In 1780, a decisive event took place that forever changed the course of history. After five years of bitter struggle, the British colonies in America declared victory.
Their fight for liberty had finally reached its conclusion, and the British Crown, bloodied and drained from the conflict, formally acknowledged them as a sovereign nation. A new name would soon echo across the world: the United States of America.
The Declaration of Independence, drafted amidst the fire and gunpowder of war, carried the weight of sacrifice. When it was completed, it was signed not just by men of political intellect and vision, but by warriors who had borne the struggle themselves.
George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Franklin, James Wilson, and the most enigmatic among them all, the mercenary turned legend, Biggus Dickus.
His name drew quiet smirks even in those halls of revolution, but there was no denying his importance. His contributions were etched in every battle the colonies had fought.
It was whispered that without his early defense at Lexington, the spark of rebellion might have been extinguished before it ever became a flame.
While the British swept through supply bases and towns, Biggus Dickus rallied a meager band of one hundred men, mounted on black horses. They became known among friend and foe alike as the "Evening Bells," for they seemed to appear when all seemed lost.
dark riders on the edge of dusk, their charge tolling like the bells of fate. Not once did they suffer defeat, and stories of their unyielding ferocity spread quickly across the colonies.
In April 1775, when British troops began their march toward Lexington and Concord, it was he who rode with desperate urgency through the town, shouting into the cold night:
"The British are coming!"
The cry awakened a people. Farmers, craftsmen, and townsfolk armed with little more than muskets and axes gathered beside him and his black riders. Together, five to seven hundred colonists stood against a disciplined British force of three thousand.
By all logic, they should have been annihilated. But strategy and spirit carried the day. Under the cunning direction of Biggus Dickus, the colonists struck from cover, misled their foes into choke points, and broke their advance. Smoke and fire filled the air, and against the odds, Lexington not only held, they won.
It was a turning point.
News of the battle traveled fast. Revolutionary leaders who had previously struggled to organize a coherent defense now reached out to the mysterious mercenary.
Letters were sent, emissaries dispatched. When he at last appeared before them, weary from campaign, they hailed him not as an outsider but as one of their own. They granted him the rank of Major, and George Washington himself, recognizing his battlefield acumen, came to rely heavily upon his strategies.
Washington, stern yet pragmatic, confided more than once to his closest aides that without the maneuvers devised by Dickus, the war might have dragged on for years longer, perhaps even ending in failure. The discipline of the Continental Army was still in its infancy; it was the guile and boldness of unconventional leaders like him that balanced the scales.
Every battle he fought seemed to tilt in the revolutionaries' favor. His rapid strikes, deceptive retreats, and encirclement tactics baffled British generals.
Later generations of soldiers studied them—indeed, it was said Napoleon Bonaparte himself would borrow from Dickus's maneuvers during the Napoleonic Wars, though history would seldom connect the two in common memory.
When the Declaration of Independence was brought forth, its weight pressing upon all present, each of the founders signed with gravity.
Yet when it came to Biggus Dickus, the atmosphere shifted. Many of the others, despite their serious demeanor, struggled to hide their smirks at his name.
Franklin, ever fond of wit, quipped quietly, "History will have a sense of humor in remembering this day."
Jefferson, suppressing a chuckle, countered, "Or perhaps it will remember the deeds more than the name."
Washington sighed and rubbed his head. " I am telling you, this guy is intentionally using a fake name. I even told him he can take a proper name, but he refused! Saying I don't know culture!" Everyone laughed at his expense.
But beneath the jesting, their respect was genuine. Several begged him openly to consider becoming the first president of the new nation. Washington himself, a man not easily swayed, admitted that Dickus had earned the trust and admiration of the army and the people alike.
*****
The war for independence was over. Britain had signed the Treaty of Paris, formally recognizing the sovereignty of the thirteen colonies, and the world looked on with awe and suspicion at this new experiment of freedom.
America had been born from blood, sacrifice, and determination, yet even among its most celebrated leaders, one figure loomed larger than myth—Biggus Dickus.
