The banners of the Holy Ermezia Empire fluttered crimson in the wind, a sea of flags that drowned the central plaza in red and gold. The air trembled beneath the roar of the crowd—hundreds of thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes burning with fervor, throats raw from chanting a single name.
"Johnson! Johnson! Johnson!"
He stood at the heart of it all, the man who had bent a nation to his will. Dressed in black uniform stitched with golden embroidery, he raised his hand, and the ocean of voices fell silent as if he alone commanded the air they breathed. His gaze swept across them—not with affection, but with certainty. The kind of certainty that makes men kneel, that convinces the masses their chains are wings.
His voice boomed:
"People of Ermezia! Sons and daughters of our holy empire!
Look around you—do you not feel it? The ground itself trembles with the march of destiny! We are not a broken nation, not some fading echo of the past. No—we are the flame that refuses to die!
Across the seas, the so-called Nover Liberty calls us tyrants, dares to brand us as slaves to ambition. But I ask you, who are the true slaves? Those who kneel before gold, those who sell their blood for the chains of foreign masters—they are the ones in chains! We are free! We are the heirs of steel, of will, of glory!
Remember our ancestors. They fought with bare hands, with broken swords, yet never once did they bow their heads! Shall we bow now? Shall we tremble before a decaying enemy who hides behind words of freedom while wielding daggers of oppression?
No! Never! Today we stand united, tomorrow we rise victorious! The ashes of yesterday shall become the foundation of tomorrow's empire. From fire, we ascend! From blood, we conquer!
Say hail, Ermezia! Say hail, our destiny! Say hail, our eternal rise!"
"The plaza erupted, a living thunderstorm of devotion. Arms shot upward, fists clenched, voices raw with faith. Their cries shook the stone of the capital itself. For a moment, Johnson appeared less a man and more a god returned to flesh.
The roar of the crowd still thundered through the capital like a storm that refused to end. Johnson's motorcade rolled past the marble gates, flowers crushed under the tires, cheers following like a living tide. People clung to one another, crying his name as if it were salvation itself.
"Ermezia! Johnson! Ermezia! Johnson!"
From the windows of his limousine, he raised a hand. Even now, sweat beaded on his brow from the fire of his speech, but his smile was calm, almost fatherly. He saw children lifted on shoulders, old men saluting with trembling arms, women crying tears of devotion. They did not see a politician—they saw destiny wearing flesh.
When the gates of the imperial palace closed behind him, the sound of the people dimmed, but never truly faded. Their chants seeped through the stone like holy hymns. Johnson exhaled, unbuttoning his collar. These are my people. This is my empire. Even in death, they will carry my name.
He walked the golden halls flanked by guards, though here—inside—there was no fear. Here was family, comrades, men he had lifted from obscurity and shaped into titans. He had given them bread, titles, lands. Loyalty was the blood that bound them.
Or so he thought.
The chamber was warm, lit by a hundred candles. Johnson dismissed his guards with a simple wave. Only his closest circle remained, shadows in the flickering light. One of them stepped forward—a man whose loyalty had never been questioned, whose victories on the battlefield were sung in taverns. Johnson almost smiled.
"You walked beside me from the mud to the marble," Johnson said, voice low, tired but proud. "You saw the world mock us, and you saw me break them. Soon, we—"
The rest was swallowed by steel.
The knife slid between his ribs, cold and merciless. The air left him in a single sharp gasp. He turned, slow as stone crumbling, until his eyes met the face of the one who had struck. A friend. A brother. A son in all but blood.
"...You," Johnson rasped, disbelief cracking into his voice. Blood bubbled at his lips, dripping down his chin like spilled wine.
The traitor's eyes were wet. But his hand did not falter. He twisted the blade. Johnson's knees gave way, crashing against the marble floor. The candles swayed, shadows dancing as if mocking his fall.
Outside, the people still cried his name. Their voices reached into the chamber, a cruel echo, worship offered to a man already dying.
"Hail! Hail! Hail—!"
Johnson's hand reached for the air, trembling. Not for mercy, not for life. Only for the roar of his people. His empire. His dream. And then, with a final shudder, the roar faded.
The motorcade had carried him through the screaming streets, his name spilling from every throat like scripture. Behind tinted glass, he waved once, and the crowd nearly tore itself apart in ecstasy. Flowers shattered beneath tires, confetti rained like snow, and the empire itself seemed to kneel.
The car slid through the iron gates of his mansion. The noise outside dulled, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed on the skin. Inside, chandeliers burned like captured suns, their glow reflecting on marble floors polished to a mirror's shine. Johnson stepped out of the car slowly, as though savoring the weight of triumph clinging to him.
He walked the long corridors lined with portraits of conquerors, their painted eyes watching him, judging him. His boots echoed—a steady, certain rhythm.
At the end, the hall awaited. The hall of victory, the hall of betrayal.
His guards peeled away at a simple gesture, leaving only shadows and trusted men. Among them, his assistant—the one who had carried his letters, his secrets, his burdens. The boy he had raised into a man of power.
Johnson turned, ready to speak, ready to share in triumph. "You walked beside me from the mud to the marble. You saw the world mock us, and you saw me break them. Soon, we—"
Steel answered. A sharp, silent prayer driven between ribs.
The knife went in clean. Johnson froze, breath stolen mid-word. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes searching, not believing.
The assistant's face swam into view, pale, stricken, lips trembling. Tears gleamed in the candlelight.
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, voice barely holding. "Forgive me.".... Johnson's eyes dimmed, yet even as the last of his breath slipped away, he did not fall into silence.
A void opened. Black. Endless. Weightless. He thought this was death.
But then—sound. A hush, a whisper, a rush like waves crashing against a distant shore.
"...hush, hush… it's alright…"
His body was gone, but something throbbed. A heartbeat, quick, frantic—not his own.
Then pain, raw and sharp, like being torn from the void itself. He gasped—not as Johnson the warlord, but as a crying infant in another world.
The woman holding him wept with joy, clutching his tiny form. "My son… my little Zaine."
The name branded itself into the remnants of Johnson's soul. Zaine.
He had been betrayed, butchered, abandoned by those he raised to power. Yet destiny had not cast him aside. It had given him another beginning.
Not as the ruler of Ermezia.
Not as the tyrant Johnson.
But as Zaine—the reborn.