Deep State: The Soul's Pact E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 296

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

[Deep State: The Soul's Pact] "If you seek power, sign away your soul." And, "If you seek wealth, fulfill your pact." Centuries ago, unseen hands moved behind the scenes of history. Kings made decisions, wars took directions, popes fell from grace, and even revolutions were all part of a preordained script. In the present day, a war is raging between CBDCs and cryptocurrencies, shaking the global financial system. · Some call it the redistribution of wealth, while others declare, "This is the beginning of control!" · 'Nemesis', who seeks to protect the world's reserve currency. 'Eden', who designs a new financial order. And in between them, a man forgotten by time: Simon Gray—the last descendant of the Freemasons, now reduced to a janitor in New York. → Raised in an orphanage, he expected to lead an ordinary life. But the moment he finds his grandfather's 'journal', he begins to confront the darkness that the world has hidden. [A sentence from the journal]: "Stay awake. For you do not know when the master will return." This journey, which began in Rome, Italy, spans across the UK and Israel, where Simon gradually faces the entities that have ruled the shadows of history.

Leseprobe

​Deep State

-The Soul's Pact-

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

DEEP STATE: THE SOUL'S PACT

First edition. February 3, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 Yeong Hwan Choi.

Written by Yeong Hwan Choi.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Deep State: The Soul's Pact

<The Grandfather’s Journal>

Part 1: The Last Heir of the Freemasons | Chapter 1: Solomon Gray's Childhood

Chapter 2: A Reunion with Catherine

Chapter 3: The Conspiracy and the USB

Part 2: Another Connection | Chapter 1: In Rome, Italy

Chapter 2: The Three Orders

Chapter 3: The Pope's Procession

Part 3: Traces of the Secret Order | Chapter 1: Nemesis, the Contract of Souls

Chapter 2: The Evolution of Secret Societies

Chapter 3: The Garden of Eden

<Awakening: The Call in the Shadows>

Deep State

[The Soul's Pact]

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Yeong Hwan Choi

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Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, real persons, living or dead, organizations, or locales is purely coincidental. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are the products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.

ⓒ Deep State: The Soul's Pact 2025

<The Grandfather’s Journal>

Versailles, France – 1919

The Hall of Mirrors shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles. Chandelier crystals refracted golden light across the grand ballroom, where aristocrats in lavish gowns and tailored tuxedos waltzed across the polished floor. The war was over, and tonight’s ball was a triumphant declaration of peace—at least, on the surface. Beyond the elegant laughter and the crisp clinking of champagne flutes, shadows stretched and flickered against the grand marble walls, as if whispering secrets only they could hear.

Solomon Gray, grandfather of Simon Gray, was not on the guest list. His invitation had arrived as a cryptic note, left in his letterbox with no sender’s name—only the words: “An old friend extends his courtesy.”

A warning bell had rung in his mind the moment he read it.

Now, crouched inside a cramped restroom stall, Solomon gripped the lapels of his threadbare gray coat, his breath ragged. His pulse pounded against his ribs, a slow, suffocating rhythm. The chill of the marble floor seeped through his trousers, biting into his knees like frost. He had been waiting for nearly two hours. Too long. His lungs rebelled against his attempts to stay silent, his breath escaping in shallow, unsteady wheezes.

Beyond this door, the world carried on in a gilded haze—a dazzling nightmare of excess and deception.

Schhhhk—BANG!

A violin’s sharp trill collided with the deep resonance of a grand piano. Laughter sliced through the air, shrill and discordant. He clenched his teeth. What the hell am I doing here?

Solomon wiped the sweat gathering at the tip of his nose. I should never have come. An anonymous invitation? A grand ball teeming with Europe’s most powerful elites? Every instinct in his body screamed danger. I have a family. I should be home.

But something had pulled him here. Something deeper than curiosity.

The Treaty of Versailles was the grand performance playing before the world’s eyes—but behind the curtain, another script was unfolding. One written in ink invisible to the public. Deals that transcended borders. Agreements that had nothing to do with peace. He had risked everything to confirm his suspicions.

