Unraveling the mystery of Phylax Kallipolis wasn't a quest I chose. It chose me. A series of chance encounters, tragic events, and unexpected discoveries brought me to the heart of its enigmatic past. For years, I held these fragments close to my chest, hidden away from prying eyes to protect those I cared about most.
Then life threw a curveball, a brutal reminder of how swiftly the world could change. Suddenly, it was clear: I was being called to something greater, something bigger than myself. I wasn't born a Guardian, but I was ready to lead as one. To fight, to defend, to sacrifice. To stand tall and uphold their values, their lofty ideals, no matter the cost.
My journey began when I stumbled upon it, a piece of history tucked away in a college library. An old newspaper clipping, its unique content lost to time. It seemed to reframe history, challenging what we thought we knew about a key moment in history.
Here's the story as it has been told for over a hundred years:
On October 14th, 1912, former President of the United States Theodore Roosevelt narrowly escaped death when he was shot in the chest by John Flammang Schrank, a mentally unstable and politically motivated assailant.
On the day of the shooting, Roosevelt had just finished delivering a speech in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when he was approached by Schrank, who had been waiting in the crowd. Schrank fired a .38 caliber revolver at Roosevelt from a distance of only a few feet, striking him in the chest. The bullet was slowed by Roosevelt's folded speech and his eyeglass case, which he kept in his pocket, likely saving his life.
Theodore Roosevelt's response to the assassination attempt on October 14th, 1912, was an extraordinary display of courage and resilience. As a skilled hunter and anatomist, Roosevelt was quick to assess his condition and conclude that the bullet had not reached his lung, as he was not coughing blood. He thus declined suggestions to go to the hospital immediately and instead delivered his scheduled speech.
Roosevelt's opening comments to the gathered crowd were emblematic of his indomitable spirit, as he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot, but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose." This statement captured the essence of Roosevelt's character, portraying him as a tenacious and determined leader who refused to be deterred by adversity.
Schrank was quickly apprehended and charged with attempted murder. He claimed that he had been inspired by the ghost of William McKinley, the previous president who had been assassinated in 1901, and that he had come to believe that Roosevelt was standing in the way of divine intervention. He was ultimately found guilty and sentenced to a mental institution for the remainder of his life.
Scholars, history buffs, Roosevelt die-hards - they all buy into that same narrative. It's etched in stone, a fact as solid and unshakeable as Mount Rushmore itself. So imagine my shock when I unearthed something that threatened to shatter that granite certainty.
There I was, hunched over a microfiche reader, the room lit only by the faint glow of the machine. The ghostly images of old newspapers flickered before my eyes, each one a window into the past. Then, something caught my eye.
It was the October 15th edition of The Oshkosh Northwestern. Four sentences on the front page were intriguing as they were shocking. The account they gave of the Roosevelt assassination attempt incident, it was like no other. Different, inexplicably so. I was gripping an enigma, an anomaly in black and white that simply didn't add up.
Here is how that entry read:
Milwalkee, Oct 15, - Theodore Roosevelt was shot in the breast here just last night by John Schrank, a New York man. With the bullet still in his body Colonel Roosevelt went to the auditorium to make his speech. He refused to permit physicians to examine the wound until he had finished his address. The colonel felt no pain at the time the shot was fired, and was not aware that he was shot until he was on the way to the auditorium. His attention was then called to a hole in his overcoat, and he found that his shirt was soaked in blood. Insisted that he was not hurt badly. A superficial examination of the wound was made when he reached the Auditorium, and three Physicians were shocked but agreed that there was no immediate grave danger. One physician said, “The wound looked months old but for the wet blood on the skin and clothes. I am stupefied. I am not sure what has occurred.”
The assassin, who is small of stature, admitted firing the shot, and repeatedly uttered, “No third term for Phylax Kallipolis. Phylax Kallipolis no more.”
In notes found in the man's Pockets at the police station, or statements that the man had been visited in a dream by the spirit of William McKinley, who said, indicating Colonel Roosevelt, “This is my murder, avenge my death.”
The Assassin was prevented from firing a second shot by Albert H Martin, one of Colonel Roosevelt's…
Not a trace of the doctor's words or the assassin's proclamation about Phylax Kallipolis has ever been documented anywhere else. I was buzzing, electric with the thrill of discovery. I couldn't wait to bring this to my professor's attention.
The next afternoon, I found myself in his office, my excitement a tangible force in the room. I spilled my findings like a pot of gold at his feet, the printout of the article clutched tightly in my hand. His face was a mask, neutral, as he took in my account. I handed him the paper, and he nodded, admitting the peculiarity of it all. He suggested we delve into the microfiche together, but not right then. He had an appointment. He pocketed the printout and tossed a few words of praise my way.
But when we tried to trace my steps later that week, we hit a wall. The library records came up blank. No record of any issue of The Oshkosh Northwestern. It was like stepping into a parallel universe, where up was down and down was up. The professor claimed to have misplaced the original printout and chalked it up to and joked that it was a “shared hallucination”. But I couldn't shake it. It gnawed at me…I was not hallucinating.
