In a grandiose palace, shaped from gleaming marble and enriched with sparkling gold, where elegant fountains stand as guardians of majestic gardens, the president of Serdaryaristan, Murgasht Yazdaryk, busies himself in his office, drafting bills intended for his assembly, fully aware, however, that it could never truly oppose him.
Yet, behind the imposing columns of this opulent palace, where the echo of footsteps resounds gravely in endless corridors, Murgasht Yazdaryk knows that real power is not in the papers he scribbles, nor in the speeches he delivers beneath the heavy crystal chandeliers. The laws he drafts are mere formalities, screens meant to give the illusion of democracy in a country where any true opposition has long been silenced. His power, absolute and uncontested, stems from a much darker, more insidious source.
The palace's vast gardens, hidden behind their impeccably trimmed bushes, conceal another side of Serdaryaristan's governance. In the shadows of ancient orange and olive trees, security agents watch with cold precision, ready to crush any whisper of dissent. Modern technology, subtly integrated, scrutinizes every movement, and every breath of the rare visitors and dignitaries who tread these grounds.
That day, Yazdaryk, his brow furrowed, glances at the large bay window in his office. The landscape beyond the walls seems serene, almost frozen in an eternity of prosperity. But he, a president for life proclaimed by his parliament and himself, knows better than anyone that the appearance of peace can mask coming storms. Beyond the gardens and fountains, beyond the mountains marking the country's border, the outside world is beginning to stir. The great powers watch, wary, while the voice of the people, stifled for too long, rumbles from the very depths of the nation.
Setting down his gold pen with a sharp gesture, Yazdaryk feels a wave of fatigue wash over him. The latest economic reforms he orchestrated—benefiting an increasingly narrow elite—are beginning to crack the fragile social balance he had maintained until now. Rumours of protests, of underground uprisings, are being heard. With each new meeting with his advisers, the worry grows, and his mental health suffers.
But Yazdaryk is not a man to be easily shaken. Since his rise to power, he has survived countless destabilization attempts, removed political rivals, and crushed rebellions. He has imposed himself as the uncontested master of this land, and he has no intention of relinquishing that now. The submission of some and the fear of others are his greatest allies; terror is his weapon.
He stands up, contemplating the vast office for a moment, furnished with the wealth that testifies to his lavish reign. Yet, behind the decorations and statues, one question haunts him: how much longer can he maintain this illusion of control, as everything around him seems to waver quietly?
Suddenly, a discreet knock at the door breaks the silence. One of his most trusted advisers, dressed in an impeccable suit, enters and bows slightly.
"Mr. President, the situation in Vardanya is becoming worrisome. The people are at their breaking point, and the protests are growing. We need to act quickly."
Yazdaryk slowly turns his head toward his adviser, a slight smile forming on his lips. "Do not worry. We always have a way to extinguish flames before they spread." His gaze turns icy. "Do the necessary."
The adviser nods and quietly exits, leaving an atmosphere heavy with tension. In the marble and gold palace, beneath the shimmering chandeliers, Yazdaryk remains alone, master of his kingdom… for now.
VARDANYA PROVINCE, SERDARYARISTAN, OCTOBER 7, 2024. [ARMED HELICOPTERS TAKE OFF FROM THE LOCAL MILITARY BASE (SECRET LOCATION)] DOCUMENT LOGGED.
The usually quiet province of Vardanya suddenly stirs under the distant hum of rotors. A veritable swarm of helicopters, all armed with air-to-ground missiles and mounted machine guns, heads toward a village that, according to government reports, harbours regime opponents. Of course, the mission's goal is not to massacre an entire population. It is primarily a coordinated intimidation effort, a show of force meant to deter opposition.
In the peaceful village of Vardanya, called Nordhek, the inhabitants go about their daily activities, unaware that the spectre of violence is approaching. The rumble of helicopters intensifies, thundering like a storm over the parched hills. Children play, women tend to household chores, and men discuss the upcoming harvests. But soon, everything changes.
As the rotor noise draws nearer, a heavy silence settles. Eyes turn skyward where a threatening shadow appears. The helicopters, adorned with the military colours of Serdaryaristan, streak across the blue sky with their silhouettes. The villagers, initially puzzled, feel a growing sense of anxiety. The murmurs of opposition that have circulated in the shadows begin to weigh heavily on their minds.
