap rock music echoed through the district.

  Someone dragged out an electric grill and started a barbecue on the street side.

  Someone turned on every light in their house, making it look like a disco.

  This was a carnival.

  A brief but glorious victory belonging to the poor.

  Meanwhile, in the ruins of the Power Center.

  Charlie finally crawled out of the emergency exit, face covered in soot, looking utterly wretched.

  He looked at the lit-up 13th Street, his eyes full of disbelief and malice.

  "Impossible... Impossible..."

  He didn't understand.

  How could that young man, whom he viewed as an ant, actually knock this elephant to the ground?

  But he had no time to think.

  Because Mordred's interrogation was coming. And he, the scapegoat, had to figure out how to dump this massive black pot onto that damned John Doe before then.

  "This... This is a terrorist attack!"

  Charlie screamed at the arriving Internal Affairs investigators, his voice tinged with hysterical madness.

  "That John Doe! He's a lunatic! He's an anti-human terrorist!"

  But what he didn't know was...

  In the cold eyes of those investigators, he already saw his own end.

  In this system, there are no excuses for losers.

  Whether you are an E-Class fugitive or an A-Class executive.

  If you are useless, you are discarded.

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