Crises are disasters for the existing regime but an opportunity for the ambitious. They are the messengers, the deliverers of chaos, but also the prologue before stability, brought forth by the bloody fist of a charismatic, strong leader, establishing peace by eliminating all that seek conflict. It was how the Achien Empire was formed, and in similar fashion, it will be how every new nation seizes power. Crises drive people forward, whether to life or to death, and so long as it benefits the eventual victor, it does not matter.

That was what Elethien believed when she built her empire from the ashes. It is what Avalel now believes as he oversees the last line of defense: the crisis is only his first stepping stone to power, to regain the power rightfully his. Only when he has grasped it will he finally be able to protect everyone that’s left, to form a new future for the fractured world, built with his strength, as the Empire was built with Elethien’s lone strength. To guide the world to its destiny as the Elydeia.

He hears it. The cry of battle, buzzing like a swarm of locusts. The organized forces marching towards the city, filled with pride, confidence, and bloodlust, like little ants carpeting the ground. The nervous rattling of his own inexperienced soldiers, waiting for the inevitable.

He will let them come. When all seems to be hopeless and lost, he shall go into battle himself, proclaiming his sovereignty over his pawns and the enemy insects. His unparalleled power, provided with his Anapadeia, will shock the enemy into retreat, his troops into submission. Step by step, he shall extend his control until all will be his to own alone. From the massive cities of Parvilien, the extensive mines of Erthuran, to the small settlements of Vilrin, the three planets shall be all his. There will be no more tears, no more pain, as they all live within the paradise, his paradise.

The Battle of Thille is only just the beginning.

“The troops have taken their positions,” a general reports. “The enemy is approaching Fort 302 and 301. Awaiting orders to fire.”

“Very well,” Avalel answers, his boyish voice contrasting with the deep, almost mumbling sound of the general. “Tell the fighters to be on standby. I trust the other generals are also aware of the enemy’s position?”

“They are informed.”

“I shall await the news then.”

A pause. “Are you sure such a hastily prepared plan will succeed?”

“You will make it succeed, won’t you? If you value this honorable position.” Avalel’s voice drops to a whisper, drifting into every corner of the general’s mind.

“Urk...” Only days ago, the general had been serving under the previous government, answerable only to the Ministry of Defense. Yet with the abrupt takeover and seizure of power, he sees his position no longer as the stable, easy income he used to receive, but a role under grave threat from the frightening yet majestic young savior. He senses it. His subordinates are waiting to replace him. To preserve what he has, he can only follow orders. He can only willingly make himself a puppet. Just as his colleagues in the military have also bent down, prostrating themselves before their savior.

“Won’t you?” Avalel repeats.

“There will be no mistake,” he answers firmly. He cannot answer otherwise.

“I’ll await further news, then.” Without even a proper farewell, Avalel cuts off the comms, feeling the sense of silence wash over him once again.

He has no need to give one, after all. His subordinate is merely one of the sacrificial pawns. The replacement will simply be the most loyal, preferably also most capable soldier on the battlefield. For all those recruits and current generals of the New Rule, he has no logical need to retain them if they only become a burden. There shall be no remorse, no guilt, no mourning. Just as how he killed Tarak.

Boom! The first shell falls on the battlefield, dirt, ash, and rubble shot into the sky. There it is. The familiar cries again attempt to terrorize his ears, but he is no longer who he was. He does not fear those noises. They are only the music of the opening theme, an introduction to his plan, his opus being put into fruition. The instruments, some being sheets of cold metal, others bodies of warm flesh, explode in an extravagant fugue, and thus, the first movement begins.

A flash, blanking his mind for a moment. What is this awkward feeling? He does not feel any physical pain, yet something seems to have been torn away from him, ripping some imaginary fabric to shreds. Is it the haze, the meticulous, fragile web brutally broken by some outside force? Or perhaps someone, something from within? Is it his own will, his strength faltering at this vital moment?

Or perhaps it is his past self, beginning to struggle, to fight back control of his own body? His past weak self, finally having the courage to resist, however feeble it may be?