Though his name drew laughter among enemies and allies alike, his deeds silenced mockery. Every soldier who had marched behind him spoke with reverence.
Every civilian who saw his black-clad cavalry, the "Evening Bells," swore they were staring at death's horsemen, a phantom force that decided battles before they began. He had done more than win skirmishes—he had reshaped the tempo of the war itself.
The people adored him. To them, he wasn't just a general or strategist; he was the man who turned hopeless resistance into victory.
Songs were sung of his ride through the night, lantern light chasing his shadow as he cried, "The British are coming!" They said the British feared the sound of bells at dusk, for it meant Biggus and his men were near.
When the independence was declared in 1778, and the parchment of freedom signed by the gathered Founders, Biggus Dickus was given a place at the table. Washington clasped his hand, Jefferson bowed his head, and Franklin laughed, declaring, "History shall forever choke on your name, my friend, but it will never forget your deeds."
What followed shocked even those who thought they knew him best.
At Philadelphia, when the question arose of who should be the fledgling nation's first President, voices were unanimous.
Washington was beloved, but even he admitted:
"Were it not for Biggus Dickus, I might well be dead in the field. He has led us where none else dared. If this Republic must begin under one man's shoulders, let it be his."
The room thundered in agreement. John Adams argued, Jefferson pleaded, Hamilton invoked destiny, and Franklin joked that even God Himself would cast a vote for him.
Biggus resisted. "I am no politician," he said, shaking his head as the chamber pressed closer. "My joy is the battlefield, not a desk filled with ink and parchment."
Some accounts even describe a night when Jefferson, Adams, and Hamilton quite literally blocked his door, refusing to leave until he gave them an answer.
Finally, with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he muttered, "Very well. I will take the burden. But remember, you asked for this."
And so, with unanimous acclaim, Edward—Biggus Dickus—became the first President of the United States.
At length, he accepted, though perhaps more to satisfy their persistence than from true desire. Thus, in an odd twist of history, the first President of the United States was not Washington, but the mercenary whose legend had grown larger than the battles he fought, Biggus Dickus.
Yet his presidency lasted only seven days.
During that short tenure, he surprised his comrades by drafting a detailed plan for the fledgling nation's survival.
It included recommendations for military structure, foreign diplomacy, and economic policy that would echo for generations. Then, as abruptly as he had entered the political stage, he resigned.
"I would rather have fun with my wives than sign papers every day," he declared with flourish, voice carrying only blunt honesty.
His presidency was unlike anything the world had seen. For seven days, he ruled, not with speeches or political maneuvering, but with the directness of a commander. He summoned the Founders and laid out, point by point, a future path:
A strong federal government to unite the colonies.
A central bank to steady the economy.
A system of checks to prevent monarchy's return.
A military doctrine to defend against foreign aggression.
Most of all, guaranteed freedom and equality for every citizen of the nation, no matter what.
Each plan was detailed, written in his own hand, precise as any war strategy. Hamilton marveled at his economic foresight. Madison nodded gravely at his insistence on balance of powers. Even Jefferson, who often clashed with Hamilton, admitted the framework was unshakable.
At night, however, he sat in silence, staring into the flames. He knew this was not his destiny. America was free; his task was done.
The halls of governance suffocated him. The ink on quills felt heavier than any sword. He could not cage himself here, not when the world still spun with wars, tyrants, and rising storms.
On the seventh day, he gathered them all.
"My friends," he said, his voice calm but resolute, "you know me. I was never meant to rule a nation. My gift lies in securing its birth, not in nursing it to adulthood. I have drafted what is needed to guide you forward. But this seat, this office, belongs to another."
Washington stepped forward, startled. "Surely you do not mean..."
"I do," he interrupted. "You are the man this nation needs. You command respect, loyalty, and discipline. Take what I have left, and shape it as you will. America will follow you. Just don't mess things up."
