"What is perfection but a mere selective opinion? Its definition sways with society's norms and fractures across history like broken glass. Some say 'the best' is conditional—defined by what survives, what exploits, what adapts. Yet even nature, in its brutal elegance, doesn't paint perfection in immediate clarity.
Sometimes, that pursuit spirals into ignorance, where truth—raw and undressed—can surprise you… or shatter you. The evils of this world often wear beauty like a mask, pulling the rug over humanity's eyes. And those very people? The ones preaching morals? They'd throw them away in a heartbeat for a taste of power... for a big buck made from another's suffering.
Ever hear the saying, 'There's no such thing as an ethical billionaire'? No ethical corporation? There's always a dirty trick in play—borderline exploitation dressed up as 'fair business.' In this world, wealth is power. Money buys the illusion of control, the illusion of dominance.
But now…
Imagine a world where real power doesn't pretend. Where benevolence is nothing but a scripted play for the masses. Where the strongest reign without apology. A world moulded not by ethics, but by supremacy.
And at the peak of it all—The Vitruvian.
John Vankoures, the eighth bearer of the Vitruvian mantle, is more than a man—he is a system.
For generations, the Vankoures bloodline has ruled over Corvezant, a sovereign region defined not by politics, but by power hierarchy. The Vitruvian title is not inherited by blood alone—it is transferred, skipping every other generation so the full essence of its Augment may pass undiluted, like a perfect equation waiting for the right variable.
With it comes a singular force: a metabolic augmentation bordering on arcane science—enhanced strength, hyperspeed, and energy transformation so advanced it resembles functional alchemy. Fire into motion. Momentum into matter. Impact into raw force.
In Corvezant, no hero, no soldier, no lawmaker outranks the Vitruvian. The people do not vote for him. They witness him. They submit to him.
And John?He wears the title like armour. Cold. Untouchable. Supreme.
He is Perfection—by design.
People adored him—his presence, his sculpted form, the carefully constructed façade he wore like a crown. At thirty-four, the eighth Vitruvian was the pinnacle of his bloodline:Hair the color of sun-kissed red-gold, cropped short and wild, catching light like a living flare during his high-altitude flights. His beard, full and mature, framed a chiselled face honed by time and triumph.His body? The peak of physicality, built like a god in motion—equal parts weapon and monument.
But it was his eyes that unsettled even his most loyal admirers.
They had once been an electric, earnest blue, honest and human. Now, they blazed an unnatural red, faintly glowing with otherworldly heat. If you dared look closely—really look—you'd see it:Eight faintly radiant bars circling each iris, like a celestial compass, their movements almost imperceptible—tracking, measuring, calculating.
A subtle reminder: John Vankoures wasn't simply strong.He was calculated power incarnate.
His suit reflected that same deadly elegance.A black cloak, cape-length, its interior dyed scarlet—like blood behind shadow. The armor was minimal yet unyielding, forged from a hardened compound of his own design—neither spandex nor steel, but something between resistance and fluidity.
At its core, the Algiz rune—a symbol of protection and higher will—was etched across his chest, framed by a minimalist diamond pattern that connected to red accents threading along his limbs. It was art. It was war.
John didn't wear the mantle of Vitruvian.He embodied it.He was the standard others could only hope to kneel before.
He was their hero, their master, their ruler.
His face lit up skyscraper ads, his voice echoed through public broadcasts, his name was etched into history like scripture. Children wore his symbol. Teenagers played combat simulators based on his legendary saves. Entire industries thrived off his image—merchandise, hologames, collector drones, and commemorative battlesuits.
He wasn't just admired. He was worshipped.
And the people?They loved it.
Ignorance was bliss—a comfort bought and maintained by the ever-churning machine of state-sponsored propaganda. Every highlight reel, every hollowed-out hero documentary, every polished interview kept the illusion alive:John Vankoures, the Eighth Vitruvian—the unbreakable guardian of the regime, the pinnacle of what it meant to be chosen.
But he wasn't alone.
Behind him stood the Pinnacle, the elite champions of their societal regime. And above them all—the Syndicate. A sprawling power structure made up of hundreds, each member boasting augmented abilities, refined genecraft, and corporate-military fusion authority. They weren't protectors.
They were the system.