But that does not matter right now. He cannot let a detour get in the way of his path. The battle has begun, the crisis waiting to unfold in front of his face.

“Second and Fourth Infantry divisions, hold out at your forts,” a general commands, the crackling sound reaching his ears through the comms. Despite the gradual crescendo of the music, Avalel can hear the loud, crisp voices of the generals, encouraging the troops onwards like soloists towering above the rest. Above, low-flying fighters engage in dogfights as artillery pummel the fort with ferocious intensity, making up for the temporary lack of aerial bombardment.

They should’ve realized by now. The usual armored support is nowhere to be found. It’s intentional. How else is it logical that the slow, encumbered soldier arrives faster to the front than the agile, streamlined vehicle? Despite the hasty, rushed circumstances, the infantry has managed to organize itself within days of Avalel seizing power, yet their armored counterparts somehow cannot. If in peacetime or perhaps a short break, perhaps they will realize, but in the heat of the battle, the soldiers can only think of their lives, nothing more, nothing less.

And that ignorance will simply lead them to their deaths, as he wills them to.

There’s something about the music, the music of war that entices him. It provoked in him fear only a few months ago, yet now, he hears it beating to the rhythm of his troubled heart. Instead of flags and banners proclaiming the positions of his armies, there are only explosions marking the rugged battlefront. Some fighters have already begun dropping from the sky like flies, a spontaneous addition to the chaotic symphony.

He has long abandoned his childish self, stuck in the mindset of a boy merely sixteen, seventeen years of age, boarding instead on a journey of self maturity, or so he believes, creating what is his own, protecting the things that he gained, destroying all who stand in his way. He wonders… Perhaps Elethien felt the same when she embarked on her conquests to create her own empire?

“Please announce to the people the enemy is at the gates of Thille,” he speaks into his comms, his voice interrupted with the screams of engines and soldiers. He and the soldiers cannot be the only ones feeling the crisis, after all. The people must feel it as well. The sudden arrival of one who they all consider as their savior, the constraining, idealistic democracy collapsing before their eyes, the presence of a great enemy, and of course, the individual fear of their livelihoods lost will all contribute to the strength of the crisis, and naturally, their dependence on the savior.

But he must solve this crisis he willfully created, letting no one take the credit. The consolidation of power requires it to be so. Elethien has done it before, so will he. History will never repeat itself to the last detail, but it will find itself in a certain variation, following a similar pattern.

No answer. Certainly there cannot be trouble already rising within Thille? Ipela still holds control as President over Thille, right?

“Announce to the people the enemy is at the gates of Thille,” he repeats. Ipela may have fallen from his rescuer to one of his many instruments and puppets, but she still holds immense power. If she is overthrown now, then perhaps Avalel’s self-created crisis may become too difficult to control.

He hears the ragged breathing of an aged lady, her mouth trembling as she says to the comms, “As you desire.” The physical weakness in her voice is unnatural, but Avalel doesn’t know why. He can’t sense why.

“What happened, Ms. Ipela?” he asks, feigning empathy even as he speaks.

“Just a sudden headache,” Ipela answers simply. “I shall relay your message to the people.” Immediately, the comms cut off, leaving Avalel to the sounds of the battlefield once more.

Strange. Just strange. Ipela is not a woman of few words. Well, it does not matter. He will receive news of the people’s panic soon, perhaps just in time for the lines to begin to falter.

“The 6th Infantry Division is suffering heavy casualties,” a machine reports matter-of-factly, its voice monotone and clear for all the generals to hear. Avalel sees the billowing smoke from every corner of the front, coming from every fort. It is so fast, isn’t it? The deaths piling up into neat little numbers, bland reports distancing himself and the generals from the armies. So many brave young men and women are already dead, fighting for their lives and for him.

It should not take longer than two days of continuous fighting before his line collapses. By then, he will simply arrive and “rescue” his military from the clutches of the enemy. It is what he envisions: a grand act, an elegant demonstration of his power. It will not take longer. A short, threatening crisis is all he needs.

