The wall was no longer just a wall.
It had become scripture.
Every glyph, every line etched in bark or dirt or blood now held weight. Meaning.
And the apes?
They weren't just followers anymore.
They were disciples.
⸻
I woke before dawn.
Didn't stretch. Didn't eat.
Just moved.
Fast, quiet.
I climbed to the roof beam above the yard — a path only I and Rocket knew.
From there, I could see it all.
The structure.
The order.
The slow heartbeat of something ancient returning to life.
Apes grouped by role.
Family sweeping the yard. Think carving new glyphs. Fire running obstacle drills under Rocket's grunts.
And in the center, Ash.
Small.
But burning.
⸻
He wasn't the strongest.
Wasn't the oldest.
But he had something else.
Conviction.
Where Rocket commanded, Ash inspired.
Where Koba threatened, Ash comforted.
Where Maurice taught, Ash believed.
And belief… spreads faster than fire.
⸻
I dropped into the yard and waved him over.
He came running.
Eyes wide, eager.
I didn't speak.
I led him to the corner behind the tire wall, where we'd etched the First Glyphs weeks ago.
I pointed to his own:
𐍐 — Witness.
Then I scratched three more beneath it.
𐍇 — Lead.
𐍁 — Together.
— Fire.
He stared.
"Me?" he signed.
I nodded.
"You lead now."
He hesitated.
"Why me?"
I responded:
"Because when I fall… you must rise."
⸻
He didn't ask what I meant.
He knew.
Maybe not the whole story.
But enough.
Enough to understand the weight I was handing him.
Enough to carry it when the time came.
⸻
We began Phase Two that night.
Small teams. Independent drills.
Ash led one — Cora, Baku, Flint, and two new apes recently transferred in.
Rocket led another — more physical, more aggressive.
Maurice supervised the Think units, teaching symbols, sequences, judgment protocols.
Me?
I oversaw it all.
Like a general before the war.
No… not war.
Ascension.
⸻
Koba noticed the shift.
Her group — less structured, more violent — began sparring harder. Faster.
She trained with rocks. Sticks. Bite drills.
But she did it alone.
I let her.
Because not every weapon had to be on the battlefield.
Some were meant to be pointed at the real enemies.
But I watched her.
Always.
⸻
Three nights later, Ash returned from a solo drill.
Excited.
He'd devised a new training pattern — climb, drop, swing, land — all using the geometry of the yard.
I smiled.
Then told him to show it to Rocket's unit.
He hesitated.
"They won't listen."
I signed: "Make them."
Not with force.
With presence.
⸻
The next morning, he tried.
Rocket ignored him at first.
The others followed suit.
Ash stood his ground.
Didn't yell.
Didn't back down.
He walked straight to Rocket, signed a command, and turned his back.
An invitation.
Rocket paused.
Then followed.
So did the others.
Within an hour, all three squads had adopted Ash's routine.
I watched from above.
Didn't interfere.
Because that's how real leaders are made.
Not by title.
By action.
⸻
But beneath the order, tension simmered.
Koba challenged Rocket during drills.
Questioned Maurice's teachings in front of the Think group.
She carved alternate glyphs beside the wall — her own interpretations of Fire and Strength.
𐍗 — Wrath.
𐍘 — Fear.
Maurice showed me.
I erased them without a word.
Then carved a new one in their place:
𐍙 — Restraint.
Message received.
But not accepted.
⸻
That night, Koba approached me.
Alone.
"Why wait?" she signed.
"Again?" I replied.
"Yes. Always waiting."
I stared at her.
Then asked:
"What will you do after we rise?"
She blinked.
Didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
Signed:
"Lead? Build? Teach?"
She bared her teeth.
"Kill."
I nodded.
Truth.
And truth is dangerous.
Especially in hands that only know how to burn.
⸻
Still, I didn't move against her.
Not yet.
I needed her rage.
Her fire.
But not without control.
⸻
Two days later, something changed.
A guard — young, new — saw one of our training drills and laughed.
Called us circus freaks.
Threw food in the mud.
Ash confronted him.
Didn't strike.
Didn't growl.
Just stared.
Signed one word:
"Shame."
The guard laughed again.
But he left shaken.
The others noticed.
They began calling Ash "the small alpha."
He didn't like it.
But I did.
Because alpha didn't mean strongest.
It meant first to rise.
⸻
Maurice gave Ash a second glyph that night:
𐍓 — Name.
He was no longer just a Witness.
He was a Voice.
⸻
Phase Two continued.
Routines tightened.
Roles expanded.
Think groups created early justice models — sign-votes on disputes, peer mediation.
Fire teams developed formations — wall press, overhead climb strikes, triple intercept maneuvers.
Family expanded to include healing and caretaking.
It was civilization.
Built in chains.
But no longer owned by them.
⸻
Then came the visitor.
Government suit. Female. Clean shoes. Clipboard.
Watched us for an hour from behind the glass.
Didn't speak.
Didn't smile.
Didn't blink much, either.
But I saw what she saw.
Order.
Intention.
She left without a word.
That night, the cameras doubled.
So did the guards.
⸻
Maurice asked if we should accelerate.
I signed:
"No."
"Why?"
"Because fear moves them. But faith moves us."
He stared at me a long time.
Then signed:
"What are you?"
I answered:
"Memory."
⸻
And Ash?
He kept training.
Kept leading.
Kept rising.
He'd become more than my second.
He was becoming their hope.
The one they could see as one of them — not too strong, not too smart — just enough.
Just right.
⸻
The fire was coming.
But before we lit the sky…
We would sharpen every spark.