The whispers of past revolts, voices silenced by Yazdaryk's regime, return to the minds of the elderly—memories of friends imprisoned for their ideas and families broken by repression. Fear, which had been a distant memory, creeps back into their hearts.
The helicopters land with a crash on the village's outskirts, raising clouds of dust and debris. Soldiers, heavily armed, disembark, creating a spectacle of power and authority. They organize into units, deploying with military precision, while the operation's commander, a stern-looking man, consults a map, his eyes fixed on the village.
"Round up all the suspects. We cannot allow a rebellion. Not here, not now." His orders resonate in Vardanya's hot air, and the soldiers move into action, determined to enforce terror.
In such a brief time, the villagers found themselves lined up in a long single file, winding toward the nearby dunes. All were forced to present their documents, whether identity papers or permits. The other, more unfortunate ones, however, stood waiting, battered by the harshness of a sun that grew ever more scorching as the moment of noon approached inexorably. A few dared to defy the authority, boldly urging Yazdaryk’s envoys to go to hell, but they were swiftly silenced by the crack of military rifle butts.
An interminable wait weighed heavily on them. While the soldiers, sheltered under a tent, enjoyed the comfort of shade and the breeze from fans, the villagers had nothing. They were forced to remain in line, and not even permitted to step away to eat or drink. It was then that Yazdaryk’s true strategy was fully revealed. He knew he risked reigniting the flames rather than extinguishing them, but he also knew that a crowd of frightened villagers was no match for the overwhelming might of his army.
The faces of the villagers, once peaceful, were now marked by anxiety, and every whisper was stifled by the fear of reprisal. The humiliation was insidious; the endless wait under the burning sun had become a form of torture, designed to crush any remaining resistance, even moral.
The few brave voices that had dared to challenge authority, though quickly silenced, still echoed in the minds of the inhabitants. Each crack of a rifle butt, every barked command, served as a stark reminder of the brutal reality of Yazdaryk's power. The villagers, long accustomed to the quiet domination of the regime, now tangibly felt terror. The deafening roar of helicopters, the stomping of military boots, and the relentless heat created a suffocating atmosphere.
In the village of Nordhek, what had once been a calm, serene atmosphere was now transformed into a hell of tension and oppression. The villagers, under the crushing heat and the constant drone of military helicopters, understood that the central government was not there to negotiate. The soldiers, with their hard, indifferent faces, had established themselves as temporary masters of the situation, their dark uniforms contrasting with the ochre earth and the modest white stone houses.
Murgasht Yazdaryk, hundreds of kilometres away, revelled in this display of force. Behind his marble walls and lush gardens, he knew that this spectacle wasn’t just meant for the people of Vardanya but for the entire country. It was a message to every citizen: those who opposed the regime would face the full, unrelenting force of the state. The economic reforms and growing inequalities could be silently contested, but to express them openly meant inviting a crushing response.
In the line at Nordhek, the elderly muttered prayers, the young clenched their fists, and some children quietly wept, while the soldiers scanned faces, searching for any sign of dissent. The village, usually alive with a simple, quiet life, was now under the weight of a constant threat.
The helicopters hovered menacingly above the village, like a permanent warning. The operation’s commander, cold and calculating, walked slowly among the villagers, pointing out those he deemed suspicious, and separating them from the others. These unfortunate souls were then taken to armored vehicles, with no explanation or justification. Their fate, as was often the case, would never be revealed.
For the people of Vardanya, injustice had become an unavoidable part of their daily lives, but this time, the intensity of the repression hinted at an even darker future. The village had experienced repression under Yazdaryk before, but never had such brutality been displayed so openly. It was a brutal warning: any hint of resistance, however small, would be crushed without mercy.
As he read the hourly reports, Yazdaryk felt a mixture of satisfaction and wariness. He knew that a power built on terror couldn’t last forever. Cracks were beginning to show in his absolute control: the faltering economy and the growing whispers of revolt. Yet, as long as the flames of rebellion could be extinguished before they flared, he was prepared to sacrifice anything to maintain the illusion of stability. His paranoia was at its apogee, but this was his country, and he would never ever let it slip away from him.