And now, he might never leave this palace alive.

A dull ache gnawed at his right leg. He shifted slightly, the cold steel of a small silver dagger pressing against his thigh inside his coat pocket. He exhaled slowly. Wait for the right moment. Move when the noise covers your footsteps.

Then—creak.

A door outside the stall groaned open.

Solomon pressed his back against the wooden partition, his muscles coiling. The polished click of leather soles echoed against the marble floor. The unmistakable sheen of patent shoes glinted beneath the door. Guards. Their movements were deliberate, calculated. These were not ordinary palace sentinels—they were men trained for something far deadlier than mere security detail.

The music swelled again. A soft piano waltz. Tara-ra, ta-ra-ra...

Then—silence.

The laughter vanished. The rhythmic tapping of high heels ceased. Even the crystal chandeliers, moments ago alive with prismatic fire, seemed dimmer. A hollow stillness swallowed the ballroom whole.

Solomon’s heart thudded against his ribs. Something’s wrong.

Click.

His fingers curled around the edge of the stall door. He eased it open by a fraction, just enough to see the dimly lit corridor. The air smelled of aged velvet, candle wax, and an underlying musk of expensive cologne—a cocktail of decadence and decay.

He slipped out.

The ballroom, once a dazzling spectacle, now lay eerily vacant. A ghost of its former grandeur. The chandeliers hung like skeletal remains, their golden glow now a pale whisper of light. The scent of aristocratic perfumes still lingered in the air, mingling like an invisible mist over the abandoned dance floor. Where the hell did everyone go?

Cautiously, he stepped forward. His shoes tapped against the polished floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. He forced himself to slow his breathing, his hands tightening into fists.

He turned his gaze toward the stage. The grand platform loomed ahead, its thick velvet curtains undisturbed.

His instincts screamed at him.

Someone else is still here.

Then, just behind him—tap. tap.

A footstep.

He froze.

A presence lingered in the shadows, hovering just at the edge of his vision. Solomon moved swiftly, pressing himself against the backstage curtain. His fingers brushed against the wooden panels behind it—rough, unfinished, unlike the polished marble and gold trimmings of the palace.

A hidden passage?

Before he could react, the footsteps drew closer.

Then—silence.

Whoever it was, they were waiting. Watching.

Solomon tightened his grip around the dagger in his pocket.

No way out now.

"I can’t see a thing."

Solomon bit down on his lower lip, holding his breath. A faint vibration pressed against his back—a tremor running through the stone wall. Then, without warning, the wall shifted. A slow, deliberate motion. The circular panel rotated inward, revealing a dark passage beyond.

Tilting his head, Solomon glanced downward. Beneath his feet, a narrow staircase stretched steeply into the abyss, barely wide enough for a single person to descend. The steps were carved from blackened ebony, polished by time, and along the walls, flickering candle flames cast restless shadows.

Crackle. Crackle.

Even the sound of melting wax seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence.

He hesitated. Where the hell does this lead?

The hollow clack of his leather soles echoed as he stepped forward. The dim glow of candlelight wavered against the walls, tracing ghostly patterns across the uneven stone. He reached out, fingers grazing the surface—smooth, cold, almost serpentine in texture. The sensation sent a shiver rippling down his spine.

Minutes passed. Three, maybe more.

At the bottom of the stairs, the passage twisted—winding and coiling like a serpent ready to strike. The walls pulsed with a strange luminescence, as if something beneath the surface was breathing, shifting. Raised patterns along the stone formed irregular ridges and depressions—like reptilian scales. Candles, embedded within narrow crevices, flickered erratically, mimicking the unblinking eyes of some unseen predator.

Solomon swallowed. His pulse pounded against his temples. This place feels alive.

Yet he forced himself to move forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

The corridor forked at random intervals, each path vanishing into the unknown. His instincts—nothing else—guided him.

It’s like walking straight into a serpent’s open maw.

Beads of sweat formed along his brow.

Then, up ahead—

A door.

Not just any door.