The room erupted in protests. Adams slammed his fist on the table. Hamilton nearly shouted in outrage. Franklin chuckled bitterly and muttered, "Of course. A week of glory, then off you go to chase women and battles again."
Despite their protests, he was not swayed. By nightfall, he formally resigned, placing the seal of presidency into Washington's hands. Washington, reluctant but honored, accepted.
Before leaving, Edward's comrades bestowed upon him a gift. A seal, forged in gold, bearing the emblem of the presidency, engraved with words of eternal honor.
"This seal is yours and yours alone," Franklin declared, holding it out with uncharacteristic solemnity. "Should you or your blood ever return, know that America will remember. You shall always be a guest of honor, a benefactor of this nation."
Edward took it, his usually stoic face softening. "You flatter me," he said quietly. "But remember, America belongs not to me, nor to any man, but to all of you, and to those yet to come."
The men embraced him, one by one. Washington clasped him in a soldier's grip. Jefferson spoke of liberty's debt. Adams, gruff but sincere, muttered his gratitude. Franklin, with a wink, whispered, "Do send word if you find a land with less paperwork."
And then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Edward mounted his black horse. His Evening Bells, ever loyal, rode behind him. The streets filled with people as word spread. Farmers, soldiers, children, widows—all came to watch the man who had made their nation possible.
Cries rang out. Some begged him to stay. Others threw flowers in his path. The sound of bells echoed as his riders moved through the city, the same bells that had once heralded freedom's battles.
Edward looked back once, raising his hand in farewell. His eyes lingered on the city that had risen from war, the dream he had helped forge. A faint smile touched his lips.
Then he turned forward. Without another word, he and his men rode on, vanishing into the mists of history.
America was now in the hands of its Founders. Biggus Dickus or rather Edward's part was done here. Whether they would follow history or go on a different path only time will tell.
Then, as was his habit, he vanished, leaving Washington to carry the mantle of leadership.
It was both a question and a mystery. None knew where Dickus would go, nor what paths his descendants might walk. But the seal bound them to the destiny of the nation, as surely as the ink on the Declaration itself.
And so, while Washington became the figure history remembers, and Franklin, Jefferson, Adams, and the rest became immortalized as the architects of liberty, the shadow of Biggus Dickus lingered—half legend, half jest, wholly indispensable.
The Evening Bells were never seen again, but whispers of them continued long after the war. Soldiers swore that when the night fell heavy on the battlefield, they heard faint echoes of hooves, as if the black riders still roamed, guardians of the revolution's spirit.
The war for independence closed its bloody pages, but within those pages, the name of Biggus Dickus stood etched, not merely as a joke among historians, but as one of the founding pillars of the United States.
*****
After leaving America, Edward had thought to simply fade into quiet. He wanted nothing more than to spend time with his family after centuries of wandering, wars, and responsibility.
The weight of endless battles, the subtle guidance of kingdoms, and the burden of shaping history had grown heavy. For once, he wished only to exist in the moment, to enjoy life without the constant pull of duty or conflict.
An official marriage ceremony with Death herself lingered in his thoughts, something that would mark their bond clearly before all who mattered. Not that their connection required validation, but Edward understood the value of ritual, of recognition.
For once, he wanted peace. He wanted to observe the world unfold naturally, to witness events without needing to intervene.
Yet, before he could depart, the fragile calm was shattered.
From the top of the mountain ahead, something fell with the speed and brilliance of a falling star, smashing into the earth with devastating force.
The impact tore the terrain apart, a gaping crater forming instantly as rock and dust erupted skyward. The shockwave rattled his bones, and the ground trembled beneath his feet.
Edward winced, shielding his eyes. "Ouch. Need a band aid?"
A voice answered, playful yet with a psychopathic edge that made his pulse spike. It carried familiarity and menace in equal measure.
"Oh my, have you gone soft after so many years that you care for my well-being? You used to punch me without mercy before."
Edward's face tightened, and his thoughts screamed Not again !
'Fuuuuuuccckkkk! Why is this crazy bitch back?! I thought I punched her back to her planet! Fuck this shit, I'm out!'
