CHRIS POV – The Heir and the Fire
The room darkened as Classic entered—my son, my blood, the one I forged in silence, not softness. He had the weight of the empire in his eyes now. No longer the boy who hid in shadows… he was becoming something else. A king forged in the furnace of a god.
"Father," he greeted, his voice calm but heavy.
"Classic 4," I corrected him without blinking. "You have no name anymore. Only purpose. Only rank."
He hesitated. Just for a second. But I saw it. A flicker of resistance. I leaned forward.
"Do you question the order?" I asked, voice like ice.
He shook his head slowly. "No, Blackwood 1. I live to serve."
Good. For now.
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Later that night
The fire burned high in the Reclamation Square. Thousands gathered—citizens dressed in robes marked by their numbers. The auction had concluded. Another wave of identities sold to the highest bidder. Power, once inherited by birth, now bought in brutal bidding wars.
On the stage, I stepped forward and raised my hand. The crowd silenced immediately.
"The Dominion is not a democracy. It is not a place of dreams or mercy. It is order. It is control. It is truth.
"Your name was your lie.
Your number is your truth."
I turned slightly and nodded. Christiana stepped forward. The Dictator. Her stare was fire—unshaken, unquestioning.
But it was Classic everyone watched.
He walked to the edge of the platform. The crowd waited.
"My people," he said. "I am Classic 4, your Guardian. If you rise, I will raise you. If you fall, I will crush you. My loyalty is to the Empire. And to the God—Blackwood 1."
Applause. Thunderous. Fear-laced.
But in the shadows… I saw a spark.
A girl. Maybe sixteen. Number 17,984. She didn't cheer.
She clenched her fists.
A crack in the system.
Perfect.
Let them dream of rebellion. I need it.
Because every system, to remain powerful… must have something to crush.
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