FAÇADE OF THOSE WHO ADVANCE

Wrex had always been perceived as calculating — a man whose mind walked silently several steps ahead of everyone else. But beneath the clean fracture of his composure, a different battle raged:
reason against conscience, logic against instinct, and kindness against necessity.

People saw only the exterior — the steady eyes, the quiet posture, the unwavering resolve.
They never heard the arguments echoing in the silence inside him.
They never felt the weight of every step he took, the constant duel between the man he appeared to be…
and the man he still hoped he might remain.

If strength demanded hurting others…
what was the worth of strength at all?

He pushed the thought away.
There was no room for hesitation now.

The Royal Festival had begun.

The city shook off the dust of recent chaos as if wiping dirt from a polished mask. Banners shaped like the eight sunrises of the Superntis unfurled above the plazas. Music rose faintly — too soft, too clean, as if afraid to disturb the truth lingering beneath it.

Every public screen flashed the king’s reassuring voice:

“Do not fear. Order remains. Your peace remains. The Montlaif protects you. We protect you.”

It wasn’t reassurance.
It was theatre.

A theatrical erasure of the armed royal units storming through Grenick only moments earlier — the same units that now marched through decorated streets, pretending their weapons were ceremonial ornaments rather than still-warm tools of suppression.

The people wanted to believe them.
The royals needed them to.

Far north, where the mountain winds carved through the valleys, the Normalists gathered in their hidden enclave — nestled between the colossal mountain of Aphros and the shimmering lake Helura.

From afar, the landscape looked like something born entirely of nature:
a cathedral of stone surrounding a jewel-blue basin.

But up close, the truth emerged.
Helura was no natural wonder.

The lake’s floor glowed with soft lines of Montlaif — symmetrical, geometric, unmistakably deliberate. Human-made perfection disguised as nature’s creation. A monument of a forgotten era, cold and beautiful, humming with secrets.

It was said Helura was the first lake touched by human hands in the new world.
Perhaps it was also the last place the royals wanted anyone to look too closely.

But the Normalists were not looking.
They were dissecting.

Helura’s calm surface mirrored a makeshift workshop: metallic fragments, scattered schematics, tools left humming with heat. At the center rested a long, sleek structure — something between a vessel, a tunnel piercer, and a weapon.

A prototype.

A water-borne counterpart to the TSW vehicles, designed to slip beneath Helura’s glowing depths unseen, undetected… unwelcome.

But the vessel was only the beginning.

Inside a command tent, Qoval — once Wrex’s instructor — stood with his arms folded, his presence colder than the mountain air.

“Activate the core again,” he said.

A cube ignited — vibrating with the unmistakable pulse of Point Touch Zero.

The Normalists had learned its rhythm.
Its hunger.
Its potential.

They extracted small bursts of its power to fuel their craft — enough to attempt something the royals insisted could never be done.

Qoval’s voice dropped.

“When the vessel reaches the chamber beneath Helura, we reveal the truth. The Montlaif is not salvation.”
His gaze darkened.
“It is a cage.”

“And Wrex?” a guard asked.

Silence tightened around the tent.
Qoval’s eyes narrowed.

“He is the key,” he said. “One way or another… he will find us.”

The Normalists didn’t seek to use Wrex.
They sought to follow him.

Because he, too, was beginning to see the cracks.

Back in the city, the royal guards paraded their forced smiles, repeating in perfect unison:

“Everything is under control. Do not question the weapons. Do not question the situation.”

Wrex drifted among the crowd unnoticed, his eyes colder than the metal spears carried by the guards.
Fozic caught up to him, breathing hard, eyes flicking between the banners and the security drones overhead.

“Hard to believe any of this,” Fozic muttered.
“But the people swallow it like it’s water.”

Wrex didn’t answer, though Fozic noticed the way his gaze studied everything — the tension in the guards’ shoulders, the cracks in the citizens’ expressions, the tremble behind the painted celebrations.

“You know,” Fozic continued, his voice quieter,
“sometimes I wonder… how much you really see. You don’t talk much, but it feels like your mind is… miles ahead of all this.”

Wrex exhaled softly.

If only Fozic understood how much he struggled not to drift too far — how hard it was to stay present, grounded, human.

Above the rooftops, Qoval slipped across the upper ledges of the city like a shadow. His arrival was impossible — too swift, too silent — but Qoval had never been what he claimed to be.

He had been placed near Wrex from the beginning.
Not to teach him.
To observe him.

Watching the royal procession below, Qoval whispered:

“The façade cracks deeper with every lie. And the one who will break it…”
A faint smile curved, humorless.
“…walks among them already.”

The festival played on with its choreographed joy. Fireworks flared in pre-approved patterns. Families clapped at the right moments. Screens repeated propaganda designed to wipe minds clean.

But beneath every smile, something trembled.

Confusion.
Fear.
A sense that the world was losing its balance.

In that fragile crack, the Normalists made their move.
Coded signals flickered across hidden channels.
The vessel beneath Helura awakened.
The first sequence of their plan unfolded like a rising tide.

While the royals broadcasted:

“Peace is our legacy!”

The Normalists whispered:

“Peace is your prison.”

Night approached. Wrex slipped away from the festival and followed the main road toward the Gate of Lions — the old path leading toward the Outcasts.

The world around him quieted.
Lights dimmed.
Thoughts grew louder.

Peace, chaos… both alike.
Different masks worn by the same world, the same hands.
Prey and hunter, predator and protector — roles traded like commodities.

He halted beneath the towering stone lions, their shadows stretching over him like judgment.

“What is the point of a world that forces its meaning onto you?”
His voice was barely a whisper.
“Maybe… the point doesn’t exist.”
A breath.
“Maybe I’m meant to create it.”

Behind him, the echoes of the festival faded like a dying heartbeat.

Ahead of him, the dark path waited.

The façade was falling.
The world was shifting.
And Wrex was done watching.

He would act.
Soon.

The path of the Usurper had quietly begun.