Three weeks into training, the recruits were finally shown the place that officially did not exist.
The Ministry called it the Narrative Synthesis Department.
Among senior staff it had another name.
The Foundry.
Because myths were not discovered there.
They were forged.
The elevator descended farther than Ciprian had ever gone.
Level 32.
Level 48.
Level 71.
The numbers kept dropping.
The recruits exchanged nervous glances.
Even Lena-5 looked uneasy.
Finally the doors opened.
No one spoke.
The room beyond was enormous.
Hundreds of people worked at curved workstations.
Towering holographic displays floated overhead.
Streams of information flowed through the air.
Languages.
Images.
Behavioral statistics.
Psychological models.
Historical archives.
Educational outcomes.
Emotional response maps.
Entire civilizations reduced to data.
Halden stood at the entrance.
Arms folded.
Watching them absorb the scale.
“Welcome.”
His voice echoed.
“To the Foundry.”
They followed him onto a platform overlooking the operation.
Far below, teams worked in concentric circles.
One section studied children.
Another studied adult behavioral compliance.
Another monitored social stability metrics.
Another generated educational content.
Another tracked dream reports.
Dream reports?
Ciprian frowned.
Had he read that correctly?
Halden noticed.
“You seem surprised.”
“I thought myths were written by authors.”
Laughter erupted from nearby instructors.
Halden smiled.
“Authors?”
More laughter.
“My dear recruits.”
He gestured toward the vast chamber.
“Authors write stories.”
A pause.
“We manufacture civilizations.”
Silence.
The first station they visited was called:
HISTORICAL SIMPLIFICATION
Thousands of old records floated above the analysts.
Wars.
Religions.
Political movements.
Ancient nations.
The complexity was overwhelming.
A woman greeted them.
“Director Nara.”
Halden nodded.
“Explain.”
She pointed toward a hologram.
The image showed twenty-seven conflicting historical accounts of the same event.
Children would never understand all of them.
Adults barely could.
Nara spoke calmly.
“Human beings do not experience reality.”
She enlarged the files.
“They experience narratives.”
Another gesture.
The twenty-seven accounts merged into one simplified story.
Clean.
Elegant.
Understandable.
“Truth contains friction.”
The recruits listened.
“Stories remove friction.”
A young recruit frowned.
“But isn’t that dishonest?”
Nara smiled.
“No.”
She enlarged a human brain model.
“It is translation.”
Another station.
EMOTIONAL ENGINEERING
A giant screen displayed children’s faces.
Thousands of them.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Crying.
Learning.
Behavioral algorithms tracked every reaction.
An instructor explained.
“We test narratives before deployment.”
Lena raised her hand.
“Deployment?”
“Stories.”
The instructor said it casually.
“As though discussing software updates.”
“We expose controlled populations to competing versions.”
He pointed.
“Version A increases empathy by six percent.”
“Version B increases cooperation by eleven percent.”
“Version C reduces tribal attachment by fourteen percent.”
The room became quiet.
The recruits suddenly understood.
The Union wasn’t teaching stories.
It was optimizing citizens.
Then came the final chamber.
The chamber nobody discussed.
The one protected by armed security.
Three identity scans.
Retinal confirmation.
Genetic verification.
Neural pattern authentication.
The door opened.
Inside stood only one thing.
A vast black archive.
Miles of shelving.
Countless records.
Books.
Artifacts.
Images.
Personal journals.
Flags.
Religious icons.
Photographs.
Everything the Union had removed.
Everything the Union had replaced.
Everything the Union feared.
The room felt different.
Heavier.
Almost alive.
No one spoke.
Even Halden seemed uncomfortable.
A recruit whispered:
“What is this?”
Halden answered quietly.
“Memory.”
The word echoed strangely.
Lena stepped forward.
“Why keep it?”
No one answered immediately.
Finally Halden spoke.
“Because destruction is dangerous.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked at the shelves.
“A lie can be exposed.”