The days of glory will soon return. The days before his birth, a thousand years before. The early glory days of the Achien Empire, in the days of Elethien. In the days of Elethien, where one individual experienced glory at the expense of the world.

Why does he even care about reviving an era he never experienced? Is there not another way he can protect everyone?

A crisis. Yes, that’s what they’re experiencing. A crisis. Or so it seems.

This ancient strategy of manipulation employed by the kings and queens of old, mastered, nearly perfected by Elethien, playing before Ipela’s eyes. The execution is timely, the delicate balance between strength and threat well controlled, allowing themselves to lose, but only barely. After a short while, Avalel will arrive at the scene, permanently establishing himself as their only savior.

It’s quite peculiar, uncharacteristic for Avalel to be so learned in these tactics. Of all propaganda methods, he chose one from so long ago, one already deeply buried, hidden by the more “benevolent” rulers in the Empire’s time. A thousand-year-old strategy, iconified by Elethien’s rise to power, now used by her direct descendant. It’s a wonder Avalel even learned of this nearly forgotten skill.

Ipela recognizes the strategy all too well, playing almost to the book. Although… to see it in action with such fluidity is quite the new experience for her, far different than reading words from a book.

After all, it offers her a chance to exploit those same strategies in her favor.

A crisis is not a guaranteed opportunity, but a dangerous gamble. The one who controls the flow of the crisis decides its resolution, not the one who grew it for their own benefit. Avalel is making an attempt, but alas, he has failed to recognize Ipela’s own plans. Or so Ipela herself believes.

He wants an announcement. She shall give the people her announcement. Just as Avalel rapidly took over the faction, Ipela shall dismantle it just as fast, replacing him with her, leading the people with her cunning wisdom.

“Dear citizens of Thille, this is your President speaking,” Ipela’s voice nearly booms across the entire city. “The enemy has launched their attack on our final line of defense. Avalel has chosen to concentrate the troops at the Third Ring, and the moment he and we have prepared for has arrived.

“This is an unprecedented crisis since the beginning of this faction, this de facto nation. We are not winning. We are losing even with the presence of Avalel on the battlefield. Ever since the Pass, we have been severely weakened. We are now, basically, defending our capital and last bastion merely six months after the Battle of the Pass. To put it frankly, we will be annihilated if we continue as such, with our stubborn infantry defenses barely holding out.

“We have our brave soldiers out there fighting for their lives, for our lives, but can we guarantee we will surely win? Avalel will devote his life to our faction, but can one young boy truly do much to change the tide? We are here, tending to the city, but if our lines do fall, then we have no more means to defend ourselves.

“The arsenals are still loaded with weapons, our factories are still churning out firearms as we speak, yet we do not have the soldiers to hold all of them. In these dire straits, is it not time us citizens rise up against the impending fist of the Confederation?

“The conscription is not enough. A militia must be formed, the economy must be temporarily redirected solely towards the war effort, the entire state must come together as one, to lay down our lives for our collective survival. I, an old lady far past her prime, will take up arms, to lead all of us into battle.

“And we shall cry: For freedom, unto death do we part! If we fall, then let us fall in a blaze of destruction with our enemies!

“Open the gates,” she ends. “And let them see Death.”

Avalel had ordered her to announce the crisis to the people, to inject fear into their hearts. Ipela has painted the crisis into an opportunity for the people to arm themselves, to seize power for themselves, or so they believe. An overreaction. The people cannot be idle, or at least not now. If it brings chaos and instability to his control, then that shall be even better.

The “savior” must be brought down. She cannot control him anymore. Her strings can no longer attach themselves to her unruly, malfunctioning puppet.

And what do puppeteers do to their useless, uncontrollable puppets? They discard them.

She had hoped to control Avalel from behind the scenes once he seized power, but that is no longer possible. Avalel is no longer Avalel. She cannot rely on controlling him alone any further.

Like Nasition, the people shall be Ipela’s weapon, her puppets. And in crisis they will dance to her bidding.