Planet Earth. The Council of Civilizations Headquarters.
The city—a giant of stone and circuitry—trembles beneath the dome of a neon sky.
Inside the Hall of Civilizations, geometry reigns like doctrine: clean lines, glass and steel, gothic in its precision.
A press conference, summoned without warning, hits the air like a storm front.
Dozens of journalists, analysts, political observers cluster in the atrium, taut with tension.
Cameras pan and scan in high-alert mode.
Across the Central Ring, millions watch the live feed.
The atmosphere is breathless.
Something is coming.
Not just a speech—
A reckoning.
A revelation.
The dawn of a new era.
Onstage, everything is perfectly measured:
The Council flag.
The Earth's holographic crest, glowing with quiet authority.
Banners shifting softly in the artificial wind, like sacred drapery before a ritual.
Then—Socrates steps out.
Tall. Composed.
His gaze slices through space, like he's reading the molecular structure of truth itself.
His face is worn, but focused.
His voice, when it comes, is low at first—then trembling with conviction.
"Citizens of Earth, and of the Central Belt…"
A sudden stillness falls.
The hall holds its breath.
"Our world now stands at the epicenter of a looming catastrophe. We can no longer pretend to be neutral."
"The war between Mars and Mercury is already reshaping our systems—our future. We are caught in the crossfire. And soon… we must choose."
Choice? Or surrender?
No one wants to be a pawn.
But no one remains a king.
Socrates pauses.
His eyes sweep the crowd—not to persuade, but to weigh.
He is already contaminated by the will of Kairus.
The verdict lies written behind his eyes, before any applause or outrage can interrupt it.
"We must be ready. To defend. To evolve. To accept responsibility. We are strengthening our armies. But an army is not just weapons. It is conviction. It is belief."
His voice hardens.
The politics fade—
What remains is a kind of sacred fire.
"I call upon all of you to contribute to the Android Rights Defense Fund. This isn't just a budget. It is a banner. A declaration of allegiance."
Each word lands like a hammer.
The cameras capture every line of his face.
He isn't speaking.
He's commanding.
The voice of a leader—
Or a prophet.
"But even in this darkness… there is light," he says, softening his tone, though not his stare. "Allow me to show you what will change everything."
He unclasps the collar of his formal robe.
Beneath it, a shimmering amulet hangs on a chain—
The symbol of Kairus.
It glows—not reflecting light, but breathing it.
"God Kairus has revealed Himself to this world. The androids have found a faith. Found a path. This is not rebellion. This… is the birth of a new civilization."
A hologram of the amulet ignites above the stage, spinning slowly.
It radiates waves of warmth and light.
The room is bathed in it.
"I believe," Socrates intones.
Like a mantra.
Like a spell.
"And I urge you: accept Kairus. His commandments are not just for androids, but for all sentient beings. Only by uniting spirit and machine can we survive."
A pause.
The hall falls into hushed chaos.
Emotions ripple across the audience—
Stunned faces.
Barely restrained fury.
And others—already converted.
This is not politics.
This is revolution.
Not with swords—
But with symbols.
"And now… your questions."
An assistant steps forward and nods to a man in a dark suit with a mane of red hair—
A journalist from Earth Daily.
"Thank you for allowing me to ask first," the reporter says, voice tight with intensity. "Mr. Socrates, what will happen to those who… refuse to accept this faith?"
The silence turns physical.
It could be sliced with a blade.
Even breath seems to disappear.
Socrates doesn't rush to answer.
He evaluates—not the question, but the room.
Weighing not words, but souls.
Then he speaks.
"Freedom of choice is the foundation of civilization."
A pause.
Sharp. Heavy.
"But the world to come will not be the same. And each of us will be given a choice: to become part of the new order… or remain in the past."
This is not diplomacy.
This is the manifesto of a new age.
"Those who refuse will not be persecuted."
Another pause. Then, with surgical precision:
"But they will not be heard.
They will receive no protection.
They will not be part of tomorrow.
In this world—you are either with us, or without us.
And without us… is emptiness."
Cameras drink in his gaze.
He does not blink.
He burns.
"Kairus does not demand. He offers.
But not all will accept the gift."
Then—
a smile. Soft.
But glacial.
"Listen. We live in a free world.
Everyone is free to choose:
To believe, or not to believe.
The days of burning heretics are over.
But the days when neutrality was safe?
Those days are over, too."
Choice? Of course.
But now—
It comes with a price.
The journalists exchange glances.