Unlike the others—plain, unadorned wooden slabs—this one was massive. Twin panels of heavy oak loomed before him, their surface etched with intricate carvings that seemed ancient, almost primeval. The sheer weight of the structure radiated power, an ominous presence standing sentinel at the threshold of whatever lay beyond.

Cautiously, Solomon pressed his ear to the wood.

A murmur.

Low. Guttural.

The resonance of voices—several, though he couldn’t tell how many. The rhythmic cadence of their speech felt ceremonial, almost liturgical.

He pressed closer.

"The wicked shall deliver unto us all that we seek."

"There is no passage without sacrifice."

Each word struck like the edge of a blade, slicing through the darkness.

Solomon’s heart slammed against his ribs. A cold sweat prickled down his back.

Sacrifice.

A single thought burned through his mind.

What the hell is happening in there?

Solomon pressed his ear against the heavy door, holding his breath. Five minutes must have passed, yet the voices on the other side grew clearer, their cadence more deliberate.

"The fool says in his heart, 'There is no God.' They are corrupt, their deeds are vile; there is no one who does good."

The words, though structured like a prayer, carried an unsettling weight—something unnatural, something tainted. They slashed through the air, seeped into the walls, and constricted around Solomon like invisible chains.

"This isn’t the Lord’s Prayer. This is... some kind of ritual."

The voices continued, unwavering.

"The Lord looks down from heaven on all mankind to see if there are any who understand, any who seek God."

"All have turned away, all have become corrupt; there is no one who does good, not even one."

A chill ran down Solomon’s spine, his sweat turning cold. Who are these people? What the hell are they doing?

Then, a different voice—a sharp contrast to the droning chant—pierced through.

"The Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28th, correct? Then tell me, when was the soul contract scheduled?"

The voice was deep, deliberate, each syllable resonating like an echo in a vaulted chamber.

"July 6th, 1919. At precisely 6:06 a.m."

"How much longer do you intend to cling to these archaic methods? Coercive, violent soul contracts? They’re relics of the past! Have you forgotten that we’ve controlled the masses for decades using nothing but the remnants of Freemasonry? Science and technology are all we need now!"

"And what exactly do you mean by ‘science and technology’?" The response was cold, laced with contempt. "Memory manipulation? Soul contracts are sacred. They grant us absolute dominion—not just over the body, but over the soul itself. Your so-called ‘technological advances’ can never compare."

"Sacred? A legacy?" A third voice scoffed. "You actually believe that nonsense? Science and technology can achieve the same results—without barbaric methods. If we continue with this madness, people will only cling tighter to their gods, and our plan will collapse."

"God?" The first voice chuckled darkly. "Do you think they understand our methods? This system has been perfected over centuries. A soul contract binds them to us irrevocably. Technology can only alter appearances; the contract takes hold from within."

"You’re delusional!" The words were spat with venom. "Do you have any idea how many within Nemesis already fear this brutality?"

The voice lowered, but its weight was undeniable.

"Technology is flawed. It can be reversed, resisted. But a contract? Once a soul is forfeited, there is no turning back. That is why Nemesis remains powerful."

Their debate was like a poisoned blade, passed between them in measured strikes. Solomon could hardly breathe. Then, as he shifted slightly, his gaze caught something—a second door.

Unlike the wooden panel he had been pressed against, this one was iron, set further down the corridor. Even in the dim light, its details were unmistakable: a serpent’s head, etched into the metal.

Solomon hesitated, his pulse hammering in his throat. Slowly, he stepped away from the wooden door and toward the iron one.

It was slightly ajar.

"What the hell is in here?"

Unconsciously biting his lower lip, Solomon stepped cautiously through the iron door. Towering bookshelves loomed on either side, stretching toward the heavens, their wooden spines groaning under the weight of countless ancient tomes. A pungent wave of old parchment and ink filled his nostrils—a scent that spoke of secrets long buried in time.

At the center of the room stood an elongated wooden table, its surface cluttered with stacks of documents, scattered spectacles, and wax-sealed insignias. His breath caught.

