He Who Wields The Crowd

"He enters not with chaos, but with scripture, steel, and certainty—a King who doesn't yell to be feared, but speaks softly enough to be worshipped."

Central District – First layer

The sun barely pierced the violet-tinged smog above the Central District's monoliths of pillars that served as an entrance to the below layers, but the streets of Crowned Ward Sector I were already alive with fire and order.

A row of Free Dominion prisoners knelt along the market's central plaza. Their heads bowed, wrists bound in cheap replicas of mirrored Polsium meta that shimmered with quiet menace. Bystanders gathered behind low barricades—some giddy, some silent, all watching.

The towering head guard in midnight-black armor and a standardized steel mask with an eye motif strode before them. Dirge, etched in his chest plate, and a flaming sword insignia that gleamed like a judgment.

"Traitors to divine succession," he boomed, eyes sweeping across the crowd. "Those who reject the Crown reject order. Rejecting order is death."

He paused beside a boy barely sixteen, shackled and shivering. For a moment, Dirge's gaze flickered. Doubt? Remorse?

"Does he even know what side he's on?" murmured a younger guard beside him.

Dirge said nothing.

Then, without ceremony, his blade hissed from its sheath and fell six times. Quick. Mechanical.

"We are the sacred light,"

A chant erupted in the street:

"Protect the Lord! Burn the heretics!"

"Protect the Lord! Burn the heretics!"

Crimson spread like spilled paint across the concrete.

Behind a tinted window above the plaza, a flickering broadcast crystal replayed a pre-recorded message in an endless loop.

Zephyros's voice, distorted slightly from distance but unmistakable in tone, echoed like a sermon:

"The weak cling to 'freedom.' True strength bows to destiny. A world built on consent is one built on decay. Order does not ask. It demands."

A nearby child pressed her fingers to her ears. The vendor behind her smirked. "That's our king, sweetheart. Better to hear him now than feel him later."

Far from the plaza—though only in street length, not ideology—Kallium Row offered warmth and sweetness to those who could afford it.

Two elderly women sat beneath a hanging garden of synthetic moss, sipping spiced tea and whispering.

"Did you hear? Zephyros ordered a recruitment hall be turned into a sanctuary."

"Yes, and thank the stars. Such a caring and merciful lord."

They laughed softly.

Across from them, a merchant grumbled, slamming his tablet onto the table.

"New tariffs on inter-district trade," he spat. "We're starving the east to fund a war we already won. All for that cursed speech in an hour."

His companion shook his head. "You still think the war's won?"

In a tight tenement block, two lovers argued in hushed tones.

"I'm telling you, the Free Dominion doesn't want chaos—they want freedom. That's different," said the man, pacing between cracked tiles.

The woman scoffed, arms crossed. "You want to live in a world where children don't have titles? Where a seamstress can call a lord by his name? That erases the hierarchy holding back chaos. Don't be naive."

He grabbed her shoulders, desperate. "It's not about that—it's about—"

A siren wailed outside, and they both froze.

Footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic.

Crowned Ward patrols.

They didn't finish the conversation. They never did.

On the steps of an old shrine now repurposed into a conscription post, a small boy knelt beside a broken statue of Zephyros.

He whispered prayers not even his mother remembered.

His voice was thin. Uncertain.

But he bowed deeper than most men had that week.

Suddenly, every screen, every polished surface, every broadcast crystal pulsed to life.

Just a shadowed figure with a phone. The King's voice, speaking softly to someone unseen.

A breath later, the crowd watching the executions. The café. The lovers. The child—all stopped.

Windows darkened. Neon dimmed.

Then came the name—

"Zephyros Vainar."

And from the towers of the unimaginably vast castle, his form emerged at last.

[Simultaneously, as the executions and fight with Altan unfolded...]

A figure emerged from one of the many doors of the cathedral, descending the long staircase. He picked up his phone.

"Yes? Azarias, the High Priest who had anointed him at his coronation, here..." He glanced up and caught sight of a boy walking with an impressive cross accompanying a much shorter boy.

"A unique cross, maybe one of those modern interpretations," Azarias mused, before looking up to the sky.

The plane—the massive craft—descended slowly, its sleek, angular frame glowing under the pale light. The air trembled with the hum of its engines, the energy almost palpable.

