Deep State : The Trilogy E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

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

Seitenzahl: 1013

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Deep State Trilogy: The Hidden Hand That Shapes History "The world as you know it is merely a stage. Behind the curtain, unseen forces pull the strings." - From wars and revolutions to economic crashes and global resets—history has always followed a script. But what happens when one man dares to question the narrative? Enter Simon Gray, the last heir of the Freemasons, caught in a battle that will decide the fate of humanity. 『Book 1: Deep State - The Soul's Pact』→ "If you desire power, you must sign away your soul." · As he uncovers the web of three secret factions—each vying for control—he realizes that the world is not as it seems: 1) Nemesis – A shadow empire built by an untouchable Chinese elite. 2) Eden – A Jewish-led force fighting for human autonomy and free will. 3) The Freemasons – Once the architects of civilization, now a fractured relic of the past… or are they? 『Book 2: Deep State - Crimson Claw』→ "When I pass judgment, your flesh will be torn beneath my claws." · Presidents are falling. Governments are crumbling. A mysterious virus spreads as the world teeters on the edge of chaos. And at the center of it all, a name whispered in fear—The Crimson Claw. · She speaks with absolute certainty: "And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free? Foolish. Truth is a noose around your neck. And we hold the key." 『Book 3: Deep State – Memory Manipulation』→ "Can you trust your own memories? Can you trust reality itself?" · Africa burns in civil war. The Middle East descends into chaos. China and Taiwan stand at the brink. And as the Third World War looms, the final confrontation between Eden and Nemesis is set. But for Simon, the battle is no longer about nations or ideologies. · When the three gates open—Silver Gate, Golden Gate, Golver Gate—the final war will be decided. ★ The seventh trumpet will sound. The seven bowls of wrath will be poured. And at the very end, only the chosen will sit at the Last Supper.

Leseprobe

​Deep State

-The Trilogy-

Table of Contents

Title Page

Deep State : The Trilogy

<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>

<The Teahouse of Haiyakan Park>

Part 4: The Garden of Eden and the Cursed Child | Chapter 1: The Secret of the Tangy Green Apple

Chapter 2: The Cipher Hidden in the Sky Cards

【Interpretation of binary : NEMESIS FUNDS VATICAN & CHINA, 5000】

Chapter 3: The Trick Mirror and the Black Goat

Part 5: The Yellow Butterfly in Korea | Chapter 1: The Dangerous Deal at the Itaewon Shop

Chapter 2: The Bookseller Who Alters Fate

Chapter 3: The Martial Law That Ended in Two Hours

Part 6: Nemesis and the Crimson Claw | Chapter 1: Their Courtroom and the Grotesque Painting

Chapter 2: Simon and Raphael: The Kings of Deception

<The Speaker’s Massive Disclosure>

<Judas’ Goat>

Part 7: The Manipulation of Memory | Chapter 1: Mark of the Beast or Seal of Protection?

Chapter 2: Denver Airport and the Eye of the Sahara

Chapter 3: The Golden Key and the Silver Key

Part 8: Global Chaos and Disasters | Chapter 1: Three Plagues of the First Trumpet

Chapter 2: The European War and Russia’s Expansion

Chapter 3: The Woman Who Fled into the Wilderness

Part 9: Armageddon, The Final Battle | Chapter 1: The Third World War

Chapter 2: The Last Supper

Chapter 3: The Final Judgment

<The Torn Pages of Grandfather’s Diary>

<Author’s Ramblings>

Deep State

[The Trilogy]

––––––––

Yeong Hwan Choi

––––––––

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 Trilogy 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

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.”

Simon, his eyes wide with curiosity, asked, “So who decides the consequences of those choices? You mentioned hell.”

As Simon posed his question, Alexander Crane's brow furrowed deeply. He paused for a moment, his hands clasped behind him as his gaze drifted toward the Hudson River through the window, as though attempting to decipher the will of God itself. Slowly, he turned back to face Simon.