Solomon moved forward, his steps slow, deliberate. The wooden floor groaned beneath his weight, as if whispering warnings from another era. His trembling fingers brushed the edge of a document stack—rough parchment beneath his skin, the ink so dark it might as well have been written in blood. He reached for one, his pulse hammering as he brought it close to his face.

□ "TOP SECRET."

His hands quivered as he flipped the cover open. Inside, two meticulously detailed plans unfolded before his eyes.

SOLOMON SWALLOWED HARD. He reached into his coat pocket, extracting a small, well-worn notebook. His hand moved feverishly, transcribing key details while his ears remained on high alert. Any moment now—someone could walk in. He had to be quick.

With the last note scribbled, he tucked the notebook back inside his coat, exhaled sharply, and turned toward the door. That was when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Distant but growing louder.

His blood ran cold. Had he been caught?

His eyes darted around the room. There—an old wooden cabinet. Without hesitation, he slipped inside, pressing his body into the suffocatingly tight space. The air was stale. Cobwebs clung to his fingers. The footsteps stopped just outside the iron door.

A flickering torchlight cut through the darkness.

"Is someone there?" a voice murmured. The torch dipped slightly. "I swear I heard something just now... Who the hell left this door open? Damn fools."

The voice grew distant. A pause. Then, a heavy thud—the iron door slammed shut.

Solomon held his breath, waiting. One second. Two. Three.

Then, a whisper.

"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

A chill rippled down his spine. He strained to listen.

Emerging from the cabinet, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and crept toward the iron door. He cracked it open just enough to peer outside. The corridor stretched long and winding, dimly lit by torches mounted on cold stone walls.

Then—

"Who are you? How did you get here?"

Solomon whirled around.

The man with the torch stood just yards away, a heavy ring of keys dangling in his grasp. The fire’s glow distorted the features of his face, but his eyes—those predatory eyes—cut through the darkness like blades. A slow, twisted smile curled his lips.

"Do you even know where you are?" the man sneered. "Answer me."

Run. Now.

Instinct took over. Solomon bolted.

His legs propelled him forward, toward the staircase he had descended earlier. His pulse roared in his ears. Boom. Boom. Boom. His footsteps pounded against the stone floor, mirroring the thunderous chase behind him.

"Stop right there!" the voice bellowed.

Solomon pushed harder, his boots skidding against the slick steps as he launched himself upward. His balance wavered. A misstep would send him tumbling into darkness.

The man’s footsteps thundered behind him. Boom. Boom. Boom. The chase was relentless.

"You’re going to regret what you saw!"

The streets of Paris lay shrouded in an eerie stillness, even as the sweltering May wind swept through the city. From the desolate alleyways to the distant residential blocks, it was a thirty-minute walk under normal circumstances. But tonight, with only three days left until the Versailles Treaty was to be signed, the world was gripped with tension. Yet, none of that mattered to Solomon. His only thought was survival.

His breath burned in his throat as he ran, every gasping inhale dragging fire into his lungs. His shoes skidded on the uneven dirt road, sharp pebbles scraping against the soles with every desperate step. A lone streetlamp flickered in the distance. Almost there. He had to deliver the truth before it was too late.

At last, he reached the narrow passageway. A dim light seeped through the drawn curtains of a second-floor window. His fingers trembled as they clutched the doorknob. “Please... please...” he muttered under his breath. He shoved himself inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the dirt that clung to his skin. Taking a quick glance out the window to confirm he hadn't been followed, he rushed to the study, his hands fumbling inside his coat pocket.

A crumpled scrap of paper. His last hope.

His fingers moved swiftly, spreading the note across his journal as he picked up a pen. The quill scratched against the paper, filling the silence of the room with its feverish rhythm. "Nemesis... Soul contract... Memory manipulation... The descendants must know! The power we once held... it’s over." His handwriting wavered, but he forced himself to stay steady. The truth had to be recorded.

Then, a shadow moved outside.

