After his messiah-like vow, Payne bows his head and steps off the stage, soaking in the ovation like a serpent basking in sun.
A bastard.
A cancer.
A demon in a tailored suit.
Mikey's chest heaved with fury, a pulsing heat crawling up his spine like it wanted out. He could barely see straight. His fingers trembled as he clenched the fabric of the bag tighter—Nadia's knife inside, a phantom weight.
Then came the sound.
A low hum, sharp and pure, like metal slicing air.
Heads turned.
Wind whipped through the cemetery as a sleek chrome aircraft descended overhead. Its body gleamed like a blade in the sun, wings braced open like a hawk about to strike. It hovered for a beat before hissing as it touched down. Hydraulic legs compressed against the grass. Engines roared once more, then died into a sharp silence.
A ramp lowered.
From inside emerged soldiers—ten of them—each clad in mirror-finished armor that reflected the mourning crowd in ghostly distortion. Their helmets were faceless, seamless, like statues of war. No red. No black. Only chrome and pale blue light.
Pantheon Soldiers.
The elite. The untouchables. They didn't answer to generals. They answered only to him.
And then he appeared.
Chancellor Eeron.
A small, elderly man in a flawless black suit, draped with a deep blue ceremonial robe that shimmered with subtle circuitry. The insignia of the Council—a circle encasing the serpent and roundtable—was emblazoned in silver thread across the back, regal and exact. His white hair was combed with precision. His posture straight despite the weight of decades. He moved slowly but with the confidence of someone who had never once needed to run.
The crowd froze. No more clapping. No more cheers.
They raised their fists in silent respect, the air itself seeming to tighten.
This wasn't just a politician.
This was the man.
The architect.
The source of it all.
The Chancellor of the Unified Sectors. The seat of power behind every Council order. The god behind the curtain.
Eeron climbed the stairs of the stage without assistance, each step echoing like a drumbeat.
Mikey watched from his hill beneath the tree, breath caught in his throat, eyes burning.
This was the man who ran the Council. The one Payne answered to. The one his father once stood beside.
The one who could burn entire cities with a whisper and still sleep soundly at night.
Mikey stared—equal parts awe and hate—as Chancellor Eeron reached the podium and looked out across the sea of faces, his own unreadable, carved from stone.
Chancellor Eeron stepped to the podium and cleared his throat—quietly, barely a sound.
But the effect was immediate.
The entire crowd fell still.
No one coughed. No one shuffled. Even the wind seemed to halt.
It was as if the city itself leaned in to listen.
Mikey froze where he stood beneath the shade of the tree, suddenly aware of his own breathing. His jaw clenched, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Somehow, it felt like even blinking too loud would draw attention.
"Everyone here..." Eeron began, his voice low but crisp, perfectly measured, "...Thank you for coming. And thank you, Payne, for that beautiful speech."
His tone never lifted, yet its weight was suffocating.
"I met Desmond Grant only once," Eeron continued, "but I saw then what so many of you already knew—an unshakable character. A man of integrity. Today, we pay tribute to a hero. An example. A mirror of what a Councilman should be."
The words echoed, but Mikey barely registered them.
Something… shifted.
His stomach dropped.
He saw movement—no, not movement… presence.
And then he noticed him.
A figure, standing just behind the Chancellor.
Had he been there the whole time?
Mikey's eyes widened as his pulse spiked.
The man stood unnaturally still—tall, imposing, with an aura that wrapped the air around him in silence. He had to be at least six-foot-three, built like someone carved from iron. His shoulders were broad beneath a crisp white military coat that reached just above the knees, fastened tight with a black utility belt.
His arms were at his sides—calm, but ready.
A long, ceremonial sword rested in the sash at his hip. One gloved hand lay on its hilt, fingers relaxed... but Mikey could feel the tension beneath it, like a wolf sleeping with one eye open.
His trousers were black, tailored—tight at the calves, looser at the thighs, ending at tall combat boots that rose halfway up his shins. His head was bowed ever so slightly, the brim of a white military visor cap casting a shadow over his face.
Only the bottom half of his face was visible—clean jaw, faint stubble—and a scar that traced jaggedly down his neck like a tear left from battle.
But it was the stillness that chilled Mikey most. Like this man didn't breathe. Like he didn't need to.
Mikey's mouth went dry.
That uniform. That insignia.
His breath caught.
One of the Directors!
One of the Council's mythic weapons.
The Four Directors—the enforcers, the "undying." Whispers said they couldn't age. Couldn't be killed. That each one of them could end a war single-handedly.
Mikey had never seen one in person. Few had and kept their lives.
