Right inside this very old but mighty building was a chamber. The chamber was cold, lit only by the dim golden glow of overhead chandeliers. Seven figures sat around a long, polished table of dark obsidian, their expressions unreadable. The silence was deep, calculated. Each of them knew the weight of this gathering.
Then, a voice sliced through the stillness.
"One soldiers was killed in the slums."
A murmur passed through the room, subtle but sharp. Some turned their heads slightly, eyes narrowing, while others remained still, processing.
"Slain in broad daylight," the voice continued. "In full view of the people there. And yet, no one spoke. No one pointed fingers. No one ran in fear."
That last part carried weight, heavier than the news of the soldier's death itself. Fear had always been their greatest tool—one that should have kept the slums docile.
"They're growing bold," another voice muttered, his tone laced with something close to irritation. "Bolder than they should be."
"You give them too much credit," someone else interjected, dismissive. "They are still what they have always been—weak. Filthy. Powerless."
"Yet one of them killed a trained soldier," the first voice reminded him. "And that means they are more dangerous than we thought."
A tense silence followed.
Then, a slow, deliberate chuckle.
"We should have expected this," a woman's voice spoke. "Push an animal into a corner, and eventually, it bares its teeth."
"An animal with no fangs is no threat," someone countered.
"Perhaps," she said. "But what happens when they start to believe they have fangs?"
A cold realization settled over the room.
"We've kept them beneath us for generations," another member said, leaning back. "But if they begin to think they can challenge us—"
"Then they are no longer beneath us," another finished.
That was the real problem. It wasn't the single soldier's death. It was what it represented.
"They have no abilities," a voice scoffed. "No matter how much they unite, they will never be stronger than us."
"Strength doesn't always come from ability," a deeper voice interjected, slow and measured.
Heads turned toward him.
"No," he continued, "they cannot overpower us. Not in a direct fight. But rebellion doesn't start with power—it starts with belief. A belief that they deserve more. That they can take more. That they can be more."
A quiet hum of agreement.
"Then we must shatter that belief before it takes root."
"We could wipe them out," someone suggested, their voice cool, indifferent. "Remind them of their place."
"Short-sighted," another countered. "If we strike too harshly, we only confirm their fears—that we see them as a threat."
"Then what do you suggest?"
A pause. Then, a voice—silken and persuasive.
"We make them believe we are lifting them up."
Curiosity flickered in the air.
"An alleviation program," the voice continued smoothly. "A way to give 'hope' to a select few. We choose the finest of their children—those with potential, intelligence, strength. We bring them into our world, into our schools. We make them believe we are offering them a future."
A few heads tilted in interest.
"Our schools are for those with abilities," one member pointed out. "What would they be doing there?"
"That is irrelevant," the speaker replied. "We control the narrative. We are to train them to assist those with abilities. Or..... We can make them have the abilities ..." He smiled wickedly. "And of course It does not matter. What matters is that they will be dependent on us. Grateful to us. Loyal to us."
A slow, thoughtful pause.
"And the others?"
"They will see a dream," another member murmured. "They will fight for a chance to be chosen. To escape. To be favored."
"To serve," the speaker corrected.
Understanding settled over the table.
"And those we do pick?"
A smile.
"Dogs."
The word hung in the air.
"Watchdogs, loyal to us, enslaved not by chains, but by gratitude. They will do whatever we ask—because we are the ones who lifted them from their filth."
A few soft chuckles spread through the room.
Then, a deeper, commanding voice broke the moment.
"Mr. Kamau."
The table fell silent. All eyes turned to the man who had spoken the least. He had been listening, calculating, weighing. Now, he leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled.
"It's a risk," Kamau said at last, his voice steady. "But a calculated one. If done correctly, we secure control over the slums without a single battle. If done poorly, we give them something even more dangerous than unity—hope."
A pause.
"Then do it correctly," another murmured.
"We will approve the plan," someone else added. "But it must be handled carefully. The ones we bring in must never forget who owns them."
A slow agreement settled over the table.
The decision had been made.
The program would begin.
And the first pawns would soon be chosen
---
Kato sat across from his father in the Kamau family's grand study, a place that smelled of aged wood and unyielding authority. Books lined the walls, their spines untouched, more for display than knowledge. A single lamp illuminated Barasa's face, casting sharp shadows that deepened the lines of his expression.
Kato shifted in his seat, arms crossed. He wasn't sure why his father had summoned him, but it was rarely good.
Barasa leaned forward, folding his hands on the polished mahogany desk. "The Big 7 had a meeting today," he began.
Kato arched an eyebrow. "And?"
Barasa's lips pressed into a thin smile, as if he were about to share something significant. "A decision has been made regarding the slums."
That got Kato's attention. He sat up straighter.
"The Big 7 have agreed to start an alleviation program," Barasa continued. "A select number of children from the slums will be chosen to attend our academy. They will receive an education, training, a chance at a better future."
Kato's fingers tightened on his sleeve. "Wait… you mean actual slum kids? Going to the academy? The same one I go to?"
Barasa nodded. "Yes."
Kato blinked. "Why?"
Barasa gave him a measured look, his expression unreadable. "Because it is the right thing to do."
Kato stared at him. His father was many things, but a man driven by morality was not one of them. He had heard his uncles talk about the slums, about how the people there were beneath them. He had felt the disdain in their voices when they spoke of the powerless. And yet, now they wanted to help?
It didn't add up.
Barasa continued, his tone calm and reasonable. "We have ignored the slums for too long, Kato. They live in hardship, with no hope of escaping it. But by extending our hand, by offering some of their brightest a place among us, we create unity instead of division."
Kato narrowed his eyes. "You really think that's going to change anything? If you pick a handful of kids and drop them into a world that already thinks they're dirt?"
Barasa's expression didn't waver. "It is a start."
Kato exhaled sharply. "This doesn't sound like the Big 7. They don't just 'help' people. What's the real reason for this?"
Barasa's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "Does there have to be another reason?"
Kato didn't answer.
Because yes. Yes, there had to be another reason.
The Big 7 did nothing without benefit. He had spent his whole life listening to the way his family spoke about power, about control, about keeping the order intact.
And now, suddenly, they wanted to uplift the people they had spent years suppressing?
He wasn't buying it.
But he also knew his father well enough to understand that pushing too hard would get him nowhere. Barasa was a master at keeping his true thoughts hidden, revealing only what he wanted others to see.
So, Kato forced himself to nod slowly, even though his gut twisted with unease.
"Fine," he said. "If that's
what they decided."
Barasa watched him for a long moment, as if searching for something in his son's eyes. Then, with a small nod, he leaned back in his chair.
"I'm glad you understand," he said.
But Kato didn't understand.
Not yet.
But he would.
And when he did, he had a feeli
ng he wouldn't like the truth.
-----
The dimly lit chamber was cold, sterile, and silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. The air was thick with unease, the kind that settled in the bones, heavy and inescapable. A single long table stood in the center of the room, its polished surface reflecting the glow of the artificial lights. Seated at the head was a man whose very presence demanded attention. His sharp features were set in stone, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the table as he stared at the soldier standing before him.
The soldier, rigid with tension, swallowed hard before he spoke. "Sir, we conducted the usual procedure. The gem… it's missing."