At 9:30 PM, as the day drew to a close and the sun glowed red on the horizon, the helicopters withdrew, carrying terrified villagers, likely to detention centres from which few would emerge unscathed. The soldiers, having made one final show of their power, also retreated, leaving behind an oppressive silence and a traumatized village.
In Nordhek, calm returned, but it was no longer the same. Oppression had become a tangible reality, a heavy shadow that would settle permanently in the minds and hearts of the people. The president's message was clear: Serdaryaristan would belong to Yazdaryk for as long as he decreed, and no whisper, no rebellion, would disturb his iron rule.
PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, QERHAT PROVINCE, SERDARYARISTAN, OCTOBER 7, 2024. [YAZDARYK RECEIVES THE FINAL REPORT ON THE VARDANYA OPERATION] DOCUMENT LOGGED.
The printer below Yazdaryk’s desk stirred awake, spitting out the final, cold and clinical report—statistics and charts, detailing the Vardanya operation with chilling precision. How many villagers presented their documents, and how many did not. How many suspects were apprehended, and how many now languished in detention centres, awaiting interrogation, or worse. The numbers filled the president with a fleeting sense of relief, a momentary reassurance that his grip on the country was still ironclad. But the reprieve was short-lived, like a drop of water in the desert of his mind. Soon enough, the familiar gnaw of paranoia returned, sharper than before.
What if his show of force had only inflamed the rebellious spirit? What if the silent opposition, driven underground for years, was quietly gaining strength—feeding off the very repression he had unleashed? Yazdaryk had seen it happen in other regimes, in nations that crumbled because they could no longer balance fear with loyalty. Even his father, the predecessor he had overthrown, had maintained a delicate equilibrium, introducing just enough policies to keep the masses content, while enforcing his rule with a velvet-covered fist. Yazdaryk, however, had dispensed with the velvet entirely, and now he wondered if the iron was beginning to rust.
He leaned back in his opulent chair, eyes scanning the intricate ceiling of his office, where chandeliers glowed softly, casting a golden light over the marble and gold furnishings. This was his palace, his fortress. But it was also his cage. How long before the walls, which had protected him, became the very thing that isolated him from reality?
The truth clawed at the edge of his mind, but he pushed it back. The truth was dangerous. It would suggest that he, the man who had seized power through ruthless efficiency, could be losing his grip…
No.
That wasn’t possible.
Not for a man like him, a man who had outmanoeuvred every threat, crushed every rival, and silenced every voice of dissent. He had built Serdaryaristan into a kingdom of fear, where every whisper against him could be traced, every movement watched. He was untouchable. Wasn’t he?But beneath the polished surface of his thoughts, doubt festered.
What if it wasn’t the people who were lying to him, but the advisors and generals who surrounded him daily, showering him with reports that reinforced his sense of control? What if they were shielding him from the truth, manipulating his own paranoia to solidify their power behind the scenes? Yazdaryk knew the game of deception well—he had played it his entire career—but now, isolated in his palace, he couldn’t be sure if he was the one doing the deceiving or if he was the one being deceived.
He stood abruptly, pacing the vast room. His paranoia whispered of conspiracies, unseen enemies, and secret alliances. Could he even trust the numbers on the page? Or were they just another layer in the web of lies spun around him?
Outside the bay window, the twilight had given way to darkness, and the palace gardens, so meticulously maintained, now seemed like a sea of shadows. Even the fountains, their water glittering under the soft glow of garden lamps, offered no comfort. Beyond these walls, beyond the immaculate façade of his regime, something was stirring. The outside world—the world he had tried so hard to control—was beginning to slip through his fingers.
Suddenly, a knock at the door shattered the tense silence. Another adviser, no doubt, with more updates, more assurances that everything was under control. But Yazdaryk felt no desire to hear more hollow words. His instincts were screaming at him to act, to do something drastic before it was too late.
The knock echoed louder this time, reverberating through the gilded silence of Yazdaryk’s grand office. His gaze remained locked on the heavy oak door as if trying to anticipate what—or who—waited on the other side. His mind raced with a thousand possibilities, each darker than the last. Was there more news from Vardanya? A new threat? Perhaps one of his trusted advisers had turned against him?
