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Viktor Volkov, a former high-ranking officer in the Belarusian secret service and now an influential functionary in the background, sat in his spartan office in a nondescript government building in Minsk. The only sound was the quiet ticking of a clock, underscoring an implacable silence. He was reviewing an encrypted report on dissident activity when the transparent pop-up interface appeared right in front of his icy, piercing eyes. He did not blink. His fingers, strong and short, rested motionless on the keyboard. What was this malfunction? A new form of cyber warfare? A psychological attack?

The words "start game" lit up. Absurd. This "game" was an unexpected variable in his perfectly controlled equation. He was used to pulling strings, not having strings appear in front of him. But instead of anger or panic, he felt a cool, analytical curiosity. He was a master of control, and this was something he didn’t yet control. His gaze fixated on the words, his mind focused. The mental click occurred without hesitation.

The twelve character classes rotated in front of him. Warriors? Too clumsy. Rangers? Too reliant on open terrain and direct confrontation. Thief? His methods were more subtle, more effective than pickpocketing. Traders? There were other, more obvious players for clumsy greed. Elementalists? Pure destruction with no strategic value. Summoner? Uncontrollable and unreliable. Craftsman? There would be time to rebuild when he was in control. Scholars analyzed, yes, but often too slowly, too publicly. He analyzed in his own way. What did it take to penetrate the unknown, to find the truth behind the masks, to recognize the hidden weaknesses? His gaze lingered on the mystic. Perception, intuition, the recognition of hidden things. That was it. It was the perfect weapon for a man like him. For his goals.

"Mystic," Viktor murmured, his thin lips barely parted. He was 68 years old, but his mind was sharper than ever. The screams and chaos coming from the streets of Minsk were just sounds of a chaotic world tearing itself apart. A world that was ready for someone to restore order from the shadows. His order.

He ignored the desperate knocking on his door. His informants and agents would already be making their own classifications. But which ones? And why? This information was more important than anything else. He would find out who had chosen which class, who adapted and who broke. Who would become his tools? Who would become his enemies? Viktor pulled out a small, inconspicuous radio that he always carried with him. His voice was calm and unemotional as he fed the first instructions into the encrypted network. His orders were precise: Activate all sleeper cells. Gather information about the global spread of the phenomenon and the initial reactions of the population. Find the weak points in the human systems that have now collapsed. Priority was given to infiltrating communication centers and taking over data servers. Under the guise of "national security", he ordered the control of information flows and the manipulation of narratives. The world was now a single, impenetrable labyrinth, and Viktor Volkov was ready to unravel - or tear - every thread.

Next Chapter: Shadowdance