"Zephyros," Azarias smiled, watching the craft descend.

The doors opened, and a woman stepped out, dressed in a flowing blue gown, her face hidden beneath a feathered hat, eyes shimmering with multiple colors.

"Very beautiful," Azarias nodded, his smile fading.

Azarias adjusted the silver-threaded stole around his shoulders—a relic from the coronation that now felt like a chain.

"Welcome to the runner-up who now sits on the throne!" Azarias said, then cursed himself. "He isn't coming, is he?" He hit his face in frustration.

"I am here. I'm simply speaking through my vessel," she said. Her lips moved, but his voice emerged. "I'm caught up in multiple ordeals—like building hospitals."

"Alright then," Azarias said, slightly confused. "Why didn't you want to go to the sky district? Most of our personnel is there. Or are you planning an ambush?"

Zephyros' smile didn't reach his eyes. "You cling to scripture because it's the last wall between you and oblivion, Azarias. How… human."

Ironically, it was Azarias—one of the three whose criticism Zephyros tolerated, a relic of the days when the priest's blessing secured his claim—who, however indirectly, solidified Zephyros's belief that he himself was a god.

Azarias laughed, unnerved. "If you wish to do that, you'll have to deal with Jehanne-Thérèse de Lys." They walked through the gates of the church. Massive icons of the disciples lined the walls.

"I'll come prepared," Zephyros replied, his voice tinged with venom as he finished, "The 'Unbound Paladin.'"

The most feared woman in the city, she who made district heads shiver under her blind gaze.

The air was thick with reverence and mystery as thirty-four men, draped in flowing black robes with silver trim, stood in every corner, repeating:

"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Spirit, Bless and protect us, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen."

Inside the church, Zephyros spoke.

"Do you think the person mentioned in the Revelations isn't me? If you think so, you're fooling yourself," Zephyros said, his voice calm yet charged with authority.

He sat opposite Azarias in a dimly lit room lined with ancient books. A small, aged bench occupied the center, atop which rested four arms. Azarias sat stiffly, his youthful features hiding his inner tension. The only light came from a rectangular skylight above, casting long shadows across the room.

"You're slowly killing yourself," Azarias said, his tone sharp. "Do not rely on your own interpretation of God's words, Vainar. The Church has spoken, and her judgment is final. For he who denies her judgment is like a man who rejects the truth of God becoming man, yet expects to see the light. You're crafting a clause, a new denomination? Rubbish."

Zephyros smirked. "A clause for me? No, I never do anything that puts me at a disadvantage. Nothing I do—not even speaking to you—is a liability. The mere concept of me, God, speaking to you—a mortal—tips everything in my favor. Even if I hadn't meticulously calculated every moment of my rise—every second, every minute, every hour—God does not lose. He simply waits."

Azarias leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "The war you're starting doesn't align with anything written, nor does it uphold any tradition of the Church." He chuckled softly, a bitter sound. "Me, a mortal," he repeated, brushing the thought aside.

"You and I aren't so different," Zephyros said, his tone almost casual. "Just that I have been blessed. Nothing more."

He leaned back, his voice growing more contemplative. "We live, we die, and the cycle of reincarnation continues endlessly. Manifestations exist to shape us, to make our beings unique. But we all come from the same leaf, the same tree, the same earth. No one truly changes; they simply leap to another leaf or root to another branch. Life is futile as the tree reincarnates, for nothing is constant—not even us. The death of that sage proves this—no one is exempt. We are all walking the same path, a journey that favors no one."

"And it favors you?" Azarias asked, his gaze piercing.

Zephyros tilted his head. "Haven't you heard? I'm God."

Azarias blinked, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. "You have to be joking," he said, slamming his hands on the table.

"No," Zephyros replied, his expression unchanging.

Before Azarias could respond, a man burst into the room, his face pale with terror.

"No matter how much you destroy, Zephyros, there will always be a spark of new light! Your light will never be brought into existence."

"They will flicker... and die," Zephyros said. Suddenly, a man barged through the doors, panting.

"Are you mad?! The death of the divine words—of GOD—leaves life without meaning!" the pale-faced man said, increasingly agitated.

Zephyros rose slowly, his presence filling the room. "And yet, here I stand, speaking, do I not?"