His hand, almost on its own, drifted toward a drawer. He knew what was inside: the small, polished revolver that had been with him for years. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was his talisman, a reminder of the brutal world he had carved out for himself and the thin line that kept him in power. The cold steel beneath his fingertips grounded him, but as he touched it, a sudden, almost instinctive panic surged through his veins.
Not yet, he thought. Not now.
With a sharp motion, Yazdaryk slammed the drawer shut. The noise rang out louder than he expected, jarring him back to the present. A pencil case tumbled off the desk, crashing to the floor as he stumbled backwards, gripping the edge of his desk for balance, his knees almost buckling. He felt a jolt of embarrassment, though there was no one in the room to witness his moment of weakness.
“Mr. President. We need to speak,” a voice Yazdaryk recognised said behind the door. The individual in question was his military confidant, the most steadfast and reliable of his inner circle; yet even that profound conviction began to waver.
Murgasht Yazdaryk remained still, his gaze locked on the oak door, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The voice of his trusted military confidant was familiar, yet today it carried an undertone he couldn’t quite place. Was it urgency? Hesitation? Betrayal?
The faintest hint of sweat beaded on Yazdaryk's temple as the silence stretched between them. Slowly, he moved toward the door, each step echoing in the vast, opulent room, his mind racing through the possibilities. He had worked tirelessly to position himself as an immovable figure, one untouchable by dissent or rebellion. Yet in the cold, late evening air, doubt seemed to lurk like a shadow, waiting for a chance to strike.
With a deep breath, he opened the door. There stood General Arzhan Konaryk, his most loyal adviser since the beginning of his rise to power. Clad in his military uniform, perfectly pressed and adorned with medals, Konaryk was a man of few words, a paragon of discipline and loyalty—at least, until now.
Yazdaryk searched the general's eyes, looking for any sign of treachery. But Konaryk’s expression remained as unreadable as ever, his dark eyes betraying no emotion.
“What is it, Arzhan?” Yazdaryk asked, his voice harsher than intended.
Konaryk stepped forward, closing the door behind him with deliberate care, and then took a step closer to the president’s desk. His movements were calculated, slow, as though weighing his words before he spoke them.
“There’s a development, Mr. President,” Konaryk said, his voice low, the kind of tone used to deliver unwelcome news.
Yazdaryk stiffened, the unease creeping back into his chest. He sat down, never letting his eyes leave the general. “What development?” His words were sharp, slicing through the heavy atmosphere in the room.
Konaryk paused for a moment as if deciding how much truth to reveal. “The operation in Vardanya… it didn’t go as smoothly as anticipated.”
Yazdaryk’s fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair. “What do you mean?” His voice was dangerously quiet now, a whisper of impending fury.
“The arrests were made, as planned. However, there are reports that the operation has inflamed the situation further. Protests are growing in the surrounding villages. Some soldiers encountered resistance—a few skirmishes, nothing major for now, but…” Konaryk’s voice trailed off, his eyes finally meeting Yazdaryk’s with an unspoken warning.
Yazdaryk stood abruptly, pacing the room once more, his mind calculating every possible angle. The helicopters, the soldiers, the intimidation—he had thought it would be enough to break the spirits of the dissenters. Instead, it seemed he had only fueled their fire. His doubts were right. His paranoia, always simmering beneath the surface, now threatened to consume him entirely.
“Is it a rebellion?” Yazdaryk demanded, his voice now laced with anger and fear.
Konaryk hesitated. “Not yet. But there are signs that this could grow into something larger if we don’t act swiftly.”
Yazdaryk turned, glaring at his general. “And what do you suggest, Arzhan? Another show of force? More arrests? Should I raze the entire province to the ground?”
Konaryk didn’t flinch. He had seen the president’s rages before and knew better than to react. “No, Mr. President. I suggest we cut the head off the serpent before it becomes too large to control.”
Yazdaryk stopped in his tracks, his expression hardening. “What do you mean?”
Konaryk stepped forward, lowering his voice. “There’s a leader among them, a figure who’s rallying the opposition. We have intelligence on his whereabouts. If we take him out, we could cripple the movement before it gains momentum.”
Yazdaryk narrowed his eyes. A leader? Someone had managed to rise in the shadows without his knowledge? His paranoia now flared into a rage, the very thought that anyone could challenge his power sending a wave of fury through him.
