The tires of the Terramotta crunched onto the gravel of my driveway.

  It felt strange to be back. For six months, this plot of land had been a hole in the ground covered in vines. A bunker and a prison.

  Now, I saw it differently. I saw a canvas.

  I got out of the truck. Sal pulled up behind me in his construction vehicle, hopping out with a tablet in hand.

  "Alright, Boss," Sal said, looking at the Whispervine that hid my old home. "You want me to uncover the bunker? Restore the duplex?"

  "No," I said. "Tear it down."

  Sal blinked. "The bamboo? That stuff is harder than steel."

  "I'll handle the bamboo," I said. "You handle the rest. I want the bunker gone. I want the ruins of the bunker gone. I want a clean slate."

  I pointed to the empty lot.

  "I want a mansion," I said. "Three stories. I want the Futuristic Rainforest' aesthetic dialed up to eleven. Black steel beams, floor-to-ceiling smart glass, bioluminescent moss integrated into the walls. I want a rooftop garden that feeds the kitchen directly."

  I looked at Sal.

  "And this time," I added. "I want the best appliances money can buy. Seaside’s top-tier catalog. If there is a fridge that talks to you, I want it. If there is a stove that cooks via thought, buy it. No more living like monks."

  Sal grinned, tapping furiously on his tablet. "Music to my ears. Budget?"

  "Whatever it takes," I said. "Grace will approve it."

  I turned and looked at the street.

  My neighborhood used to be a quiet and standard suburb. Now, the road was cracked from tank treads and the streetlights were broken. The lawns were also overgrown. It looked like a war zone because it had been one.

  "The road," I said, pointing down the street. "Rebuild it. Smart pavement. Heated to melt snow. Solar integrated to power the streetlights. I want this block to look like 2077."

  Sal whistled. "That's municipal work, Boss. Expensive."

  "Do it," I said.

  Then I pointed to Mrs. Higgins' house. It had a hole in the roof from a stray mortar shell.

  "And fix that," I said. "In fact... fix all of them."

  Sal stopped typing. "All of them? The whole neighborhood?"

  "Go house to house," I ordered. "Renovate every single home. New roofs, new insulation, new windows, new appliances. Give them the Eden upgrade."

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  "Kaz," Grace said, stepping out of the car. "That’s hundreds of homes and millions of stones in charity work."

  "It's not charity," I said. "It's reparations."

  I looked at the broken houses.

  "We brought tanks to their doorsteps, Grace. We dragged them into a war they didn't ask for. They suffered for six months while we hid in a hole. We owe them and this will restore the goodwill we lost."

  "Marketing," Grace nodded, understanding.

  "Exactly," I said. "You can't just say sorry. You have to also rebrand. By the end of the month, the entirety of Southfield needs to be under Eden’s direct administration."

  I gathered them around the hood of the truck—Grace, Aiya, Sal, and Bells.

  "Here is the new structure," I said. "Eden will be a nation within a nation. We operate under Detroit’s umbrella, but we govern ourselves. We are going to be a democracy."

  "A democracy?" Bells scoffed. "In the apocalypse?"

  "A corporate democracy," I corrected. "Every citizen of Southfield gets shares in Eden. They get a vote on community leadership and they get dividends from our profits. They won't just be subjects; they'll be shareholders. It gives them a reason to defend us."

  "Smart," Aiya said. "People fight harder for something they own."

  "The goal of the four factions is to consolidate the state of Michigan," I continued. "Conquered territory is assigned to the victor. That is the rule Holson set. But rather than rushing out to conquer new land, we will consolidate what we have. We build the foundation here."

  I looked at Grace. "I need a crime report on the city. Detailed."

  Grace opened her briefcase and pulled out a file, handing it to me.

  "Two gangs and one minor faction operating in Southfield," she said. "They’ve been keeping a low profile during the occupation, but now that White Hill is gone, they're active again."

  I scanned the document.

  "What do we do with them?" Bells asked, cracking his knuckles. "Exterminate them?"

  "Recruit them," I said.

  I looked at Bells. "Southfield has 70,000 civilians. Maybe ten percent of them are competent enough to work for us as specialists. But these gangs? They are 100% useful. They are cultivators and are combat tested. They survived the purge."

  I handed the file to Bells.

  "We target them first. Then we recruit from the general population."

  I pointed to the first name on the list.

  The Diamond Boys.

  "Who are they?" Bells asked.

  "A street gang entirely composed of cultivators," I said. "Their main crimes are robbery and extortion. They don't have an ideology and their only god is money."

  I checked their last known location.

  "Headquarters is the old Rev 7 Strip Mall on 12 Mile Road. They’ve been dormant for six months because of Axehill’s martial law. They haven't had a hit in half a year which means they'll be desperate and hungry."

  "Perfect," Bells grinned. "Desperate men are cheap."

  "Let's go shopping," I said.

  I climbed back into the driver's seat of the Terramotta and Bells hopped in the passenger side.

  I rolled down the window and looked at Sal.

  "Get to work," I said. "I want a palace by the time I get back."

  We drove out of the neighborhood, leaving the sound of hammers and saws behind us.

  The drive to 12 Mile Road was short. The strip mall was a relic of the old world—a collection of shanty buildings with a cracked parking lot. The neon sign for "Rev 7" flickered weakly.

  "You worried?" Bells asked as we pulled into the lot. "Two guys against a whole gang?"

  I laughed.

  "Worried?" I shook my head. "Six months ago, I took out a gang by myself. And I was just Seed then. Now?"

  I flexed my hand, feeling the Qi of the Sprout Realm coursing through my veins.

  "Now, I'm a Force of Nature."

  I parked the truck right in front of the main entrance, blocking the door.

  "They aren't threats, Bells," I said, opening the door. "They're just applicants who don't know they're hired yet."