"How can a weak judge, who conspires under the guise of tradition, ever hope to commune with the Lord?" Crane's voice was soft but firm, his words steeped in an ancient cadence. "They gather, seeking to strike the souls of the righteous, condemning the innocent and spilling blood. But Jehovah is my fortress, and my God, my rock of refuge. Their iniquities will return upon themselves, and by their own wickedness, they shall be cut off. Jehovah, our God, shall sever them."

Simon blinked, his eyes briefly lifting as the words sank in, but Crane did not stop. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Simon's shoulder, his eyes still locked in a solemn intensity. "But, Simon... religion, after all, is a matter of human interpretation. Reflect on how many errors mankind has made in its quest to understand God. To seek His will, we must employ science, technology, and relentless inquiry. God granted us the freedom to think and explore. We must not neglect that gift."

A sudden smile spread across Crane's face, and with a snap of his fingers, he exclaimed, "Now, enough of that! Let’s go to lunch! Spiritual growth is important, but without a well-fed body, we are of no use to anyone!"

Simon stood frozen for a moment, still digesting the words, before he hastily followed Crane, watching as the man strode toward the central building. Upon arrival, he found Catherine Mills, just finishing her biology class, waiting by the entrance with a playful grin.

"Where did you go? Late again, I take it? Off asking your usual strange questions?" she teased, folding her arms casually.

"Well, you could say that," Simon shrugged, an easy response. "But you weren't waiting for long, were you?"

"Actually, yes, I was," she shot back with a dramatic sigh, poking him lightly in the arm. "I can't stand watching you eat alone."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with eating alone? Sometimes it's better that way." His tone was teasing, but there was an underlying challenge in it.

Catherine snorted. "Next time, I might just pour salt all over your food. Maybe that’ll help you understand what a woman has to say."

Despite the banter, the two walked side by side toward the dining hall. From the end of the sunlit corridor, faint sounds of children’s laughter echoed, and the rhythmic tap of their footsteps echoed off the tile floor.

"Catherine," Simon suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a tone of seriousness that contrasted with the lightness of their exchange. "What do you think about choice?"

Catherine raised an eyebrow, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "What, did you read that in some philosophy book? Choice? It's simple. If someone screws me over, I do the exact opposite. That’s my rule."

Simon chuckled softly, nodding. Catherine's answers were always unexpectedly blunt, yet somehow, they felt refreshingly practical. With her, everything seemed a bit more vivid, more alive.

The central hall during lunch hour was always alive with energy. The sound of footsteps echoed as children, their lessons finished, rushed in from all directions. The silver trays on the tables glistened in the sunlight, and the children, neatly dressed and with their hair tied in braids, lined up in perfect rows. There was something both foreign and strangely orderly about the scene. Simon and Catherine joined the line at the back. Catherine, impatient, tapped her foot as she waited, then mischievously tugged at the hair of the child standing in front of her.

"Hey, what the—" The child spun around, only to be met with Catherine's playful, catlike grin, her face a picture of innocence.

It was Wednesday. The moment the kitchen doors swung open, the children all cheered in unison, "Special meal today!"

The large round tables were filled with children, all sitting shoulder to shoulder. The plates before them were typical of school lunches—boiled potatoes, finely chopped cabbage salad, and a slice of dry bread. But on Wednesdays and Saturdays, there was always a special meat dish. Today, it was traditional English roast chicken.

Simon stared at his plate, tilting his head slightly, as if contemplating some hidden puzzle. “Why is the special meal always chicken?” he murmured to himself.

“Why? Because the chicken’s soul is pure,” Catherine chimed in, picking up a chicken leg and cracking it with both hands. “Chickens are the cleanest of all domesticated animals. Sheep, pigeons... all of them.”

“Just... not harmful, you mean?” Simon poked at the chicken with his fork.

“Yep. That’s how I see it,” Catherine said, swallowing a mouthful of food before continuing. “In the Bible, the animals that symbolize evil are the goat, the raven... and, you know, the snake. So, we don’t eat those.”