"The central district will destroy itself," Azarias thought inwardly, a grim thought.

Alone in the dark, Azarias touched the cracked screen of his tablet—still glowing with the emergency tariffs. He knew then: the district would starve before it bowed.

A man stood in shadow, a phone in his hand. His face and clothing remained hidden in darkness—only the outline of the phone and his quiet voice were discernible.

On the other end of the line was Valtieri, his face briefly illuminated before fading as suddenly as it had appeared.

The King stood, his presence magnetic, his form shimmering faintly as he passed by a narrow hall with towering windows. Slivers of light revealed glimpses of his grandeur—a shadowy outline of power and authority.

He walked toward a balcony. Outside, the sounds of a jubilant crowd swelled—shouts and cheers of joy, reverence, and something more primal.

The King's every step carried the weight of inevitability.

As he stepped into the open air, his full form was revealed. His attire was a masterpiece of duality:

The inner layer, a flowing robe of shimmering white, bore intricate golden embroidery in celestial patterns, radiating sacred power. His jet-black hair cascaded like a dark river, interwoven with golden chains and ornate accessories that glimmered like sunlight catching on water.

The outer layer was an elegant yet fearsome metallic exoskeleton, crafted from polished silver and shaped into fractal-like vines that coiled around his chest and shoulders. Its organic, almost living design reflected a fusion of majesty and intimidation, a testament to his role as both a divine ruler and an unrelenting force of dominance.

The King spread his arms wide, and the crowd—billions strong—gathered before his impossibly vast castle, its towers stretching toward the heavens like pillars of eternity.

"Zephyros Vainar!!!"

The name reverberated like a thunderclap through the air as he began to speak, his voice resonant, commanding:

"Before I begin, I expect every single one of you to either bow or clap in reverence. But let us dispense with pretenses—I do not care for your submission. What I desire is what is mine by right."

"Life and death. The beginning and the end. This fragile peace enforced by the sages is a lie—a veil draped over a crumbling world to comfort the weak. I will tear it down. And when I do, there will be no controlled conflicts, no minor disputes. What I bring will not be war as you know it—it will be the dawn of a new age."

"I will bring order to this realm—not balance, not compromise. Absolute order. Absolute control. The realm will belong to me, not in fragments, but whole. And when it does, there will be no turning back. My reign will be total, my rule eternal."

Zephyros' white eye glowed like the cold light of the moon, while his amber eye burned like the dying light of a setting star.

"And yet again, the quote goes—" Zephyros began, but then paused. A breathless silence gripped the billions. Then, as if a switch flipped, the entire crowd recited the words in unison, as if they'd been waiting for this moment to complete the ritual.

"A man can ascend to godhood, but not all men are worthy of it. Only one can claim divinity, and that man has been born into this generation—a generation soaked in blood, anguish, and despair. His wrath will burn the old world to the ground, and from the ashes, his mercy will spark a new dawn, a light the likes of which this world has never seen."

Zephyros smiled, but it was a thin, cold thing, betraying no warmth. "Pure bliss," he murmured to himself, his voice low but brimming with quiet reverence.

"Over 18 billion souls in command... so close, yet so far. Though the biblical accounts prove he suffered greatly, I will not. I will not endure such torment. After all, I will become God."

His words trailed off, fading into the air like a whispered promise. With a mere flick of his finger, the murmur of the crowd died instantly, as if the very breath of the city had been stilled.

Zephyros straightened, his gaze sweeping over the assembled masses, heavy with the weight of his resolve.

"Send this to everyone you know," he commanded, his voice now booming with a chilling finality.

"This city—this exact district—everyone. I have brought peace. I have brought freedom. I have brought security. Do not force my hand, for if you do, I will wipe the slate clean and erase everything in the name of my empire's endless expansion."

With a dramatic rise of his hand, the air was rent with a deafening roar as fireworks exploded in brilliant cascades of light, each burst a symbol of the destruction he was prepared to unleash.

Fireworks reflected in his amber eye like dying stars. Then—he vanished.

The crowd watched, entranced, as if they were witnessing the birth of a new world.

And then, just as quickly, he was gone—vanished into the shadows, leaving nothing but the echo of his words and the lingering scent of sulfur in the air.