At dawn, the sky above the capital burned with the pale orange of awakening fire. Below, a thousand towers shimmered like glass spears, cutting through smoke that rose from distant conflict zones. Somewhere far beneath that beauty, men and women starved, bled, and screamed.
High above them all sat Elito — the Grand Lord of strategy, the invisible architect of chaos.
He reclined on a balcony of gold, his posture elegant, his expression calm. A thin smile played on his lips as he sipped black coffee from a crystal cup. Before him, projected into the air, floated a colossal holographic chessboard — except this one was alive. Cities, armies, banks, and media networks pulsed across it like organisms in motion. Every piece represented a nation, a leader, a movement.
"Sheep are waking up," Elito murmured, setting his cup down. "But they still don't see the game."
"Behind every chaos," the narration whispered, "a hand guides the threads."
The chessboard moved with a flick of his mind. Armies advanced. Economies faltered. News anchors smiled into their cameras, reciting words he had written.
Elito leaned back, eyes half-lidded. "Far-right, left-wing… all pawns. Let them destroy each other while I sip my coffee."
His fingers twitched, and across the hologram, nations convulsed. Tiny lights—representations of protests and riots—flickered to life.
"Manipulation is not brute force," the narration murmured. "It is patience, observation, and timing."
The map before him became a storm. Civil unrest in one region triggered financial panic in another. Riots in one city fanned propaganda in a third. Each spark fed the next until the world burned evenly.
"Disunity is my masterpiece," he said softly, watching miniature flames crawl across the holographic continents. "Each group eating the other, blind to the threads I weave."
The room darkened. His aura, barely visible before, began to pulse like liquid shadow, coiling through the air.
"Divide and conquer," the voice continued. "The oldest game—perfected."
Elito turned his gaze toward a separate screen — one showing the movements of Valgor, Maya, Jessica, and the Revolutionary Army. His expression sharpened, almost fond.
"Ah, the brave ones," he whispered. "So noble, so predictable. I've already moved my Saints. They don't even know the storm has begun."
Around him, small drones hovered, each projecting live footage from conflict zones. His empire of chaos operated like clockwork.
"Even heroes are pieces on a board they cannot see."
He stood and stretched, his silhouette long against the morning sun. The walls around him shimmered with news feeds — economies collapsing, cities burning, people shouting, leaders posturing.
"Two billion spent," Elito said with a soft laugh. "The minds are mine. Poor people can't unite—they never will."
On the chessboard, miniature figures screamed silently as riots tore through their districts. His eyes glowed faintly with satisfaction.
"Control is subtle," whispered the narration. "Chaos becomes natural when you plant the seed."
He flicked a hand. New holographic markers appeared — glowing icons representing his Saints, the elite enforcers of his will. They spread across the globe like invisible phantoms, stationed in positions of power.
"Let the true test begin," Elito murmured. "Let's see how the world collapses under their hands."
His aura swirled outward, thick as smoke. Outside, the wind rose as though responding to his command.
"The world will think war is coming," said the voice. "But it has already begun."
The chessboard expanded until it merged seamlessly with the city skyline. Every skyscraper mirrored a tower on his board. Every street, a corridor in his design. Protesters below screamed in unison with the glowing pawns he manipulated.
"Observe carefully," he said, raising a hand. "Fear, hatred, loyalty, betrayal. Every emotion serves my game."
On the screens, armies moved. Children cried. Reporters preached. All in harmony.
"A master does not fight," the narration said. "He orchestrates."
Elito sat again, swirling the last sip of his coffee. The faces of political leaders flickered before him — presidents, generals, kings — each one unknowingly tied to his influence.
"Soon," he whispered, "they will consume themselves… while I remain untouched, unseen, inevitable."
"Power lies not in the sword," the narration intoned, "but in the mind that shapes the world unseen."
Across continents, fires bloomed in sequence. Demonstrations turned to riots. Soldiers opened fire. The far-right screamed about purity; the far-left screamed about justice. Elito smiled at both.
"When every group is isolated," he said, "fear rules. And fear is my ally."
He moved a piece labeled Media. Instantly, the holographic news networks twisted their narrative. Citizens argued online, their outrage carefully directed.
"The world cannot see him," whispered the voice. "Only feel the consequences of his will."
Elito looked over the horizon as the sun finally broke through smoke. His reflection glimmered faintly on the chessboard.
"Morality," he mused, "is a weakness. I only measure efficiency."
Below, thousands of lives played out his decisions. He tilted his head, satisfied.
"Every pawn moved, every fire ignited," the narration breathed, "for a grand, ultimate design."
His hand hovered over the final chess piece — a symbol of global ignition. The winds around his balcony howled as if the planet itself recoiled.
"The serpent sleeps in plain sight," said the voice, "unseen by those who think they are free."
Far away, his Saints began their work. One stirred civil conflict through whispers. Another manipulated trade routes. A third hacked information networks, shaping what humanity would believe tomorrow.
"Even the strongest resistance," Elito murmured, "is a predictable pattern."
The chessboard responded like a living creature, pulsing beneath his hands.
Every nation flickered red. Every movement pulsed with his influence.
"Every nation, a pawn… every emotion, fuel for the storm."
The board expanded again, this time into towers that overlapped the world itself. Soldiers, protesters, children, leaders — all moved in chaotic synchronization, like a single dance.
"The world's chaos," he said, "is my symphony."
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment of quiet satisfaction. His aura dimmed to a steady hum, dark and patient.
"Soon," Elito whispered, "even the boldest resistance will realize the game began long ago."
Outside, thunder rolled. The holographic board froze mid-motion — a moment of perfect tension.
"All pieces are in place."
He stood once more as the wind swirled around him, his aura expanding into a halo of unseen power. Every leader across the globe felt it — a chill, an unspoken fear, a whisper they couldn't name.
"Charisma is a weapon," the narration concluded. "And terror is its whisper."
Elito smiled. The city before him glowed faintly red, like a world on the edge of combustion.
He took one last sip of coffee, eyes gleaming with quiet triumph.
"The Grand Lord moves unseen," the voice whispered.
"The world dances to his will."
And as the light faded, his final words lingered over the silent board —
"Soon… the storm will be undeniable."