“Does that even make sense?” Simon shook his head. “We’re taught that science, technology, and progress matter more than religion.”

“So, do you want to eat snake meat?” Catherine asked, dipping her bread into the chicken broth. “At least they give us fresh meat here. This place is weirdly good.”

Simon, lost in thought as he chewed a piece of chicken, suddenly remembered something. Chickens, pigeons, sheep—they were all animals that symbolized peace and purity. “So...” Simon was about to speak when Catherine interrupted, tapping his arm playfully. “Enough. Just eat your food. This stew’s pretty good. If you keep complaining, I might have to send you off to Nemesis.”

Simon couldn't help but laugh at her words, but in the back of his mind, an unsettling question lingered. If that's true... could this place be the Garden of Eden mentioned in the Bible?

The students scattered in different directions after lunch. Some headed east for additional physical training, while others ventured west in search of knowledge. As always, Simon chose the west. After lunch, the headmaster's intentions were clear—he allowed a brief period of freedom to choose between intellect and action. Simon, however, preferred the mind’s exercise to the body’s, and he idly wrapped his book bag strap around his wrist as he slowly walked to class.

"Simon, why do you always head west?" James, sprinting towards the training field, shouted, gesturing toward the shields and spears. "You should try it. It’s what real men do!" Simon shook his head in response. "You do it, James. I need to use my head."

Simon sat at his usual spot, the corner by the window. The lesson of the day focused on the 18th-century revolutions and the rise of imperialism. As the teacher scrawled on the green chalkboard, the students began to copy the notes. "After World War I, the signing of the Treaty of Versailles marked a radical shift in the global order," the teacher’s deep voice resonated. "It was not just a treaty; it was an event that overturned the balance of world power."

Simon paused his notes and stared out the window, captivated by the flickering sunlight dappling through the leaves of the trees.

"Simon, off in your own world again?" Lydia whispered from the seat beside him. She had tied her deep auburn hair into a neat ponytail and nudged her notebook closer to him. "You want to rewrite the part on the Treaty of Versailles? Your handwriting’s a mess."

"I’m not bothering," Simon muttered, his gaze still fixed outside. "Something’s off about this... I think there was a significant sacrifice during that time."

Lydia looked at him curiously and closed her notebook. "A sacrifice? Everyone went through that. What’s so complicated about it?"

Simon shook his head. "No, it’s more than that... I think something happened with my family around that time. The headmaster mentioned it once. My grandfather and parents died around then." An unfamiliar weight pressed on his chest, and he sank deeper into his chair, lost in a haze of gray fog, memories shrouded in mystery. Secrets, perhaps, buried just beyond his reach.

"Lydia, have you ever heard anything about your parents?" Simon asked quietly, his fingers tracing the edge of his desk. "I don’t... remember anything."

Lydia thought for a moment before nodding. "I don’t remember much either, but sometimes I dream about what my parents did. Maybe you’ll start remembering, too. Or maybe you’ll find a clue."

Simon closed his eyes, trying desperately to summon faces and names, but the only thing that came to mind was the incessant ticking of an old clock.

"The Treaty of Versailles was not just a punishment for the defeated nations," the teacher’s voice boomed, bringing Simon back to the present. "It was designed to create a new world order. But what was the cost? The sacrifice of countless lives, and the seeds of new conflicts..."

Simon pondered those words. Sacrifice. He closed his notebook and turned to Lydia, speaking softly. "We’re always missing the most important things. Maybe what we’re learning now is only the surface. What do you think?"

Lydia’s voice was almost a whisper. "You’re right. The real answers might be hidden somewhere we’re not looking."

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. Simon zipped up his bag, the weight of the books somehow heavier today. He stepped into the hallway, the laughter of children from the playground merging with the distant whistle from the training fields. His steps slowed as he passed the central garden, his mind lost in thought. What had really happened back then? What choices had my parents and grandparents made? Fifteen years, and still nothing. I know nothing.