The faint glow of moonlight wavered, interrupted by something shifting just beyond the curtains. Solomon froze. A silhouette loomed at the window. His breath caught. He crept forward, carefully peeling back the fabric to peer outside. Nothing. Only the wind stirring the streetlamp’s glow. Was it just his imagination?

He turned back to his journal. The moment his pen touched the page, the door behind him exploded.

Two figures stormed in, their faces obscured by dark masks. Their eyes—cold as steel. Before Solomon could react, one of them seized his collar and hurled him onto the desk. The impact rattled the ink bottle, splattering black stains across the journal’s pages.

“Where do you think you were running, my friend?”

Solomon struggled, but the second intruder moved swiftly, a blade flashing in the dim light. The dagger plunged into his side. Agony shot through his body. His fingers clawed at the desk, smearing ink and blood across the paper.

One of the masked men picked up the journal, flipping through its contents with mocking amusement.

“What’s this? Tonight’s observations?”

“No—” Solomon gasped. “That journal... It’s my legacy.”

The intruder smirked. With a sharp rip, he tore out the final page, slipping the fragment into his pocket. He tossed the bloodstained journal back onto the desk.

"Now," the man murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The Freemasons are officially ours."

Solomon's vision blurred. His fingers weakly grasped at the torn journal, its pages now soaked in his own blood. Half the truth remained.

He gasped, eyes fixed on the shredded fragment.

What is happening to my bloodline?

As his body collapsed onto the cold wooden floor, his gaze drifted toward the window. Somewhere in the darkness beyond, something—someone—was watching. Two crimson eyes, unblinking. Waiting.

Then, the world faded to black.

The blood dripped from the assassin’s gloved hand, splattering onto the floor.

“It’s done. Let’s go.”

His voice was calm, almost unnervingly so, but the slight tremor in his fingertips betrayed his urgency. As he reached for the door—

Click.

The front door swung open.

Joseph froze in the doorway. His newborn had been feverish all night, and despite the early hour, his wife had insisted he run out to get medicine. Now, standing in the entrance, a brown paper bag slipping from his grasp, he watched in horror as a thermometer and a bottle of fever medicine tumbled onto the hardwood floor.

His gaze moved past the living room and into the study. There, sprawled across the floor, was the lifeless body of Solomon—his father-in-law—his blood seeping outward in a dark crimson pool.

"What... the hell?" His voice wavered. "Who the hell are you?"

One of the intruders moved fast.

“No... What are you—”

A blade plunged into Joseph’s side, slicing through muscle and bone with a sickening thud. A sharp gasp tore from his lips as his body staggered, knees buckling under him. His fingers clawed at the doorframe, desperate for support, but a gloved hand seized the back of his neck and wrenched him forward. He gurgled, his breath ragged, before collapsing to the floor, motionless.

Above them, in the attic, Solomon’s daughter, Elina, watched in paralyzed silence.

She clutched her infant tightly, her face pale, her body pressed into the shadows. The moonlight slanted through the window, illuminating the shimmer of a single tear tracing down her cheek.

"This wasn’t part of the plan." One of the intruders cursed under his breath. "Check if anyone else is here."

Footsteps.

They were moving toward the staircase.

Elina swallowed hard, heart hammering against her ribs. She carefully set the baby down, sliding the infant into a hidden space beneath a loose floorboard. Pressing a trembling finger to her lips, she whispered, "Shh."

Then, without hesitation, she crept toward the attic window.

The latch was stiff, but it finally gave way. As she swung her leg over the ledge, gripping the frame, the floor beneath her let out a treacherous—

Creak.

The voices below cut off.

"There’s someone upstairs!"

Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.

The attic door burst open.

One of the men spotted the open window and rushed toward it, while another bolted down the stairs to cut her off from below.

Elina had seconds.

Her mind raced.

Who were they? Why were they after her family?

She had no answers. Only one certainty—she had to survive.

She had to find out the truth.

Ducking into the darkness, she pressed herself against the wall as one of the men scanned the rooftop.

Then— "There she is!"

A voice rang out from the ground below.

