Seventeen years before the present, the sky wept over Neron Island, dark clouds pressed low, heavy with rain, and the occasional crack of distant thunder rattled the edges of the old stone structures. Within the grand office of Malric, the storm's intensity was nothing compared to the sharp, deliberate calm he exuded, seated behind a desk strewn with papers, ledgers, and maps of continents and isles he had spent years memorizing. He leaned back, hands steepled, eyes fixed on the storm beyond the window, a mirror of the tumult of his mind—yet paradoxically cold, calculated, unshaken.
Malric had long since abandoned the naive notion of peace. Inter-species conflict was as inevitable as the tides, but merely inevitable did not satisfy him. Survival, unity, dominion—these were not abstract concepts but precise instruments to be manipulated, tuned to exact pitch. He had observed, studied, plotted. Other men of ambition and intellect had faltered where chaos reigned; Malric thrived there. He had reached his forties, the sharp edge of experience honed by decades of understanding civilizations, psychology, and the immutable laws of evolution.
The door to his office swung open without ceremony. Malric's eyes flicked toward it, noting the absence of the usual knock, the signal of urgency immediately clear.
"Malric," the woman said, voice tight with apprehension, "your brother and his wife… they have been massacred. Left behind, only two children—one, a daughter of two years, Elizabeth; the other, a son, Reinhard, two months old."
For a moment, the world outside his office ceased to exist. Rain drummed against the windows, distant thunder muted by the weight of comprehension. He said nothing. His mind did not skip a beat, did not flinch—yet within, a bell rang, sharp, insistent. A thought crystallized: I will not unite all species that can be united—someone else will—but in the end, it will be my hand that shapes this world.
A strange surge of clarity, almost joy, followed. The kind of happiness that blooms only when one perceives a vast system, chaos tamed by calculation, the seeds of a future perfectly aligned.
His wife, standing nearby, hesitant but controlled, spoke. "It appears you do not care for this news. I will leave now, and for the time being, ensure the children survive. I will—"
"Stop," Malric interrupted, voice measured, cold. His mind parsed possibilities, contingencies. "For now, keep them alive and healthy. One week. Just enough to observe, to begin the plan."
Her name was Haylen. "Understood," she replied, a faint tremor in her tone betraying the gravity of the order.
No sooner had she left than Malric's mind turned to motion. He retrieved his phone, digits memorized and precise, and called. Seventeen seconds later, a response came.
"I would like to acquire a village on Neron Island," he said, voice low, deliberate. "Isolated, capable of housing thirty households, with a park, a hospital, and the essentials for a functioning community. Cost?"
The voice on the line hesitated before giving figures: "Three to four hundred million Franz."
Malric's acknowledgment was precise. "And the most trustworthy individuals—around a hundred—to populate it."
The man confirmed. "All within five hundred million Franz, land and people included."
"Arrange it by next week," Malric said. The line went silent. The man's name was Adric. He was competent, efficient, and trusted; but it was Malric's mind, trained in psychology and the subtle mechanics of human behavior, that orchestrated this symphony. On average, a person might earn ten thousand Franz. Malric's net worth was in the billions, a lifetime of influence, persuasion, and unmatched understanding of human and inter-species psychology accumulated into wealth and power.
He left the office, entering his vehicle. The engine hummed a steady rhythm beneath him as he drove, rain slick streets reflecting the sporadic lightning. His mind was already at the future's edge, calculating every interaction, every glance, every impression he would leave upon Reinhard and Elizabeth. Each moment, each small detail mattered, and he cataloged them with meticulous precision.
Perhaps a toy, he thought suddenly, eyes narrowing at the idea. Something remarkable. The kind of object that imprints memory and emotion in the developing mind. The concept, simple yet profound, crystallized: he would become, in their perception, the architect of joy, the provider of experience, the figure who transcended loss and trauma.
Traffic slowed, lights reflected off the wet asphalt, and a momentary lapse of judgment brought him further than intended. He cursed internally, correcting his path, until at last the destination appeared: the largest toy emporium on the island.