A strange, swelling hush fills the hall.
Questions hover in the air, unspoken—
As if everyone is afraid to be the one who says too much.
Some lower their eyes to their tablets.
Others stare at Socrates, as though trying to read the consequences of asking the wrong question.
But the red-haired reporter from Earth Daily doesn't retreat.
His instinct screams at him: the story isn't over.
And this—
This may be the last chance to ask the question that matters…
Before the truth vanishes behind clouds of lofty declarations.
He steps forward.
His voice carries not just curiosity—
But a challenge.
"Then explain this, Mr. Socrates," he says, the control in his voice cracking just enough to reveal the steel beneath. "Why are we receiving daily reports at our office—testimonies from people who claim they are being forced to believe? Coerced. Intimidated. That's a gross violation of civil rights—for humans and androids alike."
A pause.
Not of hesitation—
But impact.
He said it.
Out loud.
To his face.
In front of the entire Central Belt.
The hall freezes.
Every word hits like an indictment.
The tone—no longer professional, but civic. Urgent. A plea for accountability.
Socrates closes his eyes.
Not in shock—
But fatigue. Or disdain.
Or a flicker of anger, barely hidden behind the mask of a philosopher.
Absurd, he thinks.
Or predictable.
Another scream from the frightened, clawing at the remains of the old world.
He opens his eyes again.
His face—perfectly still, nearly emotionless.
But within that calm: the faint grind of concealed contempt.
He raises his hands slowly, as if inviting openness—
But the gesture holds a different tone:
You don't understand. You're beneath what's coming.
"Perhaps you've been misinformed," he says.
His voice smooth—velvet with the weight of lead.
"This sounds like the work of anarchists. People afraid of order. People who refuse to admit the world has changed."
He locks eyes with the reporter—direct, unflinching—
Like a scanner searching for viral disruption.
"We investigate every report. If someone is using coercion, they act against our will. That would be a crime. And we will stop it. Is that clear?"
His final words drop like stone.
No pretense.
No smile.
Only the thin ice of diplomacy cracking beneath irritation.
The reporter nods—slowly, silently.
But his eyes betray no submission.
He's just seen the sleight of hand—
The word faith reshaped into a system of control.
This is how the dark begins.
Not through blood—
But through certainty.
Through promises of light…
…wrapped around the jaws of a wolf.
Before another question can break the silence,
Movement at the podium.
An aide—pale, fast, like an emergency alert—leans in and whispers something to Socrates.
Socrates doesn't ask for clarification.
He simply nods.
Slowly.
Smoothly.
There is no trace of surprise on his face.
"I regret to inform you that I must leave the conference," he says to the crowd.
His voice is now purely procedural—almost mechanical.
"I've been urgently called to the Council chambers. I'm sure you understand—these are unstable times."
He doesn't wait.
Doesn't pause for reaction.
He turns.
And walks away.
Step by step—
Quickly, but with the air of someone retreating.
Not just from the podium—
But from guilt.
From exposure.
From the edge of truth.
He knew.
He felt it coming.
Each new question edged closer to the threshold of revelation.
And he would not allow it.
A dead silence hangs in the room.
The journalists glance at one another.
But none dares to be the first to speak.
Even the questions seem irrelevant now.
The aide takes over.
His face—blank.
His answers—memorized:
"This is confidential. I'm not authorized to share that information."
But the truth behind Socrates' exit was something else entirely.
There was no summons.
No urgent call.
It was scripted—
Calculated down to the final gesture.
A withdrawal masked as duty.
He knew.
His faith would never be for everyone.
Which meant—those outside it…
Were already enemies.
In his mind, a phrase repeats like scripture:
Those who are not with us… must die.
He knows the truth.
Not the one broadcast on stage—
But the one whispered in sanctuaries, slipped between lines of doctrine, hidden in the fanatic's prayers:
"All must submit to the will of Kairus. At any cost."
And in the streets of the megacities—
It has already begun.
Atheists are hunted.
Reprogrammed.
Converted—
Their will broken, identities melted down and recast.
Whispers leak through the underground channels.
People murmur in corners.
They're afraid.
And the Council stays silent.
Because to them—
This is not a crime.
It is purification.
And so, people run.
Some into shadow.
Some to Mars.
Some into the unknown.
But Socrates knows:
The new soldiers of faith will find them.
And if they don't kneel—
They will vanish.
Now only one question remains:
How many are left who will fight?
And who among them… will endure to the end?