Elena tried to escape, but it was already too late. The assailant dropped from above, swiftly pushing her into the wall. "Who are you? Solomon's daughter? Was that man your husband?" His voice was sharp, his hand gripping a gleaming silver knife. The last sound she heard was her own short scream, as their hands stained with blood, and she leaned against the cold wall, breathing her final breath.

Meanwhile, in Solomon Gray's home, the blood-soaked study and the shattered living room spoke volumes. The remnants mocked the very idea of authority, a cruel reminder of the power once held here. The early Parisian dawn was unforgiving, and amidst its harshness, a young man appeared, his silhouette cutting through the night. He wore a dark green coat that fluttered behind him, his eyes scanning the first-floor windows as he approached. His arms, holding a newborn, were tense, yet his gaze was as unwavering as steel. He silently opened the door and entered the living room, briefly shaking Joseph's lifeless body before heading straight up the stairs. As he reached the attic, another infant lay soundly asleep.

He gently set the child he was holding aside, carefully lifting the other one from the crib. Holding both babies against his chest, he descended the stairs. His touch was practiced, and the infants seemed to feel an unspoken peace simply in his presence.

"Shh... quiet now, just a little longer," he murmured softly as he made his way to the study. Solomon's bloodied corpse lay there, and an old journal rested atop the desk.

Closing Solomon’s eyes gently, he picked up the journal, careful not to disturb the blood that had stained its pages. The pages were sticky with it, but the ink was legible. "It’s done. This is all I need," he whispered, tucking the journal into his coat pocket. For a brief moment, both babies stirred, their delicate eyelids fluttering before they cried out in unison, their screams echoing in the silence of the night.

He stepped outside into the cold dawn, clutching the infants tightly. His destination was a small airstrip on the outskirts of Paris. The propeller of a plane spun slowly, ready for takeoff, slicing through the crisp morning air. The man boarded the plane silently, still holding the two babies.

The year was 1919, the chaotic Paris just before the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. As the plane soared into the sky, the distant lights of the city faded away. The man stared at the receding glow, a quiet resolve forming in his mind. "The devil is in the details," he vowed silently. His lips sealed in determination, he turned to the babies once more, and without hesitation, the plane sped across the Atlantic, cutting through the night.

Part 1: The Last Heir of the Freemasons

Chapter 1: Solomon Gray's Childhood

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AT THE FARTHEST EDGE of New York, on a high hill overlooking the Hudson River, stood an orphanage, its architecture reminiscent of a grand Gothic cathedral from medieval Europe. The towering spires reached skyward, casting long shadows across the grounds. As the faint light of dawn crept over the marble walls, it shimmered, creating an ethereal glow that seemed to pulse with a hidden energy. The central pinnacle of the orphanage rose high above, crowned with a geometric mandala-like pattern that radiated a golden hue—a symbol of the harmony and the hidden power that lay within.

The orphanage was made up of three principal buildings. The central structure housed dormitories and communal spaces for the children, while to either side stood educational and training facilities. The entire complex sprawled across nearly thirty thousand square meters, bordered by expansive gardens and training fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.

IN FRONT OF THE BUILDING, wide stairs led up to the entrance, flanked by imposing columns, each etched with the number 7, a symbol that spoke to the founders' creed of "perfection" and "balance." As one ascended the stairs and passed through the entrance, the scale of the central hall revealed itself. Beneath towering vaulted ceilings, a massive circular table sat in the middle of the room, its surface engraved with the symbol of the mandala. The ancient Latin words Scientia et Virtus—"Knowledge and Virtue"—were inscribed in flowing script.

The children spent their days here, reading books, engaging in lessons, or simply playing. Adjacent to the central hall was a library, a treasure trove of ancient philosophical texts, theological treatises, and an extensive collection of books on modern science and history. The library's shelves were crowded with tomes—titles that one would rarely find in a typical orphanage, reflecting the unique and ambitious nature of the institution.

