Ashes to Empress

By Saturday, the week had passed like silk between my fingers—quiet, smooth, and finally without someone trying to destroy my life. For the first time in what felt like forever, every hour hadn't been consumed by firefighting. No legal traps, no threats, no unhinged professors trying to bury me in bureaucratic ruin. Just progress. Quiet, steady progress.

The air had that crisp bite of late October in Frankfurt. I hadn't needed to wear a proper coat yet, but I'd started layering up in the mornings, especially since my apartment's heating system consisted of exactly one sad, rattling radiator in the corner and a pile of blankets I'd hoarded over the years. I'd become a master of living in layers. Leggings under jeans. Hoodies under jackets. Socks over socks.

But even under three layers, I felt… safe. Not just warm. Safe.

SecureFix had taken on a life of its own. I'd signed contracts with two more ISPs, both mid-size but well-connected. One had clients across regional governments. The other specialized in cloud infrastructure for small-to-midsize companies. They'd reached out after hearing about the tool through UnuCom's quietly glowing endorsement. No flashy ad campaign. Just whisper networks. And those were the best kind.

Over the week, multiple SecureFix scans had already been run by their end-users—banks, a logistics company, a public transport network, and even a state health service. The reports my backend generated were getting good feedback. Some clients even requested minor UI tweaks. That meant they cared enough to integrate it into their workflow. That meant they were in.

If all contracts held steady, I was staring down €1,650,000 in expected revenue by month's end. That figure sat on a spreadsheet in my finance tracker, staring back at me like it didn't believe itself.

One-point-six million.

There was something weird about seeing a number like that next to your name. Something surreal. My entire self-concept was still catching up. I didn't feel rich. I still lived in an apartment with peeling paint and a kitchen smaller than most public restrooms. I still counted laundry coins and reused takeout containers.

But the pressure was lifting. Day by day.

Meanwhile, I had watched Armin Schmitt's world collapse in real-time. I didn't obsess over it—but I checked the updates regularly. It was like following a long-awaited weather change.

Court proceedings began on Thursday morning. By Friday evening, the university had already scrubbed his name from its staff directory. His professorship had been formally revoked. News leaked that multiple academic boards had opened formal investigations. A national education watchdog launched an independent review. And worst of all—for him, at least—some of the students who had bought their degrees were named publicly when their credentials were pulled. Lawsuits were already being drafted.

It wasn't just his reputation that died. It was his legacy. His wife had vanished from all mutual mentions. Elena Schmitt, previously a glowing name on every joint funding proposal, had gone dark. Clean cut.

The university? Silent.

No word about the €220,000 they said I still owed.

I figured it had vanished into the cracks like everything else connected to that sinking ship.

And you know what? Good. Let it rot in the shadows it tried to bury me in.

I didn't need their degree. I didn't need their permissions, their nods of approval. I didn't need them.

I had something better.

KP.

Out of curiosity, I pulled up the System interface. I hadn't checked since Monday, too distracted with real-world progress.

60 KP.

I blinked, double-tapped to refresh. Still sixty.

Then I checked NovaFrame.

534,872 downloads.

Holy crap.

Apparently, the app had hit some kind of critical mass. After ByteSizedTech's initial spotlight, it had been picked up by several international tech blogs. One called it "shockingly effective for a free tool" and another called it "a must-have if you've ever cursed your front-facing camera." The user reviews were almost embarrassingly positive.

KP was flowing like a tapped vein.

SecureFix brought me money.

NovaFrame brought me knowledge.

And knowledge was the one kind of power I didn't need anyone's permission to wield.

Still…

Winter was coming. And my current place? It wasn't going to cut it much longer.

The building was made of concrete, no insulation, and my upstairs neighbor had recently installed some kind of DIY barbell setup that shook my ceiling every morning. The bathroom tiles were permanently stained, and I hadn't had a hot shower in over four days. I didn't need luxury. I just needed something livable.

So I opened a new browser tab and started searching: Frankfurt real estate.

It took about thirty minutes to spiral into mild despair. Every halfway decent flat was either marked as "reserved," "by invitation only," or "for verified professionals." The ones that didn't have those caveats were overpriced shoeboxes with a glorified kitchenette. The market was brutal.

Eventually, I closed the tabs and wrote to one of the bigger real estate agencies:

Hello,

I'm looking for a long-term apartment or small home in the Frankfurt area. Preferably with proper insulation and heating. At least two rooms. Flexible budget. Please let me know when you're available for a consultation.

Regards,

M. Wintershade

I hit send and leaned back.

Then, I went back to the System and stared at the goal I'd set two weeks ago.

AI Model Tier 3 — 150 KP

The description was still frustratingly vague. Something about "semi-conscious heuristic abstraction" and "organic synthesis prediction." It didn't read like anything a normal person would understand.

But I didn't care. Whatever it was—it had range. Something deep. Something powerful. Something that would let me build instead of just fix.

And I was almost halfway there.

I made a note to push NovaFrame on a few more app review blogs. Maybe roll out a premium version. That might get me another twenty KP in a week.

That afternoon, I met up with Claudia.

We weren't close. Not enemies, but never tight. More like adjacent planets with a few gravitational overlaps. But she had reached out. Said she'd heard the news. Asked if I was okay.

We met at this quiet café tucked between a bookshop and a bike repair stand. She wore a burgundy scarf and still looked like someone who aced group presentations without doing any of the slides.

"I'm not here to pry," she said, after we ordered. "I just… I always knew something was off about him. I'm sorry for what happened."

I shrugged. "I'm not."

She laughed. It was the good kind of awkward.

We talked for about an hour. She asked questions. I answered what I wanted. She didn't push, and I respected that. I didn't need a confessional. Just… company.

And for the first time in weeks, I let myself relax. Just a little.

After she left, I wandered into the downtown shopping district. At first, I was just killing time. But then I remembered something stupidly practical: my bras didn't fit anymore.

Malnutrition had done a number on my body. But over the last week—now that I was eating properly again—I'd started to fill out. Nothing major. But enough to notice.

I walked into a D&M Wearhouse.

One hour later, I was carrying three oversized bags.

I hadn't meant to. I really hadn't.

But there were jeans that hugged my waist like they were made for me. T-shirts that made me look like I wasn't trying. Lace bras that felt like secrets. A green sweater soft enough to sleep in. Two summer dresses I had no reason to buy except that they made me smile.

I laughed all the way to the tram stop. Not because it was funny. But because I didn't have any space in my tiny apartment's closet for this.

And you know what?

That was a great problem to have.