Original novel
Metaworld HopeCore
Start reading →Original title: Metaworld HopeCore
The Year is 2032, and AI slop has won. Far from creating utopia, society has become divided by bots and culture wars, creating a world of disunity. Enter Lana Zacanissian, Corpo superstar, the prophet of profits. She who created the largest IP aggregate marketplace in the world, vertically integrating every creative’s worst nightmare to empower an inflated (...)
Original fiction. Characters and events are invented.
Edited by: Huangguo Drama · Updated:
Stories
### Chapter 1: Prologue Icarus
“His waxen wings did mount above his reach, / And, melting, heavens conspired his overthrow.”
Christopher Marlowe
Oh God.
Lana Zacanissian, Times Magazine Woman of the Year 2030, Forbes top 40 , never knew that breathing water induced the sensation of wholesale immolation.
At first, she was calm because she was not a woman prone to panic. A woman prone to panic would not have made it as the CFO of an AI Conglomerate, overseeing a market cap of a trillion greenback dollars.
When, after a minute of holding her breath and watching the light of her yacht fall away, she began to panic.
Oh God.
Oh God.
The air in her lungs rebelled. Her capillaries had already exhausted their oxygen and were now reflexively expelling the murderous carbon dioxide.
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What did I do? What did I do to deserve this?
She was swallowing water now. Her belly grew distended, far heavier than the bottles of champagne her assailants had stowed in her coat pocket. From somewhere far out in the bay, where a green light pulsed, her palatial Santa Monica manor winked at her.
The IPO made money, hadn’t it? She made them all the money. More money than ever existed in banknotes. Sure, the mum-and-pop investors will lose most of their savings, but she created value for the company. EXPONENTIAL value. She was the philosopher who had transmuted air into gold, blood into life. She—
She realised, after the panic gave way to exhaustion, that her oxygen-starved brain was dying.
Lana Zacanissian, corporate bedfellow to the billionaire industrialists of the early 21st century, slowly drifted below the bay of her dreams. All she could recall was the vitriol on the faces of those who had forced her overboard.
“Do you believe in karma, Miss Zacanissian?”
That was the last thing her aide, Emily, had said.
Even in the end, the very end, Lana had scoffed at these wage slaves. She had scoffed at their cheap suits, pencil skirts, and knock-off Mini Kellies from China with their off-colour hues. She had not believed that they would do it. That the company would allow it to happen.
Hadn’t she made them all rich?
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