SUPREMACY- Clash Between Heroes and Villains Chapter 87:The Click They Will Administer Themselves

 Deathalric came into Westonglappa the way the Death Regime preferred to arrive anywhere disciplined: in the wake of somebody else's noise, with his own hands already sealed, his payload already sleeved, and his eyes already measuring what could be made to click. Offshore bombardment flashed like distant weather, turning the coastline into a strobing horizon that kept human nerves raw while it hid small craft in plain sight; his Death skiff rode that rhythm until it slid into a maintenance slip outside Leblaela's spine, where wet concrete and portable floodlights revealed a single painted lane that forced every bootstep into custody geometry. Darkened Supreme Commanders met him there without greetings—Darkenedstride in a maroon-lit stance that made rifles look like punctuation, Darkenedstorm with a scanner held low like a verdict—and they did not ask for a name so much as a chain; Deathalric answered by presenting a contamination-control sleeve stamped with Deathwing's mark, letting them photograph the seal, log the time, and verify that he had not touched his own strip bare-handed, because in an occupation the difference between "trusted" and "used" is whether your procedure survives scrutiny. The convoy into Gledmont moved fast and tight through narrowed corridors of seized civic infrastructure, past barricades and badge readers replaced by sentries, into a room lined with paper maps because even BRD considered screens a liability until the moment they wanted a screen to be a weapon; and there, the Council of Four assembled by proxy rather than pageantry: Darkwing physically anchored in the occupied state, radiating maroon authority and rage like an engine that refused to idle; Blackwing first present as an encrypted voice and then, once the room proved clean, arriving with a short escort and an expression that measured success in "fear spread" and viral obedience; Shadowwing arriving without announcement—silence tightening, air pressure shifting—speaking only through sign language and posture that forced the whole room to slow down and watch; and Deathwing present as a sterile directive, calm enough to feel like a medical order, concerned only with repeatability and the cleanest way to induce a mistake. They argued in the only language they shared—method—Darkwing barking in FULL CAPS that AES's new broadcast frame was a shield he wanted shattered, Blackwing taunting that the frame was bait and the crowd could be pushed to pick the wrong "official," Shadowwing signing FRAME into PRISON and pointing to a map seam where coastal repeaters fed Orinvalde's cadence, and Deathwing reducing the whole war to a single instruction: do not fight their words, fight their verification ritual—delay the right response, advance the wrong one, and the room will self-administer the click. Deathalric did not posture back; he laid out the solution like a lab protocol, converting four leadership styles into one operational artifact with custody: a forged auditable bulletin written in Corvin and Elowen's own actionable cadence, a checksum string designed to pass shallow validation while failing deeper audit, a timing module synchronized to bombardment flashes, and a Death-coded hush component tuned to shift perceived audio arrival by a fraction of a second—half a beat that would make the wrong "verified" voice feel earlier and therefore more real under stress. When the leaders demanded proof, he performed a controlled demonstration on a captured console in the room, showing how call-and-response verification could be subverted without perfect voice cloning: channel priority first, timing second, pressure third; the "reasonable" bulletin would soften resistance by framing centralization as safety, and the operator-tier enforcement overlay would arrive after the mind had accepted the premise, pulsing green like relief while Darkwing's occupation posture made waiting feel like disobedience. The council ended without ceremony and with heavy hands—Deathalric heat-stamping sleeves, sliding custody across the table, splitting components into separate courier chains so no single interception could break the plan—Blackwing departing toward offshore assets, Shadowwing dissolving into absence with a silent approval gesture, Darkwing remaining to tighten denial schedules in Leblaela and Sashax, and Deathwing issuing one last clinical constraint that sounded like mercy and functioned like a threat: if the packet is compromised, burn the channel and shift to the next template. Then the half-hour window opened on cue; repeaters across Westonglappa pinged receipt of the forged "auditable update," consoles began to blink with OPERATOR TIER enforcement overlays framed as policy compliance, and authority itself became the target surface—dozens of exhausted hands hovering over green at once while Orinvalde prepared to counter-broadcast again, and Deathalric watched the continent's governability balance on whether proof could outrun relief by a single breath.