Brightwater, 1885. Cornelius Fang, a thirty-year-old heir to a wealthy cloth empire, slammed his hands on the mahogany desk. The tedious routine of managing bolts of fabric, accounts, and staff had frayed his patience. He wanted more—power, respect, and freedom from his father's shadow.
"Father," he said, his voice sharp, "I need $20,000. In five years, I'll return a hundred thousand. Consider it an investment in your son's future."
His father, wary but curious, nodded. Cornelius didn't wait for hesitation. He gathered two loyal men—brothers in blood, sworn to die if he commanded it—and left Brightwater, bound for Havenwood.
Havenwood was a city teeming with corruption. Antony, a rising figure in the criminal underworld, ruled there with an iron fist. Cornelius' plan was audacious: infiltrate Antony's residence, eliminate him, and claim his wealth—gold coins, gold bricks, and notes stacked in vaults like mountains.
The night was silent, broken only by the whisper of wind through alleyways. Cornelius and his men struck. Precision. Silence. Death. Antony never saw the faces of his assailants. By dawn, Antony was gone, and the once-feared ruler's empire crumbled. Cornelius had rewritten history.
Five years later, Cornelius Fang had transformed. The ambitious heir had become a shadowed legend—a ruthless outlaw, the head of the Nemesis Vanguard, a gang reborn from the ashes of the one that Devil & Lilith had destroyed in 1875. Every street in Havenwood whispered his name, every gang feared it.
In 1891, Cornelius returned home, expecting his father's proud face. But the house was silent. His wife met him at the door, her eyes brimming with sorrow.
"Black Vultures…" she whispered. "They looted the house, humiliated your father… he… he… is gone."
Cornelius felt the ground shift beneath him. Anger surged, primal and volcanic. He clenched his fists and charged toward the nearest gang location, intent on vengeance. But when he arrived, the Black Vultures were gone—every one of them dead.
A manic grin spread across his face. The world had cleared the path for him, or perhaps it was fate.
A lone traveler passed through the abandoned gang territory. Cornelius' eyes glimmered with dark curiosity. He beckoned the man over, hand on his shoulder, dragging him into the shadows of the woods. Moments later, he emerged alone, blood droplets on his coat. The traveler was unharmed, merely shaken.
Cornelius paused, breathing in the night air. He had the power, the strength, the freedom to carve a path of his own—but he would not interfere with the mysterious hand that had wiped out his enemies. For now.
Destiny had marked him. The world would tremble before Cornelius Fang. And nothing—not loyalty, wealth, or morality—would deter him from the path fate had drawn.