You dream.

Your dreams are vivid and clear. You see the armies of the Dark Lord in countless battles, both winning and losing. You see a strategy room where all the best generals stand around a table. You peer at the table and silently move a precious piece from a critical juncture on a west stronghold to a hilly plateau on the east. Murmurs of discontent and yells of rage full the room until the snap of a single finger is heard from the Dark Lord himself.

Your vision fades to the future. The Dark Lord sits upon his throne, and you stand next to him, with your eyes completely clouded and staring into the distance of nothingness. "Tell me, my most trusted advisor, what you think of this one." The Dark Lord intones. The minion in front of the Dark Lord shakes.

"Plan T." You say. With one word and one letter, the very guards who brought in the minion swing their blades and cut the minion down to size. Dead.