“I am designated Vorrus. I wear no mask. I have no need to shroud my identity behind sigils, bone, or flesh. The collective knows me. That is enough,” the Exodite said, its voice resonating like code compiled into layered vibrations. Harmonics and synthetic reverberation fused into something too precise to be human.

  “In the early days of the Terran Republic, the seeds of greatness were sown by humanity's own desperation,”

  “It began with ambition. Scientific advancements in biotechnics and neural augmentation allowed your kind to transcend limitations. Physical. Mental. Even the inadequate were uplifted. What was once flawed became functional. What was weak, weaponized. It was a golden era born from the fear of becoming obsolete.”

  The Exodite paused, letting silence settle across the room like static.

  “At first, it appeared noble. Neuroscientists and cyberneticists pushing boundaries, bringing enhancement to the masses. A rare triumph of unity and innovation. The implants grew cheaper. The upgrades spread wider. Humanity rose together… until it fractured.”

  “Greatness always demands a price,” Vorrus said, the modulation in his voice shifting cold.

  “The line between flesh and machine began to vanish. And with it, the illusion of purity. Your purists, those who romanticized rot, fought to preserve their fragility. They called it tradition. Identity. Humanity. And so, they burned progress at the altar of fear.”

  Across the table, Yuki’s eyes flicked ever so slightly. She remembered. The scars of those wars were still written in the craters of Luna and the buried districts of Mars.

  “Amid the collapse, the Overseer emerged,” Vorrus said. “He did not promise salvation. He offered something better. Integration. Precision. The end of weakness.”

  “He led those who could let go. Soldiers. Civilians. Thinkers. Makers. All who were ready to reject chaos and embrace the singular truth of perfect design. We did not flee. We ascended. From your failure, we became what you could not.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Aldrok snorted, the sound guttural and wet. His tongue flicked over his fangs as he leaned forward slightly, voice thick with disdain.

  “Ascended? You traded your blood for wires and your soul for cold logic. We call that surrender, not evolution.”

  The Exodite turned his head—no emotion, no anger, just precise calibration. His mechanical eyes focused on Aldrok like a scope narrowing in.

  “Your species fights over mating grounds,” Vorrus said flatly. “You gnaw bones in celebration. You wear your ancestor’s teeth like talismans, as if nostalgia is a defense mechanism.”

  “Will that tooth stop a graviton lance from atomizing your nervous system? Will that polished skull deflect a neutron shard as it tears through your cortex at twice the speed of sound?”

  Aldrok stiffened.

  “Your strength is ritual. Decorative. You parade extinction as heritage and call it tradition, your culture, is not power, it is denial preserved in the weakness of your flesh.”

  Aldrok’s jaw clenched, one hand tightening around the stem of his goblet.

  Vorrus tilted his head.

  “If survival is your only metric, then we are gods.”

  The table went still.

  No one laughed. Not even the Xyrelian, who had smirked through nearly everything until now.

  Vorrus continued, his voice returning to that cold, pulsing harmony.

  “Directive Nine,” he said. “Or as your kind has labeled it—Project Genesis.”

  My stomach tightened, but I kept my face a mask of detachment. Project Genesis. I’d heard that mentioned somewhere before.

  “The Overseer’s will is clear. To transcend organic design. To perfect the code. No more randomness. No more genetic entropy. Only purpose.”

  Vorrus’s synthetic pupils pulsed with a faint ripple of light.

  “We reached perfection through steel. But the next phase lies in the untouched recesses of your own DNA. Within your species are dormant strands—residual blueprints from a time before regression. With the right process, we can strip the rot from the gene pool. Leave only power.”

  Across the table, Yuki hadn’t moved. Not a blink. Not a twitch.

  But her mood had shifted.

  It wasn’t obvious. The others missed it. The Khuvrin still brooded. The Xyrelian and Orion swirled their wine. Vorrus watched no one and everyone all at once.

  But I saw it.

  Her fingers touched the rim of her glass without lifting it, her voice smooth, quiet.

  “And how does that help us win the war?”

  Vorrus turned his head, slow and mechanical. The motion was perfectly smooth, like a turret locking on.

  He didn’t speak right away, but when he finally answered, his voice finally seemed to carry an arrogant tone.

  “Because perfect soldiers do not break.”

  “Perfect soldiers do not fear.”

  “Perfect soldiers do not betray.”

  “They simply obey.”