Capítulo 236: Chapter 236
The city had grown quiet in a way that wasn't natural. A heavy air filled the streets, and the gray sky pressed down like an iron sheet. No one spoke too loudly anymore, no one dared laugh, or even breathe too deeply. The world was too tired, too broken, and too afraid to be anything else. They all had learned their place in the reign of Lord Proton.
It wasn't like before. Before, when the world had some semblance of freedom, when people used to shout and protest in the streets without fearing for their lives. That was before the rise of Lord Proton. Before the broadcasts. Before the executions. Before they'd learned the meaning of terror.
Now, the streets were filled with eyes that darted away, shoulders hunched in anticipation of someone, anyone, calling for rebellion. They knew what would come next.
The first public execution had been years ago. The young man had stood in the center of the square, trembling as he was forced to kneel before the camera. He had shouted at the people, screaming that Lord Proton would not last, that the world would rise again. His eyes, wide with rage and desperation, had looked directly into the lens, into the hearts of every person watching.
But Lord Proton had been prepared. The man's mouth had been shut, and his screams were silenced by the cold, precise bullet that struck him square in the forehead. The broadcast had cut out for only a second, but that was all it had taken. The blood splattered across the pavement in front of him, a brutal reminder to anyone who dared defy the rules.
That execution had sent a message. And the people had understood it well.
Beneath the weight of Lord Proton's rule, even the most courageous had learned to bend, to fold under the power of the broadcast. Every act of rebellion, every whisper of resistance, was turned into a spectacle. The news stations broadcasted it live, every detail captured in haunting clarity for everyone to see. People came to expect it like they would any other broadcast — a routine, a certainty, something that couldn't be avoided.
Caden had been one of the few who still resisted. He wasn't foolish, though. He knew how things had become. He had seen the broadcasts. He had heard the stories of those who tried and failed, but something within him refused to yield. He thought that maybe, just maybe, if enough of them stood together, something could change. But there was always the camera, always the glare of the lens staring back at him, haunting him, reminding him that it didn't matter. Lord Proton had no limits. No boundaries. No mercy.
Caden had made the mistake of thinking he was invincible, that his will could overcome what had already been done. But his rebellion had been too obvious, and the day would come when it would catch up with him.
It started with a knock on his door, soft but deliberate. He wasn't sure if he had heard it at first. It was one of those sounds that didn't belong — like something out of place, like a broken clock ticking backward. When he opened the door, his heart nearly stopped.
There were no faces. No smiles. Just cold, emotionless soldiers in dark, featureless uniforms. Their eyes were empty, their bodies rigid with an authority that sent chills down his spine.
"We need you," one of them had said. The words didn't carry any force. They didn't need to.
They walked into his home, sweeping over everything with an eerie, practiced efficiency, as if they had done this thousands of times before. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They were ghosts in the service of something much darker, much stronger.
They bound his hands behind his back and led him outside. Caden didn't struggle. He didn't scream. He couldn't. He had known, in the back of his mind, that the day would come when this would be his fate.
The streets were eerily silent. People peered from behind closed windows, their eyes wide with the same fear that Caden felt. His legs moved of their own accord, stumbling as he was dragged along. His feet barely touched the ground, and his mind raced, trying to find a way out, a way to escape. But there was nowhere to run.
The broadcast tower loomed in the distance, an imposing, metallic giant that overshadowed everything around it. Its cameras turned toward him as he approached, following his every step with cold indifference. The world would watch this, just like every other rebellion that had come before.
When they reached the base of the tower, the soldiers pushed him onto the stage. The glare of the cameras blinded him for a moment, and he squinted against the light. He could hear the static, the sound of the crowd waiting on the other side of the screen, awaiting the latest spectacle. Caden swallowed, trying to steady his breath. His heart raced.
He had hoped it wouldn't come to this. He had hoped, maybe, just maybe, that there was a way to fight. But now, standing before the cameras, his hands bound, he realized there was nothing left.
"Do you have any last words?" a voice asked. It wasn't kind, nor was it cruel. It was simply a voice, detached from any emotion, doing its job.
Caden's lips parted. He wanted to say something, anything. But the words wouldn't come. They were lost to the terror. Instead, he stood there, looking out at the audience he couldn't see, and the silence that pressed down upon him.
He couldn't help it. His eyes scanned the crowd, hoping for some sign of resistance. But there was none. Just blank faces, some fearful, some resigned, all watching.
The camera shifted. A soldier, expressionless, stepped forward and aimed a small, sleek weapon at Caden's chest. His heart skipped a beat. He knew what was coming next, but the thought still felt like a punch to the gut. The world had become a stage, and he was nothing more than a player.
As the soldier squeezed the trigger, Caden's mind screamed, but his body didn't react. The bullet tore through his chest, and the pain was overwhelming, blinding. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. The broadcast cameras zoomed in on him, capturing every moment in chilling detail. The blood spread across the pavement, a grotesque stain that would be remembered for years to come.
The final image of him, lying in the dirt, was shown to the entire world. It wasn't a grand statement. It wasn't a symbol. It was just another casualty in Lord Proton's rule.
The broadcast cut out. The silence returned, filling the empty spaces where once there had been hope.
But in the far corners of the world, in the places where the cameras couldn't reach, people had begun to talk. They whispered in dark alleys, in hidden rooms, away from the reach of the eyes that saw everything. They spoke of rebellion, of resistance. They knew it would come, sooner or later. They just didn't know who would stand when the time came.
And Lord Proton, in his cold, unfeeling manner, knew this too. But he didn't fear it. He didn't fear the whispers. Because he had the cameras. And he would always have the cameras.
Estado de energía semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Piedra de
Poder