Night fell over the city like a held breath.
Neon lights stained the sky in artificial colors, flickering endlessly above half-empty streets. Windows glowed, but few silhouettes moved behind them. Conversations had grown quieter. Trust had grown thin.
After Elito's appearance, conspiracies were no longer whispered.
They unfolded openly.
Coldly.
Mercilessly.
The grand meeting hall felt smaller than before.
Tension clung to the air as the symbolic leaders sat in silence, each locked in his own calculations.
One prepared to unleash forces that existed only in classified files.
One pressed the media harder, forcing fear into every headline.
One redirected intelligence networks, searching desperately for an opening.
And one remained behind the curtain, watching numbers rise and fall, untouched.
Each believed he understood the situation.
None understood the truth:
The one who controls fear…
owns everything.
Deep underground, Palantir systems awakened fully.
Data flowed like blood through a mechanical body.
Movements tracked.
Viruses mapped.
Vaccinations logged.
Cities divided into zones of probability and compliance.
Every motion calculated.
Every step reduced to intent.
An unseen war had already begun.
In experimental zones, fear took form.
Children showed symptoms no one could explain.
Vaccines were distributed without compassion, without explanation.
Soldiers observed. Field agents recorded. No one intervened.
The real war was not fought with armies or bombs.
It was fought in minds…
and in bodies shaped by conspiracy.
Elito watched from the darkness.
Old maps lay across the table. Handwritten reports surrounded him. No screens blinked for his attention.
He smiled.
"Every mistake. Every fear. Every doubt," he whispered.
"All part of my design."
There were no explosions.
No weapons.
Only intelligence…
and presence.
Orders moved swiftly.
Shadow armies received silent commands.
International media faced threats and pressure.
Intelligence agencies turned on one another.
Markets trembled under invisible hands.
Each leader believed he was still the center of the game.
Elito already knew their every move.
On the streets, something changed.
People noticed absences.
Neighbors who didn't return.
Shops that never reopened.
Silence spread faster than any virus.
The diseases were not the worst part.
Fear was.
The massive screen activated without warning.
Elito appeared.
The leaders spoke—but every word trapped them deeper.
"Isn't this what you feared?" Elito whispered.
"To be confronted by someone who understands everything…"
"…without making a single move?"
No answer followed.
Anger flared.
One leader burned with the urge to strike but knew the cost would be catastrophic.
Another ignited a media war, only to feel public trust slipping away.
One calculated a counter-strategy so dangerous it might destroy him.
One simply smiled, profiting from every misstep.
Every decision bred chaos.
Every chaos fed Elito's design.
Blood appeared in fragments.
Militias turned on themselves over misinformation.
Hospitals became laboratories of suffering.
Cities boiled—screams, silence, horror blending together.
Every mistake killed.
Every plan hurt.
Every action became a mental weapon.
From the edge of the chaos, the young man watched.
He moved quietly, shielding children from patrols, guiding them into safety.
Elito observed him from afar, amused.
"At last," he murmured.
"Someone who doesn't fear…
who doesn't bow."
The world accelerated.
Armies mobilized.
Weapons tested.
News flooded every screen.
Viruses spread.
Vaccinations continued—some corrupted, some rushed.
Chaos no longer needed encouragement.
War was not always waged with weapons.
Sometimes it was waged with blood, data, and fear.
Encrypted signals followed.
False troop movements.
Contradictory orders.
Internal confusion.
Every wrong move sharpened Elito's psychological blade.
The leaders turned on one another.
One struck too early.
One shouted too loudly.
One maneuvered in shadows.
One watched it all with cold satisfaction.
True chaos did not come from outside forces.
It was born within themselves.
In the ruins of order, the young man stood with the children.
He did not speak of resistance.
He did not speak of hope.
He simply protected.
In a world ruled by terror, that choice alone became power.
Elito vanished from the screens.
The leaders stood helpless.
Cities drowned in confusion and blood.
No weapons.
No armies.
Only intellect—and presence.
Every conspiracy.
Every plan.
None of it saved anyone.
Blackness.
Then words.
When the leaders moved their armies and weapons…
the one who merely watched—smiled.
The chaos had not truly begun…
and yet, it already had.