The couch-lifting video had reached twelve million views.
Lord Malachai was unhappy about this.
Not visibly.
But several senior managers had learned to recognize the warning signs.
For example:
The Dark Lord was now answering emails significantly faster.
This was never a good sign.
---
Across the internet, clips continued spreading.
> "Proper lifting technique prevents long-term injury."
— Lord Malachai the Dread
---
> "Lift with your legs, not your back."
— Ancient Apocalypse, Community Volunteer
---
> "Teamwork reduces structural strain."
— Former World Threat, Apparently
---
The comments had become worse.
---
"I hate that he's right."
---
"My chiropractor agrees with the Dark Lord."
---
"This feels like villain propaganda."
---
"My lower back feels amazing."
---
The public relations departments of several hero organizations were reportedly experiencing collective nervous breakdowns.
---
Elara's situation was somehow worse.
The children's drawings had escaped containment.
Again.
The Void Princess now possessed:
fan art,
social media pages,
conspiracy theories,
and a small but enthusiastic fan club.
One drawing depicted her fighting a dragon.
Another depicted her wrestling a volcano.
A third depicted her riding a dragon while fighting a volcano.
The little girl responsible had become something of a local celebrity.
Elara strongly considered moving to another continent.
---
Meanwhile, hidden deep within Guild Headquarters, Captain Vale watched another viral clip.
Then another.
Then another.
Eventually she sighed.
"You know what's bothering me?"
Director Chen looked up.
"Everything?"
"Fair."
Vale gestured toward the screen.
"Nobody is afraid."
That got Chen's attention.
Neither woman spoke for a moment.
Because it was true.
The public wasn't frightened.
Amused.
Confused.
Interested.
Annoyingly charmed.
But not frightened.
And that represented a profound shift.
---
Far away, in a small café filled with retired heroes and retired villains, a television changed channels.
Nobody paid attention.
At first.
Then music began.
A single note.
Then another.
Then another.
The room froze.
Coffee stopped halfway to mouths.
Cards remained suspended above tables.
Conversation died instantly.
The younger generation looked around in confusion.
The older generation did not.
Because they knew the song.
---
The Anthem of the Justicars.
---
The retired villain nearest the television slowly lowered his cup.
"...No."
Across from him, an old hero closed his eyes.
"Not again."
The room remained silent.
Only the anthem continued playing.
Strong.
Clear.
Certain.
The same song that had once echoed through rallies.
Through marches.
Through speeches.
Through battlefields.
---
A younger hero frowned.
"Why is everyone reacting like that?"
No one answered immediately.
Finally, the Celestial Knight spoke.
Quietly.
"Heard at the wrong time..."
His gaze remained fixed on the screen.
"...that song can become a weapon."
---
The broadcast shifted.
The anthem faded.
A crowd appeared.
Thousands gathered peacefully beneath banners bearing the familiar symbol of the Justicars.
Not soldiers.
Not fanatics.
Ordinary people.
Teachers.
Firefighters.
Students.
Heroes.
Citizens.
People who believed something important had been lost.
---
Then the crowd became silent.
A figure stepped onto the stage.
White cloak.
Golden accents.
Radiant presence.
The years had touched her less than most.
Not because she hadn't suffered.
Because she refused to bend.
---
Seraph had returned.
---
Across the world, reactions were immediate.
Heroes stopped what they were doing.
Villains watched carefully.
Retired survivors became very quiet.
The Old Guard looked tired.
Because they remembered.
---
Seraph stood before the crowd.
Calm.
Controlled.
No shouting.
No grand gestures.
No fury.
Which somehow made it worse.
---
"The world changes."
Her voice carried effortlessly.
"The world always changes."
The crowd listened.
---
"We have witnessed miracles."
---
Applause followed.
---
"We have witnessed monsters."
---
The applause softened.
---
"And lately..."
Seraph's gaze swept across the crowd.
"...we have begun confusing the two."
---
Silence.
Absolute silence.
---
"A villain who learns to smile remains a villain."
No anger.
No hatred.
Just certainty.
---
"A hero who forgets their duty remains responsible for that failure."
---
Thousands listened.
Some nodded.
Some looked uncertain.
Some looked troubled.
---
Seraph continued.
"We are told that justice must compromise."
Her voice remained calm.
"We are told that good and evil are complicated."
---
A pause.
---
"Sometimes they are."
The admission surprised many.
---
"But complexity must never become an excuse for surrender."
---
Far away, Vale watched the speech.
And hated how reasonable parts of it sounded.
---
Elsewhere, Solin watched.
Nyxara watched beside him.
Neither spoke.
---
The retired hero in the café stared at the television.
The retired villain beside him looked exhausted.
---
"The last time people started listening like this..."
The younger hero turned toward him.
The old villain shook his head.
"...people stopped seeing each other."
---
Far away, hidden within darkness and stolen archives, the Deceiver watched three screens.
---
One showed District Nine.
Children laughing.
Community projects.
Connection.
---
One showed the Old Guard.
Watching.
Remembering.
Fearing.
---
One showed Seraph.
Standing before thousands.
Offering certainty.
Purpose.
Direction.
---
The Deceiver studied all three.
For a long time.
No notes.
No observations.
Just thought.
---
Then slowly—
very slowly—
they smiled.
---
Not because Seraph was right.
Not because District Nine was right.
Not because anyone was right.
---
Because for the first time since beginning the investigation—
the experiment had produced competing answers.
---
Connection.
Certainty.
Understanding.
---
Three paths.
Three beliefs.
Three futures.
---
The Deceiver leaned back.
Fascinated.
---
"Excellent."
---
And far away, beneath lights and applause, Seraph continued speaking while an old song echoed once more across a world that remembered it far too well.