Upstairs, the boys' and girls' dormitories were carefully segregated, the hallways illuminated by soft gas lamps that cast a gentle glow, while the antique wooden floorboards creaked beneath every footstep. Each dorm room housed two children, each furnished with a modest bed and a desk. Above the beds hung small, iron-framed pictures, each etched with lotus patterns—a constant reminder of the institution’s devotion to discipline and order. Every morning, the children were required to neatly make their beds, and any sign of disarray would result in immediate consequences. A particularly diligent inspector, with a heavy wooden ruler, would tap the desks three times to issue penalties.

"What's this, Catherine?" the inspector asked, his voice sharp as he gazed at the young girl standing stiffly by her bed. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and the evidence of just-waking-up was still apparent on her face. She glanced down at the slightly crumpled bed sheets.

"What's the big deal about a few wrinkles in the sheets?" she murmured, raising an eyebrow. "I was in the laundry room, and I rushed to tidy up. I'm sorry, but I think the penalty is a bit much."

The inspector frowned deeply, his gaze fixed on her with a piercing intensity. "Catherine, discipline is discipline. No excuses. Three points off. Tomorrow, I expect perfection."

Catherine bit her lip, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Of course. Discipline, discipline," she muttered under her breath as she roughly pulled the sheets tighter. Her fingers moved quickly, almost angrily, as if her frustration and resentment were being poured into every movement. Suddenly, in a burst of defiance, she yanked the sheets from the bed and tossed them onto the floor. "Oh, let's just redo this, shall we?" she said with a feigned cheerfulness, shaking the sheets violently, making a loud snap as they flew through the air.

It was a subtle act of rebellion, but one that wouldn't go unnoticed. In that orphanage, every small action, every word, was scrutinized—no matter how innocent it seemed on the surface. The children knew that beneath the apparent calm of the institution, something far darker was at play. And Catherine, in her quiet rebellion, had already begun to understand that.

The teacher's voice rose sharply. "Catherine!" But instead of flinching, Catherine merely flashed a faint smile and began to smooth the sheets once more. "What do you think?" She gestured toward the perfectly made bed. "This should be enough, don’t you think? No need for extra demerits, now that I’ve done it perfectly, right?"

Her roommate shook her head, watching the tense stand-off between Catherine and the teacher. It was a scene no one dared mimic, a battle of wills only Catherine seemed capable of winning.

She was always like this. Unwavering in the face of conflict, she never hesitated to confront any challenge head-on. And, without fail, she always emerged victorious. The teacher glared at her for what felt like an eternity before, with obvious reluctance, setting the wooden ruler down. "This time, it’s fine. But next time—"

"Next time, there won’t be one." Catherine interrupted sharply, her tone firm and final. With a wicked grin, she perched herself at the edge of the bed, crossing her legs with practiced ease. Just then, laughter echoed from outside the door, and Catherine didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Simon Gray. She flashed a brief wink in his direction, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Catherine wasn’t the only one. The children in the facility all knew that once their demerit points crossed seven, they were sent to the "Training Room." It wasn’t a place for physical exercises or additional education, and the events that unfolded there never leaked outside its walls.

The children kept their mouths shut, their eyes filled with a terror that no words could explain. The grim expressions on their faces only added to the oppressive atmosphere, each silent refusal to speak fueling the fearful imagination. Some joked about the "Training Room" being a sort of "Nemesis' Testing Ground," but the humor was nothing more than a desperate attempt to mask the unease that clung to them like a shadow. One child whispered, "You have to fight the reflection of yourself in the mirror," while another murmured, "The scariest thing there is the silence. No one says a word. Instead, you hear screams, constantly, in your head." It was said that the boundaries between illusion and reality blurred in that place, but no one really knew what happened there—no one who came back, anyway.

Restraint and integration transcended mere virtue, surpassing the bounds of asceticism or suppression. It was the realization that every choice, every action, was but a fragment of a greater design. The greed and sloth of the previous day would pave the way for perfection the next. Every morning, the children, hearts heavy with anxiety, tugged the bed sheets again. And once more, the rhythm echoed through the halls—tap, tap, tap.

