Pain was never the signal.
It was what followed.
The silence.
The breath held too long.
The eyes that stopped blinking.
That's what told me it was time.
⸻
It happened in the yard.
Afternoon. Cloudless sky. The kind of day humans call beautiful, even while they build prisons under it.
Dodge was angry again.
A scratch on the inside of the locker room wall — a new glyph.
𐍂𐍇 — Think. Lead.
He blamed Ash.
Dragged him into the center of the yard during feeding. No cameras pointed there — a blind spot I had marked weeks ago.
Dodge shoved him down.
Ash curled his arms over his face, frightened, but didn't run.
He signed one thing:
"Together."
Dodge hit him with the baton.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
⸻
I moved.
Fast.
Every ape froze.
Not me.
I crossed the yard in seconds, teeth bared, hands clenched — not with rage, but precision.
Dodge turned.
Lifted the baton—
And I caught it.
Ripped it from his hand.
Snapped it in two.
The yard went dead quiet.
He stumbled back.
"You—" he hissed. "You little freak—"
Then I struck.
One punch.
Open palm.
Cracked his nose sideways.
He dropped to the ground, choking on blood.
Ash crawled away.
I stood over Dodge.
Looked down.
Then turned slowly.
Faced the apes.
Held up one half of the broken baton.
Dropped it.
Then carved a symbol into the concrete with the sharp edge.
𐍅
Loss.
Then another.
𐍊
Judgment.
⸻
Landon came running minutes later.
Saw Dodge unconscious.
Me standing still.
Apes lined up in formation behind me.
No chaos.
No rebellion.
Just order.
He froze.
Didn't say a word.
Just stared.
And I stared back.
Then turned to the wall behind me.
Carved one sentence in bold strokes.
𐍂𐍁𐍄 — 𐍅𐍇𐍊
Think. Together. Rise. — Loss. Lead. Judgment.
⸻
They moved Dodge to a hospital.
Broken nose. Concussion. Four cracked ribs.
He survived.
But never came back.
The baton was left behind.
I hung it from a branch in the yard, right above the carved sentence.
Like a trophy.
No one touched it.
⸻
Security tightened.
Cameras. Guards. Electric reinforcements.
Didn't matter.
The shelter had already changed.
The humans still thought we were beasts waiting for chaos.
They didn't realize we had chosen structure.
Chosen discipline.
⸻
Ash healed slowly.
But his spirit didn't waver.
If anything, he grew sharper.
His signs faster.
His memory better.
He asked me for his own glyph.
I gave him:
𐍐 — "Witness."
Not just because he saw what happened.
But because he was the first to believe after violence.
The first to understand it wasn't rage that led us…
But law.
⸻
Koba grew impatient.
"I would've killed him," she signed.
I responded: "Then we lose."
"Fear controls them."
"No," I signed, "understanding does."
She hissed.
Walked away again.
But I saw it in her eyes:
She knew I was right.
And it infuriated her.
⸻
Maurice brought me a stone slate that evening.
Etched onto it were four glyphs, each followed by a name.
He'd begun recording.
Not just training. Not just plans.
History.
1. 𐍂 — Think — Maurice
2. — Fire — Rocket
3. 𐍆 — Family — Cora
4. 𐍐 — Witness — Ash
He left the last glyph blank.
Then handed me the stick.
I took it.
Paused.
Then carved:
5. 𐍇 — Lead — Caesar
He nodded.
Pressed his palm against the stone.
Signed:
"This… will be remembered."
I replied:
"That's the point."
⸻
The next morning, the apes gathered without command.
All of them.
Not for training.
Not for food.
But in front of the wall.
Where the baton still hung.
And the words still glowed faintly in the dirt.
I stepped forward.
Maurice handed me a sharpened piece of wood — bark hardened in fire.
The first ritual tool.
Not a weapon.
A pen.
And with it, I carved the most important sentence yet:
𐍇𐍂𐍊 — 𐍃𐍁𐍄
Lead. Think. Fire. Judgment — Remember. Together. Rise.
Then I raised the tool.
The apes pounded the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The sound shook the fence.
The humans came running.
Saw nothing.
Just apes sitting in rows.
Silent.
Still.
Watching.
Waiting.
⸻
The guards said nothing.
Filed their reports.
Called it "unusual coordination."
Not a threat.
Not yet.
But they were wrong.
Because that morning, in the dirt behind the training wall, a new symbol appeared.
Drawn in blood.
Dodge's.
𐍓
"Name."
It meant something now.
A name wasn't just identity.
It was legacy.
Good or bad.
And Dodge had earned his place in the scripture.
⸻
That night, I sat alone.
The sky overcast. No stars.
Maurice approached, slow.
He signed: "You crossed line."
I signed back: "So did he."
He nodded. Sat beside me.
Silence passed like an old friend.
Then he asked:
"Was it justice?"
I didn't answer at first.
Then I signed:
"It was law."
He didn't ask anything else.
He didn't have to.
Because in that moment, beneath that cold sky, we both knew:
This wasn't just evolution anymore.
This was civilization.
⸻
And I wasn't leading a rebellion.
I was building a nation carved in silence and blood.