Inside, the air smelled of varnish, synthetic fibers, and faint plastic. A subtle melody of music and human chatter filled the cavernous space. Malric's gaze swept over shelves, aisles, and displays, computing potential, desirability, and—most importantly—the Nm.
Nm: a unit of measurement developed to quantify the empathic joy a child perceives from a toy, influenced by cuteness, motion, texture, and sensory appeal. Rated from zero to ten, no toy had ever achieved ten. The highest attainable Nm was rare, expensive, a privilege of wealth.
"Which toy here has the highest Nm?" Malric asked the assistant.
The woman, with an almost imperceptible tremor of deference, answered: "Nine point two, sir. It's been here for months, but someone just purchased it."
Malric's expression remained unchanged. "Then show me the next highest."
"Eight point eight," she replied. "No child would discern the difference." A lie, subtle but obvious to one like Malric; children perceive differences adults often cannot.
He followed her through the maze of aisles, analyzing how the toy's color, texture, and form would interact with the infant mind. Subtle shapes, the curve of its limbs, the texture of its fur—all calculated to maximize Nm.
They turned abruptly. Malric's attention flicked too late. Collision. Lips brushed her forehead, fleeting, imperceptible yet deliberate. The assistant froze, cheeks flushing, her mind registering the incongruence of propriety and attraction. Malric's calculation was precise: a momentary equilibrium of power, subtly equalizing the social dynamic, eliminating any latent hierarchy that might arise from wealth, status, or gender.
He followed with a brief, controlled kiss. No desire lingered in him; his past had been extensive, exhaustive, a thousand conquests, none of them relevant now. The act was strategy, a neutralizer of potential awkwardness, a preparation for smooth transactions.
The conversation resumed, brisk and professional, pricing, logistics, and acquisition addressed in minutes. The toy was purchased, carefully packaged, and Malric departed, leaving the emporium without pause, a ghost among the human throng.
Home approached. The mansion loomed, four stories high with a deep basement and sprawling rooms that smelled faintly of polished wood and stone. Haylen greeted him, habitual. "Welcome back, Malric."
"Yep," he replied, voice neutral.
Elizabeth and Reinhard were engaged with toys on the floor, unaware, yet their attention shifted instantly when Malric revealed the new gifts. Both children, small, fragile, and untutored in the ways of the world, reacted with wide eyes and immediate attachment. The toys—a simple pair of bunnies, each rated 8.8 Nm—became conduits for emotion, memory, and attachment. Elizabeth approached first, tentative, curiosity shining in her gaze. Malric extended his hand, patting her head, feeling the pulse of her joy transmitted through her delicate body.
Reinhard, arms wide, was gathered into Malric's grasp, lifted, and spun in slow arcs. Laughter echoed, pure and unfiltered, a rare and precious sound. Malric remained attentive, calculating the rhythm of the interaction, ensuring attachment, trust, and subtle conditioning.
Hours passed. Day became night. The children slept, toys clutched to their small chests, dreams untroubled for the moment.
Morning arrived, light filtering through draped windows. Hunger and discomfort arose; Malric's deliberate absence, controlled, allowed frustration to build, ensuring psychological signaling. Hours of unassuaged need culminated in acute recognition of desire. Then, he returned.
Specialized milk for Reinhard, carefully prepared food for Elizabeth. Administered by his own hands, precise, controlled, deliberate. Each act was a lesson, a conditioning of association: pain and need followed by presence, provision, and pleasure. Over six days, the cycle repeated. Attention, affection, and relief were measured, calibrated, and reinforced. By the end, the children were attuned to him; the memory of their parents dulled, replaced with the architect of care, the provider of comfort, the unseen hand shaping their nascent understanding of love, attachment, and authority.
Malric's plan was unfolding. Each moment, each deliberate act, a careful laying of seeds, calculated for maximum long-term effect.