And now one stood on a funeral stage in broad daylight—silent, watchful, an executioner in white.
His presence was more terrifying than Eeron's speech. More potent than Payne's theatrics.
This wasn't ceremony.
This was a reminder.
We see you. We are everywhere. And we are untouchable.
Mikey's fists curled slowly at his sides.
He didn't know the Director's name.
But he would remember his silhouette forever.
And there would come a time he would face him. He knew it.
Mikey's breath caught in his throat.
The figure in white hadn't moved at all… until now.
A slight tilt of the head. That was all.
But it was enough.
The Director's chin lifted ever so slightly—just a shift of angle—and his eyes, hidden behind the shadow of that visor, tilted directly upward…
Right at Mikey.
Not at the hill.
At him.
Mikey flinched back behind the tree, heart slamming against his ribcage.
He didn't know how, but he just knew—those eyes had found him. Pierced straight through branches, distance, and shadow. Like the man could sense the rage in his blood. Like he could smell the defiance in Mikey's soul.
It wasn't just looking.
It was reading.
He knows…
Mikey clenched the strap of his bag, crouched low behind the bark, barely daring to breathe. The silence in his chest wasn't from fear—it was from instinct. The kind of instinct that screams when a predator locks on to you.
Down below, Chancellor Eeron finished his carefully rehearsed speech, offering a gentle nod to the crowd, who once again erupted into applause and chants of loyalty.
But Mikey didn't hear them. He could still feel that gaze lingering on him—like a sniper's crosshair just waiting for a reason.
Then, slowly, the Chancellor turned from the podium and made his way back toward the sleek aircraft waiting on the landing platform.
The Director followed, his movements smooth, disciplined, his boots echoing in perfect synchrony with Eeron's steps.
They ascended the ramp together.
The ship sealed shut with a hiss.
Mikey peeked out from the tree's side, his lungs still trembling with panic. The aircraft lifted off, its powerful turbines scattering dust and petals across the cemetery lawn.
Then it was gone.
But the feeling stayed.
That presence. That look.
As if the Director hadn't just seen him...
…but marked him.
The ceremony was over.
As the crowd dispersed and the cameras powered down with a gentle whirr, silence returned to Vickson Cemetery. The quiet was eerie, not peaceful—just empty. A vacuum where performance had ended and truth remained.
Mikey made his way down the hill alone.
His shoes crunched gently over the pebbled path as he approached the freshly packed earth. Two graves now sat side by side—one old, one raw. His mother and father. Darla and Desmond Grant.
The headstone was simple, gray stone with clean engraving:
DESMOND GRANT
Father. Husband. Hero.
November 15, 2200 – May 25, 2244
Mikey stared at the date. It still didn't feel real. Just two nights ago, his father was breathing. Smiling. Talking to him.
Now he was underground.
A single tear broke loose—hot, angry—and he wiped it with the heel of his hand, his throat clenched too tight to swallow.
Then he felt it.
Someone beside him.
The presence was heavy—not just in mass, but in memory. Mikey didn't look up. The man spoke first.
"I can't believe it's real."
His voice was gravel dragged through old bourbon. Deep. Seasoned.
Mikey kept his eyes on the grave.
"You knew him?"
The man chuckled. Low and warm.
"Like a brother. But that's not what I meant."
Mikey turned just slightly, face searching for an answer. "Then what do you mean?"
A grin tugged at the man's bearded face.
"I meant I can't believe those two dumb kids really went and had a son."
Mikey finally turned to get a full look.
The man was massive—at least 6'6", broad as a truck, his suit straining to contain a frame that looked like it was built for war. His shoulders could block out sunlight. Muscles carved under gray fabric, a black tie loose at the neck. His buzzed silver hair matched the thick beard along his jaw, it made his face seem even more carved, more solid. A soldier's face. A survivor's. A long scar split diagonally across his forehead like an old story never quite healed.
"Who... are you?" Mikey asked, unsure whether to be alarmed or just stunned.
The man let out a booming laugh.
Then the man looked down at him with a quiet sort of softness beneath all the steel.
"Me? Name's Bobo."
He patted Mikey once on the shoulder — heavy but gentle, like he knew the weight the boy already carried.
Then Bobo turned, taking a few steps down the path before pausing, glancing back over his shoulder.
"You look like hell, kid. C'mon — let's get you something to eat."
Mikey didn't move. He just stood there, rooted, eyes on the headstones — his mother and father, side by side beneath the earth.
Mikey wiped his face, took one last breath at the graves… and followed.
And just like that, the wind picked up. Something was changing.
The origin of the boy who will one day become the Savior of the Wronged, is at an end
The Prologue is over.