The plaza used to be a site of rebellion.
Now, it echoed with curated chants and banners inked in phrases Caelum never said—only implied in doctrine, seeded through education reforms and cultural rebranding. The people marched not with rage, but with resolve. Their causes were just. Their slogans carefully crafted. Their fury perfectly aligned.
And none of them knew who wrote the shape of their dreams.
Caelum walked the perimeter unnoticed, cloak drawn tight, face blurred by a spell only he and the devil understood. His Whisper Parliament had buried their fingerprints deep: school curriculums that framed justice as obedience, media outlets that celebrated heroes modeled after the ideals he once bled for.
Murals rose from cracked alleyways—portraits of anonymous revolutionaries with eyes too familiar. Some bore symbols Caelum designed, never intending them to be seen. Now they were etched into brick. Stitched into flags.
A young artist approached him near the fountain, unaware of who he was.
"I painted this," she said, pointing to a wall depicting a lone figure in grey leading a crowd through fire. "He's hope."
Caelum studied the image. His silhouette—warped, stylized, mythic.
"You believe in him?" he asked.
She smiled. "He changed everything."
Caelum nodded once.
Didn't speak again.
That night, the devil appeared at the edge of his bed.
"They love the version of you that never existed."
He didn't respond.
Because truth had outgrown him.
And legacy was now a lie everyone felt good abou