There were those who studied the intricacies of natural sciences, IT, and biology — fields of expertise for a select group of students. On the other hand, in the training yard, there were children honing their physical skills, practicing with spears, swords, and throwing stars. The system at this place — seemingly advanced, surpassing even the technological level of 1930s America — bent the very worldview of its time, creating a strange juxtaposition. These two worlds appeared to coexist peacefully, but occasionally, children with remarkable abilities or specialized talents would disappear. At the age of twenty, they would be summoned by the Headmaster, vanishing without a trace, their destination unknown.

Simon, fifteen years old, had no special skills, no remarkable achievements to speak of. He wasn’t a standout. And then there was Catherine, seventeen, known for her quick wit, often getting out of tricky situations with nothing more than a smile and a clever word. They were two very different people, and yet, today, they both faced the same challenge.

It was the day of the physical exams. The children were testing their limits on the track and in the weaponry training yard. Catherine and Simon were both unusually tense about the upcoming hand-to-hand combat evaluation. The Headmaster stood by, watching, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Simon Gray, Catherine Mills," he called out, his voice cutting through the air. "Step forward and spar with these children one-on-one."

Catherine flashed a forced grin and raised her hand. "Headmaster, why not let me fight Simon? Even though he's got the, uh, equipment of a man, I’m sure I could easily beat him. And besides, what if he gets hurt?" she teased, her words causing a ripple of laughter among the children.

"Don’t worry," the Headmaster said, his face unreadable. "Your skills won’t cause harm. If Simon’s up for it, let’s see how this turns out. Go ahead."

Reluctantly, the two entered the arena, Simon trying to shake off his nerves by rubbing his left hand with his right. Catherine, however, confidently swept her hair back, flashing a relaxed smile.

"Begin!" The Headmaster’s signal rang out, and Catherine immediately moved to Simon’s side, attempting to shove him in the back. Her motion was sluggish, however, and Simon, attempting to dodge, lost his footing and stumbled. "Ha! I win!" Catherine shouted triumphantly, but the other kids were already laughing, having seen her clumsy attempt at combat. "You two are a mess! What’s this, Dumb and Dumber? Are you two dating?" James howled with laughter, clutching his stomach.

Simon shrugged and stood up. "At least I have better history grades than Catherine!" he retorted, brushing himself off.

Catherine snorted and stepped back, shaking her head. "Fine, we both flunked this test, so let’s just call it a draw. Now it’s your turn, come on!" she said, grinning playfully. "Bring it on!"

After the humiliating sparring session had ended, Simon looked over at Catherine. “Why do you despise being ordinary so much?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of curiosity.

“I’m not the weird one here,” Catherine retorted, her eyes glinting with a challenge. “It’s you, Simon. Don’t you feel it?”

Simon said nothing in response. Deep down, he knew she was right, but a part of him stubbornly rejected that truth. He had always found comfort in the simplicity of being ordinary—familiar, safe. Yet, as they walked silently toward the dorm, shadows growing long beneath the setting sun, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that perhaps Catherine had already seen something in him he hadn't yet dared to acknowledge.

By the time Simon turned seventeen, his transformation was becoming undeniable. His shoulders had broadened, and his once-soft face had begun to take on sharper, more defined angles. Years of grueling physical training had chiseled muscle into his frame, and when he spoke, his deep, resonant voice no longer had the uncertain timbre of a boy's. Standing by the window, shirtless, wiping the sweat from his brow, Simon caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. For the first time, he saw something new in himself—something he hadn’t recognized before: a quiet, unspoken confidence that seemed to stir deep within him.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Catherine Mills walked in. “Since when did you become so shameless?” she teased, holding a book in her hand, which she casually dropped onto his head.

Feigning surprise, Simon picked up the book. “Well, aren’t you cute for a little one? I see you’ve also mastered the art of nagging.”