That weekend, I took a drive. Destination: the main library in the nearest city. I hunted down the microfiche for the October 15th issue of The Oshkosh Northwestern. But the front page had transformed. Stories of Roosevelt's health, poison bullets, Taft's grief - but no recounting of the assassination attempt. A detail you'd think would make the headlines. (A Didaskalos has documented this here: WEBSITE HERE )
What only remained was a tangle of confusion and my notes. Over time, I trawled through libraries, hunting for the article I knew existed. But it was like trying to catch smoke - either there were no copies or they mirrored the city library's information.
In time, I let it slide. The professor was kind, brushing off our experience as a shared illusion. I graduated, and with his help, I landed a job most would kill for.
Before I started the grind, I took some time off. Found myself in a hole-in-the-wall bar with a view of the beach. Ordered a beer and was settling in when an Aussie accent cut through the murmur. He asked if he could join me. We swapped stories, shared laughs. After a while, I noticed he kept using my full name. It didn't strike me as too odd, not until he started to stress my last name. Then it hit me - I'd never told him my surname. He saw the moment of realization wash over me and said, "Phylax Kallipolis," followed by my last name and "Phylax Kallipolis" once more.
A rush of emotions hit me - excitement, fear, anticipation. His smile was comforting. He claimed to be a friend, a guide of sorts. Told me my discovery was on the money and they'd been keeping tabs on me. Then came the fork in the road. He laid out two paths. One would lead to answers, but it would mean leaving behind the life I had planned. The other would let me continue as is, the enigma forever hanging over me.
I was torn. A part of me wanted to trust the stranger with the Aussie accent. There was a charm about him, something that went beyond the stereotype of the friendly Australian. Doubts and fears didn't cross my mind. Not about him, at least. What scared me was the world beyond, the unknown.
Then he dropped a name. The woman I'd been seeing. Was I willing to leave her behind? I faltered. And that was all it took. He wished me well and walked off, leaving me in a whirlwind of confusion. I tried to follow him, but it was as if he'd vanished into thin air.
Years rolled on. I'd get drawn back into the mystery every now and then, hunting for any traces of "Phylax Kallipolis" and the Roosevelt assassination attempt. Nothing. Until one day...
I stumbled into what I thought was another dead-end. COINTELPRO. As I dug deeper, I unearthed a web post. A document filled with shadows and secrets, and there it was - a reference to Phylax Kallipolis! According to the poster's theory, there was a link between an unnamed member of the Citizens' Commission to Investigate the FBI and Phylax Kallipolis!
As soon as my eyes landed on those words, I scrambled to print the page. My printer was out of paper. Plan B - I snapped pictures of the screen. Good thing, too. The site vanished into the ether soon after.
The documents were like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Intriguing, but frustratingly incomplete. That's when the Aussie from my past reappeared. It was a dark time. Recently a family tragedy had left me adrift, anchorless.
This time, when he asked if I was ready to leave my old life behind, I didn't hesitate. The next few days felt like stepping into a movie. He painted a picture of an organization that spanned over a thousand years. But like all good things, it came to an end. He left, telling me there'd be no way to reach him. They might never reach out, but if they did, there'd be a sign, something unmistakable.
Months later, I found myself at a crossroads. One path involved years of sifting through the mystery before sharing anything. The other? Share as I go, piece by piece. For now, here's what I can reveal.
Phylax Kallipolis has roots that stretch back over a thousand years. An ancient priestess philosopher noticed a pattern - certain individuals possessed abilities that went beyond the ordinary, beyond the human. They were almost like demigods. And while their superhuman abilities varied, they all shared a set of distinct physical and psychological traits. Traits that made them ideal leaders, strong and benevolent.
But she knew, if men of power discovered this, they would feel threatened. They would seek to eliminate anyone bearing these traits, adult or child. So, she turned to a small number of philosophers, statesmen, and law-givers of the ancient world who were renowned for their wisdom. Their mission - to safeguard this knowledge, to identify these superhumans - the Guardians - and guide them to positions of influence, to help steer the course of humanity. Those entrusted with this knowledge, those who aided the Guardians, were known as the Auxiliary.
These Guardians, they've played crucial roles in shaping mankind's history. Not all heeded the call of the Auxiliary, not all sought positions of power. But they left their mark nonetheless. You almost certainly know some of their names. Their teachings have guided humanity for centuries.
Others took the path of leadership. It was a perilous journey. Push too hard, too fast, and the fallout could be disastrous. While many others found their place as advisors, as influencers, guiding the power players of their era from the shadows.
These Guardians, they're not infallible. They're human, as flawed as any of us. But their abilities set them apart, and their moral fiber is sturdier, more unyielding than most.
As I piece together the fragments of this ancient puzzle, I'll share what I uncover.