The memories flooded back with painful clarity. The first two encounters with her were indelibly marked in his mind, each as vivid as the day it had occurred.
Flashback 500 BCE
Edward was returning to Greece after , eager to reunite with his wives after a long journey. The morning air was still, the light soft and golden, that's when she struck.
A savage blur of gray skin and impossible strength lunged at him from the rocks without warning. The glint of alien armor caught his eye for the briefest instant before her fists slammed into him, driving him backward across the uneven terrain.
Her body radiated a strange power that resembled divinity but was unmistakably alien. She moved with perfect control, speed, and stamina beyond human limits, and she did not pause, did not tire. Every step she took seemed to draw the earth itself into the battle.
Edward's hand moved instinctively, deflecting blows, countering with precise strikes, all the while analyzing her form, her strength, her intent. When she paused to speak, the arrogance in her voice was unmistakable.
"I am a half Amazonian," she announced, chest heaving. "Not of this world. I am from another, sent here in search of something. And you, man of strength, you are the first to catch my interest. Surrender, and you shall have the honor of serving me. Refuse, and you will fall."
Edward's patience snapped. The combination of her audacity and her strength made her far too dangerous to ignore. With a single decisive strike, he sent her flying, hurtling through the sky until she vanished from sight.
He believed it over. He thought she had returned to her own world, perhaps forever.
But he had miscalculated.
Flashback — 300 CE
The first thing Edward noticed when she appeared this time was that she wasn't charging at him like before. No reckless storm, no uncontrolled savagery. She walked toward him, calm, measured, though her eyes burned with the same unsettling hunger.
"You came back," Edward said flatly, his hand already resting on his weapon. "I thought you were gone for good."
Her lips curved into something almost like a smile. "Did you miss me?"
"Not even a little."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "This time, I won't waste my strength rushing. My father's plans for Earth are already in motion. conquest, enslavement, domination. The whole package. You know what that means."
"I've heard plenty of tyrants talk about domination." Edward's voice was unimpressed, almost bored. "Your father isn't the first. He won't be the last."
Her eyes narrowed, but her expression shifted when she looked at him fully. "But you… you are different. Stronger than I expected. You've charmed me."
Edward raised a brow. "Charmed you? That's a new one."
"I want you by my side," she said directly, no hesitation in her tone. "Fight with me. Together we could shape everything. I can give you power, glory… even myself."
Edward groaned. "Why do I always attract the crazy ones?"
She ignored his remark and instead leveled her weapon. "Then let's make it simple. A contest. If I win, you leave with me. If I lose, you may ask anything of me."
Edward stared at her. "…You're serious."
"As death."
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."
The fight began.
For hours they traded blows, steel meeting steel, fists colliding with enough force to split the ground beneath them. She pressed him with relentless speed, her trident lashing out in precise arcs. Edward countered with raw strength, his strikes breaking through her guard again and again. He didn't go all out.
And yet, she never stopped. Even when her armor cracked, even when blood stained her lips, she came back at him, fierce and unyielding.
Finally, she faltered. Edward struck her down, her body crashing into the ground with a heavy thud. Her weapon slipped from her hand, shattered and broken. She lay sprawled at his feet, bloodied, exhausted, but her eyes still burned with determination.
Edward stood over her cautiously. "Who are you really? Why do you keep attacking me? What is this energy inside you? It's not human… it feels more like divinity but different. Are you a demi-god?"
She coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. Her voice was rough, yet steady. "You are strong. Stronger than the tales say. I wanted to see it for myself… and now I know. You are more than worthy."
Her lips curled upward into a hungry smile. Even bloodied, the look unsettled him. She licked her lips, eyes fixed on him in a way that made Edward instinctively shift, covering his crotch without thinking.
"Join me," she whispered, her tone lower now, dangerous. "Stand by my side as I kill my father and claim what is mine. You'll get anything you wish for."
Edward blinked, confused, but still joked . "…Who's your daddy?"