“Little one?” Catherine smirked, her lips curling in playful defiance. She turned on her heel and plopped onto the bed. Her brown hair shimmered as it cascaded in soft waves around her face, and for a brief moment, Simon couldn’t help but notice how much she, too, had changed. No longer a girl, she had blossomed into a young woman—slender legs, smooth curves, and lips tinted with the faintest hint of pink. Her figure was more striking now, and Simon found his gaze lingering a bit longer than it should. But her mischievous smile, the same one she had worn all these years, was still unmistakably hers.

He glanced at her sideways. “I don’t know, Catherine... you’re starting to look a little too grown-up to be calling yourself a ‘little one’.”

“Maybe, but I’m still two years older than you. Don’t forget that, ‘little one.’” She chuckled to herself as she said it.

That night, Simon found himself at her door. She was sitting in a chair, reading, her legs elegantly crossed. The way she sat—so poised, yet so effortlessly graceful—had a magnetism that Simon couldn’t quite explain.

“What is it now?” she asked, not looking up, her tone hinting at mild annoyance. But the faint glimmer of a smile in her eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

“I just came to check if you were okay,” Simon said, leaning against the doorframe. His heart beat faster than usual, a feeling that was both familiar and foreign at the same time. In the dim light, her silhouette stood out clearly, and he couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Why is it only now that I’m noticing this?’

Catherine put down the book and turned to him, her gaze locking with his. “When you’re this sweet, it makes me feel... uneasy.”

“Don’t worry,” Simon replied softly, his voice faltering for a brief moment before he found his words again. “I’ll always be around.”

Her lips curled into a smile, and she gave him a playful shove on the shoulder, her laughter filling the room. From that night onward, something had shifted between them—an invisible line was drawn. What had once been friendship was now laced with the quiet thrill of something more, something neither of them could yet fully understand.

As the years passed, and Simon turned twenty, the garden was quieter than usual. He stood, staring at the bench where Catherine had last stood. The day she left, she had shrugged nonchalantly, a small bag slung over her shoulder. "I’ll go first. Once I get a job, I’ll find a place. You can take your time," she said, her smile soft as she waved.

Simon fought the hollow feeling in his chest, raising his hand in a reluctant wave. "Got it. Find a good place!"

She never looked back. Behind her firmly pressed lips and that fleeting smile, what emotions lingered were anyone’s guess. It wasn’t long after she had walked through that door that Simon realized he too would soon have to leave this place.

A few days later, Headmaster Alexander Crane summoned Simon to his office. Having spent his entire life at this institution, Simon had never set foot in Crane’s private quarters before. As the door creaked open and he stepped inside, his feet froze.

The room was unlike any other. It resembled a sacred space, meticulously designed as if it were meant for some holy ceremony. Statues of angels were arranged with purpose around the room, not in the common, Catholic style of the Renaissance, but in a form that leaned closer to the Protestant aesthetic—emphasizing the purity of faith. These angels, with their elegantly simple curves, spread their wings wide, holding Bibles in their hands, their faces filled with reverence and resolve. In short, the statues exuded a beauty that was both minimalistic and refined.

The white walls shimmered with a faint sheen, and gold patterns spiraled around them like winding, invisible currents of energy, bridging the past and future in a way that felt both ancient and futuristic. Above, the ceiling was adorned with stained glass, golden and green beams of light crossing and enveloping the walls and statues below.

The room, easily the size of an entire wing, was both solemn and incongruous. At its center, cutting-edge scientific equipment sat at odds with the room’s sacred aura. A silver, hemispherical machine hummed with activity, its screens displaying complex algorithms in a chaotic dance of numbers and symbols. Surrounding it were transparent tubes, resembling veins, threading across the space and connecting to a massive server on the far side.

The server itself seemed to pulse with the cutting-edge technology of modern data processing. Sleek and angular, its body glowed with blue LED lights, flickering as if processing an unending stream of information. Simon, overwhelmed by the scale and sophistication of what lay before him, stood slack-jawed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "This... this is the Headmaster’s office?"