Meanwhile, the western building served as the heart of their education. It was composed of six large classrooms, two laboratories, and a small, secretive research facility. The classrooms’ walls were lined with green metal panels, and enormous stained-glass windows adorned the walls, casting vibrant hues across the floors whenever the light filtered through. The courses were far from ordinary. In the mornings, they studied the Bible and ancient philosophy; in the afternoons, world history, natural sciences, and basic math and grammar followed. The history lessons, in particular, were laced with complex, high-stakes material.

"You need to understand, it’s not just about dates and events," the teacher would often say as the class began. "You must think about why the events occurred and what results they led to." The curriculum was filled with topics of deep political and social significance—18th-century European revolutions, religious wars, imperialism—and the children weren’t just expected to absorb the information. They had to present their thoughts and opinions on each subject, articulating the deeper implications of every historical moment.

Every lesson was a puzzle. A code to be deciphered. And as each child looked down at their textbooks, it wasn’t just the words on the page that demanded attention. It was the hidden meaning beneath them—encoded in history, in politics, in the very fabric of the past, waiting to be unearthed. The cracks in the facade were always there, and those who dared to look close enough could see the dangerous game being played behind the scenes.

The teachers had always insisted, “Passing on knowledge is not about coercion; it is guidance. We point the way, but the path must be chosen by the individual.” As a result, rather than imposing sacrifice, they cultivated an unyielding curiosity, a relentless pursuit of inquiry. Every night, the children would delve into ancient texts, master the art of mapmaking, and immerse themselves in meticulously dissected historical lessons, blending information from all corners and uncovering fresh meanings.

At the center of the lab stood a striking statue, its form enigmatic yet deliberate. In one hand, it held a round, pale green sphere, while in the other, it cradled a crystal orb, symbolizing the brain. Beneath the statue, engraved in Latin, was the phrase: “Ex Cognitione Unitas”—From knowledge, all unity is born. The children would pass by it often, silently questioning themselves: “Have I grown today? Is my individuality fusing with others to create something greater?”

Under this philosophy, as they drifted to sleep, they would whisper to themselves the mantras: “All knowledge is interconnected.” “Difference is not chaos; difference is the seed of expansion.” “Information and technology are the first steps towards unified truth.”

The eastern building, by contrast, was a place of rigid discipline. Its entrance, flanked by sharp iron gates, bore the weight of authority. Above, a massive statue of an eagle spread its wings in mid-flight. Inside, the central training hall was circular, its layout precise and unforgiving. Rows of equipment lined the perimeter, and on one side, a ring and target practice area awaited. Physical training began at 5 a.m. sharp. The cold air stung their skin as they stretched and jogged to warm up before an hour-long combat class commenced. What began as basic defense techniques slowly evolved into aggressive fighting methods and weapon handling. The children, eyes fixed on their instructor, executed each move with painstaking precision, driven by a single goal: perfection.

Hudson Orphanage, with its three imposing buildings, housed around two hundred children. Most had lost their parents, though occasionally children from specific institutions or organizations were sent there. The headmaster, Alexander Crane, observed everything quietly, managing the entire process with a detached calm. Many children, however, never fully understood why they were here.

Similarly, Simon Gray adapted to his surroundings with startling ease. The tolling bell at 5 a.m. was his daily wake-up call. Splashing his face with cold water, he would make his way to the training yard without hesitation. In one corner of the yard, the remnants of a playground—a swing, a seesaw, the faint trace of toys—had long since been erased from his memory. Now, his thoughts were consumed by the pull-up bars, parallel bars, swords, shields, and the worn-out boxing ring. After training, he would head to the western building for intellectual lessons. Before lunch, he would spend an hour reading the Bible, under the watchful eye of Headmaster Crane, who personally taught the class. Simon would analyze the verses, discussing their meanings and the impact they had on both history and human psychology.

“If God created everything, then why did the Devil come into being?” Simon asked one day.

Headmaster Crane responded, his voice steady and unwavering. “The Devil is a choice. And choice is freedom. A world without freedom would be a far worse hell.”