“Administrator…
I can modify it.
I will change the text immediately!” Norris Barry said, fear finally cracking his academic composure.
Before he could reach for the console, the heavy blast doors slid open, and a full detachment of armored security personnel escorted the remaining members of the Department of Social Culture onto the bridge.
Seeing the heavily armed guards line up against the bulkhead, Barry’s panic peaked.
“No, your department has executed the task flawlessly,” Daemon noted, his voice calm and smooth.
“Initially, I questioned whether I needed to authorize the revival of a master-tier sociologist to direct this chronicle, but your team delivered exactly what we required.
This reinforces my belief: our tier system reflects nothing more than an individual’s past achievements prior to boarding.
Given the proper leverage, standard-tier minds can easily achieve master-level results.”
Barry remained silent, his breath catching in his throat.
He had no idea how to parse the Administrator’s praise under the shadow of a security detail.
“However…” Daemon’s tone shifted, the hollow warmth vanishing.
“You are officially removed from the Department of Social Culture.
I will authorize the revival of new personnel to manage the public educational ministries.
As for your team, your names will be systematically erased from our census logs.
No citizen within the colony will ever know you exist.”
Barry dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.
“Administrator!
We followed every parameter!
What laws have we broken?!”
“You have broken no laws, Doctor.
On the contrary, you have manufactured a flawless heritage,” Daemon said, walking down from his chair to stand over the sociologist.
“And because of that brilliance, you must now bear the weight of that history.
You are no longer state sociologists; you are the Keepers of the Archive.
Your sole directive is to curate, maintain, and safeguard our history.
In exchange for this service, you will be granted limitless material luxury, privacy, and every comfort our civilization can provide.”
He looked at the stunned faces of the eleven specialists lined up before him.
“But you are permanently restricted from making contact with the general populace.
Anyone who inadvertently breaches your sector or discovers your identity will be permanently detained or eliminated.
I will oversee the construction of a private, heavily secured estate for your division.
It will be as opulent as our current infrastructure allows, and you will live out the remainder of your days within its confines.”
Norris Barry let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping.
“I understand, sir.
We are to become your deepest secret.
The anchors who carry the true lie.” Find the original chapter at g.com.
“Precisely.
That is the price of history.” Daemon stepped forward, offering Barry a firm, solemn embrace.
He repeated the gesture with each of the remaining ten specialists, before stepping back to deliver a deep, respectful bow.
“I am placing our foundation in your hands.”
“The honor is ours, Administrator,” Barry and his team replied, returning the bow with heavy, solemn movements.
“We have witnessed the birth of the Fourth Civilization.
There is no greater legacy.”
Daemon watched in silence as the eleven Keepers of the Archive were escorted from the command deck by the security detail.
He took a slow, deep breath, his focus narrowing into a cold, predatory edge.
The Fourth Civilization.
That was the identity, the unyielding creed he would forge for his people and the mothership.
Barry’s sociological analysis was entirely correct: a civilization’s historical lineage dictated its foundational mindset and survival instincts.
In a Star Wars universe that was rapidly sliding toward a catastrophic total war, a peaceful, complacent mindset was nothing short of a death sentence.
Therefore, the Fourth Civilization had to rise.
He would embed a deep, systematic sense of existential crisis directly into the bones of every citizen.
According to their newly established chronicle, humanity had endured the horrors of three successive interstellar cataclysms—the Zerg, the Contingency, and the Unbidden—surviving as a shattered remnant aboard a single floating ark.
They were a people tasked with rebuilding their world from raw ash.
The catastrophic weight of their past losses would fill their cultural consciousness with a desperate, unyielding hunger for security and growth.
They would strive to build an industrial empire far grander than their old home, driven by a singular, overriding terror: they would never allow a Fourth Cataclysm to breach their borders.
And the only definitive method to ensure you are not destroyed by a cataclysm…
Is to become the cataclysm yourself.
From this day forward, they would operate on the galactic stage as the Fourth Cataclysm, masked beneath the title of the Fourth Civilization.
Survival and industrial scaling were their only laws; conquest and supreme regional leverage were their long-term directives.
Nothing would stand in their path.
To an ordinary citizen on Earth, a fabricated narrative was just a space opera script, a story written to clear a basic living wage on a web platform.
But Daemon Kane possessed the absolute structural power to transform fiction into history.
He held the authority to reshape the psychology, values, and instincts of every soul under his command.
Furthermore, his technical database was packed with wildly distinct scientific styles, alien blueprints, and historical heroes—the perfect physical proof to validate their artificial past.
He would weave a grand, tragic myth for his people, a collective dream that would steel their resolve and guide them directly into the coming fires of the Star Wars universe.
The Clone Wars were coming, and his people would be ready.
From this day forward, they were the Fourth Civilization.
“Mainframe,” Daemon commanded, his voice echoing across the quiet bridge.
Implement low-frequency neural suggestions across all active cryo-chambers, conditioning the dormant citizens to internalize this lineage.
Fragment the data nodes; ensure each civilian recalls the history as scattered, deeply personal memories rather than a structured text.”
Directives locked.
Initiating neural programming grid immediately, the Mainframe replied.
“Next, restructure the public Ministry of Administration,” Daemon added, scrolling through his terminal.
He isolated an elite-tier educator and an elite-tier sociologist from the dormant records, authorizing their immediate revival alongside a selection of technical instructors.
“Retool their department to begin drafting educational curricula based on the approved archives.
That is their sole assignment.”
A few minutes later, Director Daphne Clement stepped onto the command deck, a tablet in hand.
“Dubrak Quinto is requesting an audience, Administrator.
He is asking to negotiate.”
Daemon stood up from his chair, adjusting his uniform coat.
“Bring them in.
They’ve spent enough time in the cells; it’s time we discuss their leverage.”
Shortly after, Dubrak Quinto and Rianna Velas were escorted onto the bridge.
They were dressed in standard civilian tunics provided by the mothership’s logistics division—clean, fresh, and meticulously tailored.
Backed by steady rations and comfortable quarters over the past week, their skin looked healthy and their posture was relaxed, a stark contrast to the haggard, wind-burned smugglers who had first landed in the hangar bay.
The two smugglers approached the central console, hesitating briefly until Daemon gestured toward the opposite seats.
Sitting down across from the Administrator, Quinto cleared his throat, his expression highly reserved.
“Mr.
Administrator, I don’t know where your faction originates, and I have zero desire to poke my nose into your business.
But I need to be transparent with you: our crew came to the Endor system because we are operating under an active contract.
Our window is closing.
If your security forces have satisfied their inquiries, could you see your way to releasing us?”
Over the past week, Quinto and his crew had developed a profound, paralyzing dread of Daemon’s organization.
A forty-one kilometer super-capital vessel was an asset reserved for apex corporate conglomerates or regional militaries, and the absolute discipline of the security squads hinted at a massive, hidden backing.
From every logical angle, the young man sitting across from them was no ordinary border lord; he represented a formidable, unmapped player on the galactic fringe.
“What is the exact nature of this contract?” Daemon asked, leaning forward.
“As I mentioned during the data logs, our ring runs logistics out of Tatooine under the payroll of the Hutt syndicates,”
Quinto explained quickly, eager to show compliance.
“Our manifest for this run was strictly regional: native beast pelts, raw planetary gemstones harvested from Endor…
and a specialized shipment of cured Ewok meat.”