CHAPTER ONE – THE SAINT OF SMOKE.

"Some men build empires. Others become myths.

He did both...in silence."

I. The Mirage Called Morning.

New Makurdi didn't wake.

It shifted. Like an old god stretching in its

sleep—half light, half shadow. The streets were

wet with dew and silence. Above them, PlanetX

rose like a cathedral of rebellion: polished glass,

black marble, and light that pulsed like a living

thing.

Mr. Black stood at the highest floor, a

silhouette carved by morning. Shirtless, chiseled,

tattoos spread around his body in black ink—

scars like hieroglyphs across his back. A body

shaped by battles no man wrote about.

He wasn't admiring the view. He was

calculating it.

"Three seconds," he whispered.

A tiny beep confirmed the third knock at his

door. He smirked.

"Enter."

The door slid open to reveal a woman in a

matte navy suit—slim tablet in hand, nerves

barely hidden. Agent-shaped posture. Civilian

soul.

"Ms. Luna," he said, without looking.

"You predicted the betrayal," she said.

"I didn't predict. I counted on it."

She handed him the tablet. Blood-red auction

images flashed across the screen: a severed

finger, a painting in the background—his

painting, "Stillness of War."

"It's now official evidence in an ongoing

investigation," she murmured.

"They'll frame the art before they frame the

artist," he replied. "And I'm both."

She hesitated, watching him pour three

measured drops of honey into black coffee.

"We've traced the courier's route. He stopped

at an old church. Fifteen minutes unaccounted

for."

"Then those are the only minutes that

mattered."

II. The Other Life.

By 9 PM, New Makurdi shed its skin. Neon veins

lit slums denied on paper. A preacher shouted

into broken speakers about hell, while sinners

danced just a block away.

And beneath it all, Verde Nocturne bloomed in

the dark.

It wasn't a lab. It was a sanctuary—green-lit

tunnels, genetically stabilized strains, military

filtration. Each plant was monitored by code-

named XY. Dispensaries in the guise of spiritual

retreats, poetry houses, and puppet theaters.

Mr. Black walked among his empire with

elegance and dread.

"New strain?" he asked, touching a glowing

violet bud.

The botanist, shaking slightly, nodded. "Yes sir.

It's called Redemption. It slows time perception

and enhances memory."

Black smiled. "Perfect. The past is a drug…

people just need the right dosage."

He wasn't just running weed. He was cultivating

escape, revolution, clarity. His clients weren't

addicts—they were pilgrims. And he, the

heretic priest.

But that night, something tasted wrong.

He entered the lower sanctum. The lights

dimmed to scarlet. Music stopped. Only the

smell of blood remained.

A body lay on the floor—one of his couriers,

face down, back carved.

His niece's name, "Nicole", scrawled into flesh.

Not a warning.

A prophecy.

III. Gospel of a God in Hiding.

Mr. Black returned home before midnight. Not

to his penthouse—but to the one room he

never brought visitors.

The chapel.

Old wood. Melted wax. Cracked hymns.

He knelt before the altar, no longer asking

forgiveness—but listening.

"Father," he whispered. "I didn't fall from grace.

I walked away from it."

Behind him hung the portraits of his family—

mother, father, twin brother—all burned in the

fire that left him orphaned. The legacy he wore

now was forged from ashes.

"I gave them a city. They gave me enemies."

He lit three candles: one for his father's rage,

one for his mother's mercy, and one… for what

was coming.

IV. Zyna.

She stood by the doorway, wrapped in shadow

and silk. Her voice was a blade covered in velvet.

"You're slipping," she said.

"No. I'm remembering."

She walked to him barefoot, always barefoot. A

reminder she walked unarmed around a man

who could kill gods.

Zyna wasn't a lover. She was a storm he let in.

"You're about to do something," she said.

"Something unholy."

He met her eyes—dark, ancient, unshaken.

"They took Nicole."

Zyna inhaled, slow. "Then make them regret

breath."

V. The Promise of Fire.

The sun hadn't risen yet, but New Makurdi was

already burning.

He stood on his rooftop again, in full suit. Cigar

between his fingers. Watching the skyline blink

like an SOS.

His phone buzzed.

1 Message.

"FOUND HER."

Attached: a photo feed. Nicole, unconscious,

her small wrist tied with copper wire. Blood on

her face. The Governor's insignia on the wall

behind her.

The Governor. The same man Mr. Black helped

get elected. The same man who'd once sworn,

"We owe you this city."

He crushed the cigar between his fingers. Fire.

Ash. Purpose.

Zyna stepped beside him. "Are you going to

war?"

"No," he said. "I'm going to correct history".