“A deletion can be discovered.”
“A hidden thing acquires power.”
The recruits stared.
Halden continued.
“So we preserve everything.”
“Locked away.”
“Controlled.”
“Observed.”
A pause.
“Contained.”
Ciprian found himself staring at an object behind glass.
An old wooden cross.
Simple.
Hand-carved.
Worn smooth by generations of hands.
He couldn’t explain why.
But something inside him tightened.
A feeling.
Recognition.
The sensation vanished immediately.
Still—
he couldn’t stop looking.
Halden appeared beside him.
“Interesting choice.”
Ciprian startled.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring at that for thirty seconds.”
“Sorry.”
“No need.”
Halden looked at the cross.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Some kind of religious artifact.”
“Correct.”
“Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Halden watched him carefully.
Too carefully.
Later that evening, after the tour ended, Ciprian received a summons.
No explanation.
No destination.
Just a time.
21:00.
Attendance mandatory.
The room was small.
Only four people waited inside.
The Director from the interview.
Halden.
Nara.
And an elderly woman Ciprian had never seen before.
No introductions.
No greetings.
The Director spoke first.
“Sit.”
Ciprian obeyed.
For several moments they simply looked at him.
Studied him.
Evaluated him.
Like a specimen.
Finally Nara broke the silence.
“Do you know why you were selected?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
Ciprian thought.
“My scores?”
“No.”
“My interviews?”
“No.”
“My loyalty?”
Actual laughter.
The old woman chuckled.
The Director smiled.
“Definitely not your loyalty.”
A chill ran through him.
Halden activated a display.
Thousands of interview recordings appeared.
Rejected applicants.
Thousands of them.
Then only a few remained.
Then fewer.
Then fewer.
Until only Ciprian’s image remained.
The Director spoke.
“You consistently demonstrated unusual cognitive traits.”
“What traits?”
“Pattern recognition.”
Nara answered.
“Tolerance for ambiguity.”
Halden added:
“Resistance to ideological certainty.”
The old woman:
“And curiosity.”
The Director nodded.
“Especially curiosity.”
Ciprian frowned.
“Those sound like positive qualities.”
The four exchanged looks.
Then the old woman laughed.
A sad laugh.
The kind people make when speaking difficult truths.
“Positive?”
She leaned forward.
“Citizen.”
“Every revolution in history began with curiosity.”
Silence.
“Every heretic.”
“Every scientist.”
“Every prophet.”
“Every dissident.”
A pause.
“Every dangerous person.”
The Director folded his hands.
“The Union faces a paradox.”
“What paradox?”
“The best myth engineers cannot fully believe myths.”
Silence.
“You cannot manufacture stories if you cannot see through them.”
The words hit him like a hammer.
Nobody spoke.
The Director continued.
“The true believers become teachers.”
“The skeptics become engineers.”
Ciprian felt suddenly cold.
“What are you saying?”
Halden answered.
“We selected you because you understand stories.”
Nara added:
“You understand people.”
The old woman:
“You understand doubt.”
The Director finished:
“And someday you may understand truths we don’t.”
Silence.
Long silence.
Then Ciprian asked:
“Why tell me this?”
Nobody answered immediately.
Finally the Director stood.
Walked toward the black window overlooking the city.
Lights stretched to the horizon.
Perfect order.
Perfect peace.
Perfect control.
He spoke without turning.
“Because the Union’s greatest strength…”
His voice softened.
“…is also its greatest weakness.”
“What weakness?”
The Director finally looked at him.
For the first time there was something human in his eyes. Something tired. Something frightened.
“Memory.”
The room went silent.
“Empires fall when people forget.”
The Director said.
“Religions fall when people forget. Nations fall when people forget.”
A pause.
“The Union is different.”
“How?”
The Director stared into the darkness.
“The Union falls when people remember.”
No one spoke.
“Be careful, Ciprian-8.”
“The people who are best at building myths…“
…are usually the first to escape them.”
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