No Place Was Safe

The universities were the next battleground.

Once bastions of learning and debate, they had become theaters of war—places where knowledge was drowned out by chaos, where reason had no place amid the deafening chants and violent outbursts. The agitators had been deployed there with precision, their numbers swelling overnight. Classes were canceled as lecture halls were overrun. Professors who dared to teach were shouted down, their words lost beneath an orchestrated symphony of rage. Those who refused to yield were harassed, doxxed, and threatened until they had no choice but to retreat.

Libraries, once quiet sanctuaries of thought and discovery, were now occupied zones. Bookshelves were overturned, texts deemed “problematic” were burned or shredded in the name of some vague, ever-shifting cause. Students who merely wanted to learn found themselves trapped in a storm of forced ideology, their futures held hostage by the mobs that patrolled the halls.

And the administrators? They folded like cheap paper, too weak to resist, too afraid to stand against the tide. Some tried to appease the rioters, offering endless concessions, only to be met with more demands, more chaos. Others simply vanished, resigning in disgrace, leaving their institutions to be picked apart like carcasses in the sun.

The message was clear: no place was safe. Not the streets, not the markets, not the very halls of education. Society was unraveling, thread by thread, and the people were left with two choices—submit to the madness or risk becoming its next victim.

And in the shadows, the architects of this chaos watched, waiting for the moment when the exhausted and broken masses would beg for order—any order. Even if it meant surrendering the last remnants of their freedom.