Crane gave a quiet laugh, gesturing for Simon to step deeper into the room. As he did, a transparent panel on the wall slid open slowly, revealing a series of even more intricate machines—silver wires pulsed across strange devices and screens, some of which Simon could scarcely comprehend. On Crane’s desk lay two items: a notebook, its cover darkened with black stains, and a USB drive.

Crane pushed the notebook toward Simon. "This is your inheritance. Your grandfather’s journal. The record of Solomon Gray."

Simon ran his fingers across the surface of the worn leather notebook. The texture was rough, as if time had carved its marks into the material itself. After a few gentle strokes, he murmured, “I understand this... but...” He shifted his gaze to the USB in Crane’s hand. “What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Still unsure of Crane's intentions, Simon flipped open the first page of the journal. His grandfather’s handwriting sprawled across the paper, each letter messy and stretched, betraying the passage of time. As he flipped through the pages, the ink became more faded, and upon reaching the final page, he saw that the words abruptly cut off. “Why are you giving me this now?” he asked, his voice thick with confusion. “If I had known about it when I was younger...”

Crane shook his head slowly. “If you had known, you would never have been able to adjust to this place.”

“Adjust? What do you mean by that?” Simon stared at the journal and USB alternately, seeking understanding. Crane’s gaze was calm, yet piercing. “Simon, the year we’re living in is not the 1930s. It’s 2025.”

For a moment, everything around him seemed to blur. His mind went blank. “What? What do you mean? My parents died around the time of the First World War, and my grandfather...”

“Simon,” Crane’s voice was low, soft as the wind brushing past winter branches, yet heavy with unspoken weight. “The world you know may not be the world you’ve seen. To be more precise, it may only be the world you've seen.”

Simon struggled to process the words. “What are you saying? Are you telling me my life, my memories—everything—was a lie?” His voice cracked with a mix of fury and fear.

Crane slowly shook his head, pointing to the screen in the center of the room. As Simon followed his gesture, a model of the human brain appeared on the display. The different regions of the brain were highlighted in various colors, electric signals flashing between neurons, showing the complex web of thought and memory. Crane gestured to the screen, his hand moving across it with ease. “Our brains are powerful computational devices, but they do not always present us with the perfect truth. The brain reassembles everything we experience into a ‘story’—a narrative made up of fragments of sensation, experience, memory, and a bit of imagination.” He tapped a specific region of the brain on the screen. “But the key thing to understand is this: The brain cannot distinguish between illusion and reality. You may believe you’ve lived in the 1930s, but that may just be your choice—your freedom.”

Simon stood up abruptly, his hands clutching his head in confusion. “What are you talking about? That can’t be true. My memories, my choices, my life—they’re real!”

Crane stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “The truth of your choices isn’t for me to discuss. But the fact that you are here, in this room, in this moment, in 2025—that cannot be changed. Step outside, and you’ll see. A completely different landscape will unfold. Tell me, Simon, how is free will created?” He paused, watching Simon’s silent shock before continuing, “The brain fills in the gaps with incomplete data. That’s where distortion begins. The world you believe to be the 1930s may just be a story your brain has constructed. We’ve never forced anything upon you.”

Simon shook his head, his mind reeling. “Then what is my life? What is all of this?”

Crane paused, staring into Simon’s eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze. "If you want to confirm the truth of your life, you’ll have to choose again. Your brain is always ready to deceive you. What you see is just a fragment of the world." He reached out, placing a firm but gentle hand on Simon's shoulder. "The only way to know is to step outside and see for yourself. You don’t have to believe me. But look at the world through your own eyes."

Simon felt a whirlwind of confusion, but there was an undeniable conviction in Crane’s voice. As he glanced around, the symbols etched into the walls and the flickering, radiant light swirling in the air gave him a sudden, unsettling sense that this place existed on the blurred boundary between reality and illusion.