“Who is he?” Yazdaryk demanded, his voice a hiss.
“A man named Alshan Ulan. He’s been quietly organizing resistance, spreading discontent among the people. He’s smart, Mr. President, and charismatic. The people are starting to listen to him.”
Yazdarik would sigh, clenching his fists. “I can’t imprison him or kill him, it’d only fuel their tantrum.” He muses aloud, before punching his desk in a fit of rage, causing a few papers to glide away to the ground. “Argh! What did I do to lead such deviant people?! Why the hell don’t my neighbours get these problems, huh?!”
As the impact of his fist reverberated through the room, Yazdaryk felt a surge of frustration engulf him. His palace, once a fortress of power and control, now seemed to be closing in around him like a gilded cage. He stood still, his chest heaving, eyes fixed on the scattered papers on the floor. Alshan Ulan. The name lingered in his mind like a thorn, an irritant in the smooth fabric of his rule.
General Konaryk stood motionless, carefully watching Yazdaryk, knowing better than to interrupt his outburst. The president was unpredictable at times like these—dangerous even. The wrong word could trigger an even more violent response. After several long moments, Yazdaryk finally turned toward him, his expression dark and calculating.
“If we can’t kill him without creating a martyr, then what do you suggest?” Yazdaryk’s voice was quieter now, the venom replaced with cold, methodical thought. “We can’t allow someone like him to gain traction among the people. He must be neutralized, but how?”
Konaryk stepped forward, his boots clicking against the marble floor. “We undermine him, Mr. President. Discredit him. Make him look like a fool or, better yet, a traitor. We don’t need to kill him directly—let the people turn on him instead.”
Yazdaryk's eyes lit up at the suggestion. His paranoia, which had been spiralling out of control moments earlier, now found a new target. Yes. He could work with this. Discrediting Ulan would not only remove the threat but also send a powerful message to anyone else considering resistance. But Ulsan’s minority was still pretty vocal, and infectious like a disease. He needs to convince them somehow.
“And how do we do that?” Yazdaryk asked, leaning forward, the gears in his mind already spinning. He envisioned a campaign—one that would paint Ulan not as a hero, but as a puppet of foreign interests, a traitor to Serdaryaristan, working in the shadows to tear apart the fabric of their nation.
“We’ll start by leaking false information,” Konaryk explained. “Create documents, letters, anything that ties him to foreign governments, terrorist cells, or criminal organizations. Spread rumours that he’s been siphoning money from the people’s donations, enriching himself while pretending to be one of them. Plant the seeds of doubt among his followers. Once the people start questioning his motives, his support will erode.”
Yazdaryk smiled for the first time that day—a grim, dangerous smile. The plan was simple but effective. It was the kind of ruthless cunning that had kept him in power for years. This is what he liked in Konaryk: he was just like him, and he trusted him. In front of him stood not just his military advisor, but his successor.
“And when the doubt takes hold?” Yazdaryk asked, already anticipating the answer.
“Then,” Konaryk replied with an icy certainty, “we arrest him. By the time we do, the people will see him not as a martyr, but as a criminal—a man who betrayed them for his own gain. The protests will lose their spark, and the movement will die.”
Yazdaryk nodded slowly, the tension in his body slowly draining as he latched onto this new course of action. It was the kind of plan that played perfectly to his strengths—deception, manipulation, control. He thrived in the shadows, where nothing was ever as it seemed.
“Good,” Yazdaryk said finally, sitting back down behind his desk. He reached for the scattered papers, calmly organizing them as though the outburst moments ago had never happened. “Make it happen. And do it quietly. I don’t want anyone to know it’s coming.”
Konaryk gave a sharp nod. “It will be done, Mr. President. We’ll begin immediately.”
As the general left the room, Yazdaryk remained seated, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his gold pen. The storm of anger and doubt had passed, leaving in its wake a sense of renewed purpose. He had been tested before—by rivals, by foreign powers, by his own people—and each time, he had emerged victorious. This would be no different.
Alshan Ulan was nothing more than an inconvenience, a mere bump in the road. Yazdaryk would deal with him, just as he had dealt with all the others. And when it was over, when Ulan was disgraced and forgotten, the people of Serdaryaristan would remember that there was only one true power in their country.
Murgasht Yazdaryk. Forever.