Whitcombe's Testament
Whitcombe leaned forward, hands gripping his cane as though it were a scepter. His voice cracked with age but cut like glass.
"I came up when oil was blood. Every drop drilled was war. We bribed generals, bought ministers, toppled cabinets — not because we wanted to, but because survival demanded it. And now this boy… this Rivers… he wants to undo all of it. In six months of brilliance, he dares to erase fifty years of empire. You ask why I fear him? Because he reminds me of what I once was: too arrogant to believe the world could say no. And arrogance," his eyes flicked to the serpent's seal, "isn't always punished in time."
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Maggie Rowe's Arithmetic
Maggie's voice was colder still, fingers drumming like a metronome.
"You men talk of wars and sparks. I talk of balance sheets. Do you know what I see? Assets rotting. Markets collapsing. Families suing us for fortunes we no longer control. Rivers is not killing us with fire or steel — he is stealing us blind. And here's the ugly truth: people forgive death. They bury their dead and move on. But strip a man of his wealth, his inheritance? He never forgives. That is the kind of hatred that builds guillotines. And Rivers holds the rope."
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Henry Klein's Cold Logic
Klein chuckled, though his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I've buried men stronger than Rivers. Presidents. Warlords. Revolutionaries who believed they'd change the world. All forgotten now. The grave is the best silencer I've ever used. Rivers is already dying — his tumor does our work for us. All we need to do is sharpen the epitaph. And the story won't be of a savior. It will be of a fool who flew too high, with wax wings melting long before he touched the sun."
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Daniel Okafor's Warning
Okafor slammed his palm flat, rattling glasses.
"You think this is theory? I've seen it with my own eyes. I've walked through cities where one rumor emptied banks and toppled governments. A whisper that food was gone, and neighbors tore each other apart before the shelves were even empty. You call Rivers a fool. I call him a spark. And sparks don't need time. They need dry ground. My streets are tinder, and men like you sit in towers, blind to the fire below."
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Lucien DelaCroix's Poison
Lucien leaned back, letting smoke curl around his grin. His tone was mocking, but there was iron underneath.
"History isn't truth. It's performance. The living tell it however they please, and the dead don't complain. Kill Rivers now, and he's a footnote. A curiosity in an old journal. Let him live, and he becomes author, and we — we are cast as villains. Do you not see? He holds the pen. We hold the blade. But blades are useless if the story's already written."
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Jonas' Realization
Jonas sat silently, ink-stained fingers twitching. He'd expected titans — gods unshaken. Instead, he saw cracks. Fear. Greed. Philosophy twisted into armor. Each man thought they controlled the board, but Jonas saw it clearly: none of them did.
It wasn't Rivers they truly feared. It was the Serpent.