<"January 1, 2090. On the occasion of the New Year and the Prince's birthday, the King has granted His Highness authority over the uncolonized frontier, supporting his endeavor to establish a new territory in the West of the continent.">
A sharp rustle of paper.
<"The war between the City State of Alger and the Empire intensifies by the second. The Minister of Foreign Affairs states that the establishment of peace will be completed within the next three years.">
Another rustle.
<"The excessive exploitation of resources in the South is accelerating climate extremes in the coastal regions.">
Rustle.
<"Economists fear that uneven infrastructure development in the West will trigger a housing price war.">
Rustle.
<"Annual reports show rising costs for imported food and furniture. What are the experts speculating?">
Rustle.
<"Nightclubs in the capital face mass closures. Is there an explanation from the Royal Family?">
Rustle.
<"The Principality of Flos has fully integrated into the Northern reaches of our Morotian Empire. A new future for the Motherland?!">
Rustle.
<"Taxes drop sharply for food and technology imports but surge for real estate in key economic hubs across the Central and Eastern regions.">
A soft click.
A light tap upon the desk from a figure hidden beneath a flickering lamp silenced the air. The hollow room was suffocating, filled with thousands of newspapers pinned to the walls and strewn across the floor, a chaotic mosaic of unrelated worlds.
Agriculture, medicine, geography, science, engineering, politics, and society mingled with beauty, fine arts, and local economics. Mastheads from major dailies and obscure local rags were plastered haphazardly from floor to ceiling. Upon the rotted wooden desk lay hundreds of strange, twisting lines and cryptic symbols.
"Seven years... no, only five remain."
A whisper, thin as a dying man's breath, drifted through the room. The oppressive stillness was inflated by a voice that sounded like someone driven to the very edge of existence.
"Only five years until the end of the world... What must I do..."
Frantic tearing sounds.
The figure lunged at the wall, ripping away layers of newsprint in search of something buried in his memory.
'The Fifth Law of Power: If you strike, you must strike until the enemy cannot even conceive of revenge. The Twelfth Law of War: He who holds the information is he who decides the outcome. The First Law of Strategy: A hunter should leave behind the scent of blood, not the length of his rope. The Third Law of Power: Acclaim is born of the extraordinary, not of morality or kindness. To kill a multitude in a grand and righteous manner is the ultimate virtue. The Tenth Law of Power: Conviction is not worth a penny, yet it may buy one more second of life. If you desire both conviction and acclaim, kill the father and tax the son while the boy smiles at you.'
The sound of paper shredding intensified, revealing wall after wall of handwritten laws, self taught observations on power, strength, and dominion.
"Damn it all..."
The man froze, his hands trembling. Having torn away a vast section of the wall, he found himself staring at thousands of different words, interwoven so densely they had become an unrecognizable blur.
"To hell with this."
He pulled out a silver badge, the emblem of a sword piercing a pair of wings. He pressed his thumb against it, driving the sword deeper into the silver crest.
"THIS IS CODE 1103. INVESTIGATE THE FORMER TENANT OF THIS ROOM IMMEDIATELY!"
His voice thundered into the device, crackling with a desperate authority.
"BLOCKADE EVERY POSSIBLE PORT OF ESCAPE. BRING ME SOMEONE WHO CAN IDENTIFY HANDWRITING AND FINGERPRINTS AT ONCE. WE CANNOT LET THE MADMAN FROM JINLUS ESCAPE! HE IS THE SEED OF TERRORISM!"