London had never been louder.
The streets burned with the fever of celebration, screens and banners painting the skyline in crimson and gold—the new colors of William Lex Webb's empire. His face gleamed across every billboard and holoscreen, haloed in the artificial light of a thousand cameras.
He stood atop a marble stage in Westminster Square, where the old statues of Parliament had been replaced by the sigil of his company—Y'Nkeos Technical Solutions—the symbol of a rising age that no longer needed crowns, only influence.
And yet, William spoke like a king.
He raised his hands toward the roaring crowd. "My people," he began, his voice carried by hidden subsonics tuned to stir emotion. "For too long, we've lived under false idols—bureaucrats, cowards, false heroes who play gods but bleed like the rest of us! They tell us to trust them while they drain our lives dry! But I, William Webb, will give London—our London—its spine again!"
The crowd roared.
Every word dripped with charisma, the kind of natural magnetism that wasn't quite human anymore. There was a light behind his eyes—a faint, pulsing red, subtle enough that the cameras couldn't catch it, but strong enough to command attention.
"I am not your ruler," he continued, smiling humbly. "I am your servant. But when the weak betray us, when the so-called heroes destroy our cities and call it justice, when the League condemns our savior—when they murder Moonveil for defending the innocent—someone must rise."
The mention of Moonveil sent murmurs through the crowd. William paused, letting their curiosity ferment into fear, into need.
"Someone must stand between chaos and order. Between man and the false gods. And if no one else dares… then I will."
The roar was deafening.
King of Men.
The Saviour of London.
William Webb, the People's Prophet.
Each title rolled across the streets like gospel, echoing off glass and steel.
And William, smiling beneath the halo of a thousand cameras, bowed his head—humble, gracious, deadly.
---
When the crowd dispersed and the night began to swallow the city, William returned to his office—a cathedral of glass suspended above the Thames. The building hummed with quiet power, its walls reinforced by Aetherium alloys.
He poured himself a drink—something expensive and dark—and stood before the panoramic window, watching the river crawl through the veins of the city he now owned.
Behind him, the doors opened.
A group of men and women entered—billionaires, ministers, magnates, and criminals in business suits. Each wore a black ring etched with faint runes—the mark of his new order.
They gathered around the table.
"Gentlemen," William said, swirling his drink. "You've seen what happens when gods are allowed to walk among us. You've seen what happens when heroes become idols. The people grow weak. They forget that power belongs to those who dare to seize it."
He turned toward them, eyes gleaming faintly. "That's why we will become the new gods—not of heaven, but of industry. The Tizzimen."
The name lingered in the air like a prayer and a curse at once.
A CEO from the American sector cleared his throat. "You mean… immortality? You've truly found it?"
William smiled. "The Dark Lord provides for those who prove useful. Juarez, may his soul rest wherever it deserves, was only the beginning. The el Lobo line was chosen for a reason."
At the far end of the table, Diego and Rafael exchanged glances. Both looked restless. They'd grown pale over the past weeks, veins darker, skin colder. The gifts of the Tzitzimimeh came at a cost—but none of them regretted it.
William's smile widened. "Soon, you'll have what Juarez could not handle. Strength beyond gods. Flesh that doesn't rot. And all I ask in return…" He raised his glass. "Is loyalty."
The toast echoed through the room. "To the new gods."
As the others drank, William looked down at his hand. His ring pulsed faintly, alive with black light. He could almost feel the heart of the Dark Lord thrum beneath his skin.
---
Later that night, Diego walked alone through the ruins of the underground tunnel where Juarez had died.
The air reeked of dust and rot.
He stepped through puddles that shimmered faintly with old divine residue. The walls still bore faint scorch marks from the lunar energy that had burned through the stones.
He muttered to himself, voice trembling with anger. "Brother… I'll avenge you. I swear it."
But when he reached the spot where Juarez's corpse had been left, his words faltered.
The remains were gone.
Every organ, every trace of blood, every scrap of flesh—erased. Not decayed. Removed.
Only a single crescent-shaped burn mark remained on the floor.
Diego's jaw clenched. His stomach twisted in hunger—an unnatural, gnawing hunger that had nothing to do with food. His skin rippled as the Tzitzimimeh corruption stirred beneath it.
He fell to his knees, growling low. "He defiled your body, brother. But I will bring you justice."
His reflection in the puddle stared back—not human anymore. His eyes glowed a deep, venomous green.
---
At midnight, in the highest room of his tower, William stood before the idol of Tzitzimimeh. The statue was no longer dormant. It pulsed faintly, the veins carved into its obsidian face glowing with liquid red.
The air smelled of blood and incense.
A woman knelt before the altar—blindfolded, trembling. She wore the company insignia on her wristband. One of his employees, chosen for her faith in him.
William's voice was calm as he spoke to the idol. "My Lord, your harvest continues. The blood of the innocent is your bridge to our world."
He placed his hand on the woman's head and looked into the god's stone eyes.
"For the empire," he whispered.
Then the dagger fell.
The blood spiraled upward, vanishing before it hit the ground.
The idol's eyes flared open.
A voice, neither sound nor thought, filled William's mind. Your city kneels. Soon the world will. Continue, my vessel.
William smiled faintly. "As you command, my lord."
---
Across the city, Marc Stevenson walked through his front door.
The lights were still on.
Howard was pacing the living room, while Alexia sat on the couch, hands clasped tightly together. When Marc appeared in the doorway, both froze.
"See, Alexia?" Howard said, smiling shakily. "Told you he'd be back. He always comes back."
Alexia stood and rushed into Marc's arms, tears streaming down her face. "I thought they'd kill you," she whispered against his chest.
Marc smiled softly and brushed her hair back. "Don't be silly. I promised I'd come back."
Howard handed him a mug of tea, his usual nervous gesture when relief came too close to fear. "You gave us quite a scare, mate. The news… the whole world's gone mad."
They sat together, the faint sound of the TV filling the silence. The broadcast replayed the now-famous footage of Moonveil's fight with Juarez—the brutal precision, the broken buildings, the glowing mask that seemed to pulse like a living thing.
Howard stared at it. "They keep saying your mask changed," he muttered.
Marc took a slow sip of tea, eyes fixed on the screen. "It did."
Alexia looked up at him, voice soft. "Why?"
He didn't answer.
The crescent mark on his chest glowed faintly in the reflection of the TV, pale silver against the dim room. Outside, the wind carried faint echoes of celebration from William's rally—people cheering for their new king, never realizing that their savior and their destroyer had already begun the same ascent.
Marc set his cup down. "Because," he said finally, voice quiet, "the moon doesn't wear masks. It just shows what's always been in the dark."
And outside, somewhere beyond the city's roar, the moon rose full and bright over London—watchful, ancient, and ready for war.
---