She pushed herself up on shaky arms, fingers clutching the remnants of her trident. "My name is Grail. Daughter of Darkseid. With your help, I can end him. I can give you wealth, fame, power… even myself."
Edward let out a short laugh. "Yeah, that's not going to work on me." Without another word, he chopped her sharply on the neck. She went limp instantly, collapsing back to the ground unconscious.
"Not interested," he muttered, turning away.
But as he walked, his mind churned. Darkseid's daughter? And half-Amazon? What the hell… Did Darkseid actually take an Amazon? And she wants to kill him? That complicates things.
He hesitated, frowning. She's powerful. If she really is his daughter, she's a threat. Do I kill her now? But I don't even know what she's done yet. Can't kill randoms blindly. I didn't even know her Character . Maybe I should bring her to Themyscira. Hera and Hippolyta need to know.
A sudden rustling behind him cut his thoughts short.
Edward's instincts flared. He spun just in time, catching a blade aimed for his throat. His grip crushed it instantly, shards of the weapon crumbling in his hand. His eyes snapped to Grail, who had already staggered back to her feet.
But she wasn't afraid.
Her eyes were wide, her breathing sharp, cheeks faintly flushed.
Edward's expression darkened. "…Shit." He realized immediately. I forgot to suppress my charms when I used full strength.
Her lips parted. She stared at him almost dreamily, entranced.
"Damn it," Edward muttered, turning his back. "I don't know what your deal is or why you keep attacking me. But listen carefully, I could kill you in less than a minute. This is mercy. Change your ways. Next time I will..."
"Become my husband!"
Edward nearly stumbled. "Wait, what?!"
Grail's voice was feverish, her body trembling with excitement as she rushed at him with arms outstretched. "You are what I've been searching for. Stronger than me. Worthy. If we marry and have children, they would surpass Darkseid himself. Together, we could crush him!"
Edward leapt back, glaring at her. "Are you insane?!"
"No," she said breathlessly, eyes shining. "I have found my equal. My mate."
He shook his head violently. "Yeah, right. Not happening. I don't care about your plans, Big Mom wannabe. I will not accept you."
Her face hardened. She lifted her hand, summoning Apokoliptian power. A boom tube tore open, its vortex warping the air violently.
"If you won't come willingly, then I'll take you," she snarled, reaching for him.
But Edward moved faster. His fist cracked across her body, launching her backward into the boom tube. Before she could recover, he slammed his hands together, crushing the portal itself with raw force until it imploded and vanished.
Silence followed.
Edward stood there, chest heaving, muttering under his breath. "…Crazy bitch."
He turned, walking away.
Flashback Ends
And now, centuries later, as he stared at the massive crater before him, Edward realized she had returned again.
Grail.
Back from the place he had hurled her into.
And judging by the smirk on her lips, this wasn't a casual visit.
Edward sighed. " I guess today's the day bitches die." He cracked his knuckles.
****
I hope you are liking it so far. From next week, I have set a new goal. There will be weekly 6 chapters, Saturdays off , lemme rest a day xD.
And Every 1000 stones would get a bonus chapter. So either way, you'll be getting 7 chapters judging by current activity.
Or, go nuts and reach the 2000 stone milestone for the extra chapter. Let's climb up those rankings like an 80 year old with arthritis climbing a mountain to meet his hot 20 yo old girlfriend 💀
I would have lowered the requirements if I didn't have to manually write it from scratch, and had more time. Every chapter is over 3000 words. That takes time for brainstorming and typing. Quality over quantity all day.
And as always, let me know your thoughts on the story in the comments. I read the comments to figure out the audience response and fine tune the story. Plus it's easy to miss some stuff in such a long timeline.
I know some of you like to stock up chapters and later read. But wouldn't it be a bitch if a lot of people start doing it, then I get discouraged to write, and go off to buy milk and vanish forever?
When people come back to read it here later and find the book is gone , they'd be like this.
Insert surprised Pikachu jpg.
Aight, I'll show myself the door.