The room was silent, save for the low mechanical hum hidden in the walls.
A single figure stood alone at the center—General Veyr, spine straight, boots locked in place against the circular floor.
Nine black panels loomed around him, arrayed like a council of shadows.
No faces. Only silhouettes, distorted and cloaked in deeper darkness, their outlines pulsing faintly in the soft illumination of the control chamber.
The Organizer's voice broke the stillness first—low, sharp, carrying a weight the others instinctively respected.
> "You are prepared to lead the first offensive against the Ascendancy Council."
It wasn't a question. It was a command, wrapped in velvet.
Veyr bowed his head slightly—not submission, but acknowledgment. His voice was crisp when he answered:
"Our forces stand ready. The cells have been activated. Supply routes mapped. The Eastern Rim sectors will fall within initial engagement parameters."
A second black figure leaned forward, the panel distortion crackling faintly.
> "Ambitious. But the Council's grip runs deep, General. Are you prepared for the attrition to come?"
"Prepared to bleed," Veyr said simply.
The first figure—the Organizer—leaned back into the shadows. Silent approval.
Another voice, higher, sharper—Panel Four, if Veyr recalled correctly—interrupted:
> "Then why delay? The Rim sectors are ripe. Let the fires start."
Murmured agreement buzzed across the chamber—low, angry voices through distortion filters.
Veyr kept his expression neutral, though he could feel the heat rising in the room. Patience was thinning.
The Organizer cut through the noise without raising his voice:
> "Patience. Strategy first. Fury later."
The room stilled.
> "The Council can crush uprisings easily. It cannot ignore victory built with precision."
Veyr straightened subtly, drawing in a careful breath.
"You mean to say," he said carefully, "we wait for something more?"
Silence fell heavier now.
The Organizer's silhouette shifted slightly.
> "Not wait. Prepare."
Another panel spoke, voice edged with suspicion.
> "Prepare with what? We have arms. We have soldiers."
> "Not enough," the Organizer said coldly. "We develop our advantage first."
The weight of that statement filled the chamber.
Another voice, older—Panel Seven—growled through a grating comm line:
> "And what advantage is that?"
Veyr watched the panels carefully. None moved to speak next.
Even among the highest ranks of the rebellion—the so-called Black Wing alliance—this was new.
No one knew. Not even them.
The Organizer's silhouette seemed to grow sharper.
> "A weapon," he said.
A beat of stunned silence.
> "One they cannot predict. One they cannot defend against."
Another buzz of voices, harsher this time—questions rising too quickly to distinguish.
Veyr let the storm pass.
He stood at the eye of it, waiting.
Finally—the Organizer spoke again, the tone final:
> "When the weapon is ready, we strike."
Veyr stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise:
"You're asking soldiers to wait on a phantom," he said bluntly.
No anger. Just facts.
The Organizer did not flinch.
> "I am asking soldiers to win."
Another ripple of murmured debate among the panels.
> "We deserve to know," Panel Two said sharply.
> "You will know," the Organizer answered, "when the time comes."
The panels hissed their displeasure, but none challenged openly.
Because none of them dared.
Veyr narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the panels.
The Organizer was here—but hidden.
Somewhere among them.
A player wearing the same mask as the others—but heavier.
The only real difference was how the shadows bent around his words.
Another figure—Panel Eight—leaned forward, voice rough:
> "What assurances do we have that this weapon even exists?"
Veyr crossed his arms behind his back.
It was a fair question.
The Organizer answered with chilling precision:
> "You have no assurances. Only my word."
The panels rustled—faint static blooming across several.
No one liked it.
But none withdrew.
Commitment was already written in blood and debt.
Veyr knew it. They all knew it.
He shifted slightly.
"If we delay too long, the cells grow restless," he warned.
"Let them," the Organizer said. "Better to let hunger sharpen their edge."
Veyr felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
But he said nothing.
This wasn't a democracy.
It was war.
The Organizer let silence settle like a shroud.
> "General Veyr."
Veyr straightened instinctively.
> "You will continue preparations as if the campaign will begin in four months standard."
> "Understood," Veyr said.
> "You will receive separate instructions for integration once the weapon is ready."
Veyr allowed himself a shallow breath.
"Will I at least know what I'm integrating?"
The Organizer's silhouette shifted.
> "When the moment demands it. Not before."
A calculated answer. Too clean.
Veyr pressed no further.
He had survived too long to die on pride.
Panel Five crackled again, frustration raw beneath the distortion:
> "We sit while the Council strengthens. This is madness."
Veyr let the words drift past him.
He understood the need for patience—but the ground under them shifted constantly.
Loyalty had a half-life.
Too long a delay, and the rebellion would fracture from within.
The Organizer knew that too.
And yet he was gambling everything on something unseen.
Something no one else even knew existed.
Another voice rose—this time from Panel Three, calmer but no less edged:
> "When can we expect operational readiness?"
The Organizer's answer was immediate:
> "Unknown."
A ripple of discomfort stirred across the panels.
No timeline.
No promises.
Only orders—and faith.
If he spoke truth—then whatever it was, it had been in motion far longer than any of them had guessed.
Veyr swallowed down his instinctive tension.
He could not show doubt. Not here. Not now.
The Organizer's voice softened—a blade sheathed but no less deadly:
> "Hold your ground. Prepare your cells. Train your replacements."
> "When the strike comes, it must be absolute."
Veyr bowed his head once more.
"It will be," he said.
The panels flickered one by one.
First Panel Six. Then Two. Then Four.
Their black screens dissolving back into empty silence.
Until only the Organizer's remained.
A final warning:
> "Do not seek the weapon, General. It will find you when it must."
Then his panel winked out, leaving Veyr alone in the circular chamber.
The hum of the hidden systems grew louder without voices to mask it.
He stood there for a long moment.
Staring at the darkness where the Organizer's voice had been.
Breathing slow. Measuring.
Then he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the chamber.
His mind raced behind the mask of control.
They were building something.
Something no rebellion had ever dared before.
And he would be one of the first to unleash it.
Whether he wanted to or not..