The night was thick with smoke and the metallic sting of gunpowder. Flares cut across the black sky like dying stars, each one illuminating the jagged silhouettes of broken men and burning ground. Amid the chaos, Sergeant Marc Stevenson of the British S.A.S. stumbled forward, his rifle slick with sweat and blood.
Then it came—a single sharp crack. The bullet ripped into him, tearing through muscle and bone. His breath caught in his throat, and he collapsed onto the dirt, the war for independence roaring on around him. His vision dimmed, and for a moment he thought he was already dead.
But then—something else.
Through the haze of pain, he saw a figure standing where no man should have been, tall and radiant beneath the pale light of the moon. The figure's voice was deep, old, as though spoken from stone temples swallowed by centuries.
Unknown Voice: "Marcson, you have been chosen as my champion. You are granted the title of Moonveil."
Marc blinked. His chest, once burning with agony, was… whole. The hole in his side was gone, the searing pain vanished as if time itself had been rewound. He sat up, stunned.
Before him, the apparition revealed itself: an Aztec god, his face adorned with silver crescents, his body robed in starlit shadow.
Marc: "Why me? Why did you choose me?"
The god's eyes glowed like cold moons.
The God: "You don't remember anything, but I do. Years ago, in Mexico, you stumbled upon ruins… and the amulet you took from the altar."
Marc's memory stirred—heat, jungle vines, and the feel of smooth stone in his palm.
Marc: "I remember… but what does that have to do with this?"
The God: "The amulet bore words you could not read. A contract. Whoever claims it must serve me. In return, they are given my power."
Marc: "Powers? A contract? I don't understand. Am I… dead?"
The God: "No, you yet live. I have spared you—for now. But you are bound to me, Marcson. You will do my bidding. Farewell, mortal."
Marc: "Wait—!"
But the god was gone. Silence rushed in, heavy and merciless. Marc was left alone in the carnage, lying among the broken bodies of his comrades.
---
At dawn, voices pierced his stupor.
Soldier 1: "Oi! This one's alive. Bloody miracle…"
Soldier 2: "Get him up. To the infirmary, quick."
They lifted him, their hands rough but careful. When the doctor examined him, he frowned.
Doctor: "No wounds. No damage at all. Vitals are steady. We'll send him home if he doesn't wake soon."
But Marc didn't wake. Not yet.
He was transported to the mainland, slipping between worlds of memory and silence. Machines scanned him, searching for fractures, ruptures, the proof of his pain. But the results were the same—nothing.
Doctor: "No injuries. No brain damage. Perhaps he's feigning it."
The doctor's voice was calm when he later spoke to Marc, once he had awoken in the sterile quiet of the hospital.
Marc: "Why did you lie?"
Doctor: "Because I know what it's like out there. A hell you don't crawl out of. My name's Todd Krieger. You'll stay here for a while, then I'll see you sent home."
Marc had no strength to argue. He simply nodded.
---
Days later, back in England, he sat alone in the dim glow of his flat. The silence pressed heavy until a whisper returned to him. Not through his ears, but inside his very skull.
Marc: "You again… Who are you? What god are you?"
The God: "I am Tecciztecatl, the Moon God. And you are my champion. You will wear my veil, and you will fight evil in my name."
Marc scoffed. "A veil? What am I, a bride? At least give me a hood."
A low, amused rumble filled his mind.
Tecciztecatl: "Very well."
In an instant, Marc was clothed in a strange new garb: a black-and-purple suit, a crescent moon burning faintly on his chest. A pale hood crowned his head, shimmering like moonlight itself. His senses ignited—every sound sharp, every shadow alive with hidden meaning.
Then came the sound.
A scream. A woman's voice, ragged and desperate, carried across the night.
Tecciztecatl: "Do you hear that? Innocence cries for you."
Marc's heart pounded. "Yes… I hear it."
He leapt from his window without thought. Gravity seemed weaker, the ground softer. He landed silently, exhilaration flooding him. His legs carried him faster than ever before.
Tecciztecatl: "Jump. Trust me."
Marc gritted his teeth. "If I fall…"
Tecciztecatl: "You won't."
He jumped—and soared. The rooftops blurred beneath him as though the night itself bore him aloft. He landed where the scream had risen, his new form cutting a dark figure in the alley's glow.
Two men towered over a terrified girl, their hands clawing at her clothes.
Marc: "Leave her. Now."
The first thug snarled, pulling a knife. "What did you say, you faggot? I'll gut ya."
He lunged. Marc caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting until the blade clattered to the ground. With one motion, he hurled the man against a wall, where he slumped unconscious.
The second thug turned to flee, but Marc leapt, landing before him in a blur. He seized him by the collar, his voice low and cold.
Marc: "If you ever try this again, I won't be as merciful."
Thug: "Wh-what are you?"
Marc straightened, his hood glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Marc: "I am Moonveil—the protector of innocence, the herald of justice. Remember: I am always watching."
He bound them both and left them at the steps of the police station.
Turning back, he found the girl still trembling, her breaths shallow. She was younger than he thought. Her school ID lay on the ground, and the sight of it made his chest twist.
Marc: "Oh God… you're only fifteen."
Her body sagged, fainting. Quickly, Marc shed the veil, his suit dissolving into his plain civilian clothes. He covered her with his jacket, shielding her shivering form, and called the police.
As the sirens wailed closer, Marc stood in the shadows, heart thundering, the words of the god still burning in his mind.
The Moon had chosen him.