The Mark

No one remembered receiving it.

There were no ceremonies, no rites, no pain recorded in memory. The Mark appeared at birth—silent, unquestioned, accepted as naturally as breath. Every citizen of the Eight Superintis bore one, etched into skin like a quiet promise.

Or a quiet sentence.

It rested on the wrist, the collarbone, the back of the neck—its placement varied, but its meaning never did. It was said to represent unity. Belonging. Proof that one was chosen to live within Facilis.

Yet no one could say who had chosen them.

And no one had ever been told what the Mark truly was.

Smoke still lingered in Grenick’s lower sectors, curling between polished structures that had once been symbols of order. Royal patrols moved with rehearsed confidence, repeating assurances to frightened civilians.

“Remain calm.”
“The situation is under control.”
“The Mark protects you.”

But the words rang hollow now.

From the shadows of an abandoned transit hall, Qoval observed the movement with calculating eyes. Around him stood the Persecutors—men and women stripped of illusion, dressed not in uniforms but purpose. Their equipment was unconventional, stripped down, adaptable. Nothing ceremonial. Nothing decorative.

They were hunters.

“The Mark was never meant to symbolize peace,” Qoval said quietly, his voice steady but sharp. “It was designed to enforce it.”

One of the Persecutors activated a compact projection device. A schematic flickered into the air—layers of Montlaif energy flows intertwined with neural suppression protocols.

“Point Touch Zero,” Qoval continued, “was not created to advance society. It was created to contain it.”

The group leaned closer.

“It detects hostile intent before action manifests. Violence, rebellion, deviation—it doesn’t react to behavior. It reacts to thought. The Mark is its anchor. A receiver.”

Murmurs spread through the room.

“So we’re not citizens,” someone muttered. “We’re variables.”

Qoval’s gaze hardened.

“You’re subjects in an experiment that never ended.”

The Persecutors’ goal was simple in principle, impossible in execution:
to hunt the architects of the system.

The Montlaif.
The creators of Point Touch Zero.
The unseen mastermind who wrote the laws of peace while hiding behind them.

“We don’t chase rebels,” Qoval said. “We chase gods who pretend they aren’t.”

Outside, another royal broadcast echoed across Grenick. The words peace and safety repeated like a prayer spoken too often to believe.

Qoval turned away from the sound.

“Let them speak,” he said. “The louder they preach, the closer they are to being exposed.”

Stone walls loomed around Wrex as the Outcasts led him deeper into their territory. Torches burned with a pale flame—chemical, not natural. Efficient. Controlled.

He flexed his fingers unconsciously.

The encounter replayed in his mind—the spear, the movement, the fear in the man’s eyes. His body remembered what his mind never questioned.

A flash surfaced.

A younger Wrex, bare feet against cold flooring.
A training hall with no insignia.
Hands correcting his stance before he could fail.

“Again,” a voice had said.
Not harsh.
Unyielding.

His strikes had never been taught as techniques, but as responses. Movement before thought. Precision before emotion.

Not the art of combat.

The art of inevitability.

“Your style,” one of the Outcasts said now, breaking his thoughts. “It doesn’t exist in Facilis.”

Wrex didn’t respond.

“Which means it existed before Facilis.”

They stopped before a massive stone platform carved with symbols identical to the Mark—only here, the lines were fractured, broken deliberately.

“This is where the Mark was studied,” the Outcast leader said. “Before it was forbidden.”

“Forbidden by whom?” Wrex asked.

“The same ones who convinced the world it was sacred.”

Wrex looked down at his wrist again. The symbol felt heavier than before. Less like identity. More like ownership.

“You’re not like the others,” the Outcast continued. “Your Mark reacts differently. That’s why every faction is circling you.”

Wrex lifted his eyes.

“I didn’t ask to be anything.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But history doesn’t ask permission.”

Far from Grenick, far from the Outcasts, Fozic stood alone atop a transit spire, watching the glow of Montlaif light ripple across the horizon. The world was beautiful from here—clean lines, endless energy, a civilization without visible scars.

And yet…

He clenched his fist.

A world without memory frightened him more than one filled with war.

No one remembered the past. Not truly. Records were filtered. Archives curated. Humanity had advanced so quickly that it had amputated its own history to move faster.

Fozic didn’t want destruction.

He wanted truth.

And Wrex…
Wrex frightened him, not because of his strength—but because of his restraint. A man who could shatter the system, yet chose not to.

Yet.

“If anyone can break this world without killing it,” Fozic whispered, “it’s him.”

He turned away from the view, already planning. Already calculating paths that led toward change.

Even if change meant becoming something unforgivable.

Deep within the Outcast archives, Wrex stood before a final projection.

The Mark wasn’t symbolic.
It wasn’t cultural.
It wasn’t divine.

It was a lock.

A control mechanism embedded into humanity at birth, synchronizing neural patterns with Montlaif’s energy grid. Peace wasn’t chosen—it was enforced at the biological level.

“No wars,” the Outcast said. “No crime. No rebellion.”

“No freedom,” Wrex replied.

Silence followed.

“You still want to walk this path?” the man asked. “Every truth you uncover will strip something from you.”

Wrex’s gaze hardened—not cold, but resolved.

“I’ve lived in a world where meaning was given to me,” he said quietly. “I want to know what happens when I take it back.”

The torches flickered.

Somewhere beyond the walls, factions moved.
Plans tightened.
The system trembled.

And the Mark—once a symbol of unity—began to feel like a target.