The Superior Rebirth: A Hero's Awakening

Dominoes of Fate

April, 1st, 1810

Time had a way of slipping its leash. More than two weeks had passed since the destruction—an incident that had ripped through the night without warning—and the human world had not recovered. It didn't just whisper through the towns; it roared. Newspapers burned through ink and breath alike as The Lantin Society, a secretive underground network, leaked the most grotesque truth the public could stomach.

They called it the Superior Project.

The revelations spread like wildfire. Names once spoken only in hushed corridors now stained every front page. Politicians, ministers, heads of states—men and women whose faces once smiled from gilded portraits—found themselves dragged into the light. The documents were explicit, the horrors undeniable. For every line printed, another family's life had been torn away.

"How could they hide this from us?" people demanded in the streets. But the question had an edge of futility: whatever had been done could not be undone. Those stolen by the project were gone. No apology, no tribunal, no law could stitch the missing back into being.

"Will they pay?" the crowds cried. "If the courts won't act, we will." The chant threaded through cities and villages, a sudden, raw hunger for justice that felt dangerously like revenge. Already, tongues wagged of civil uprisings and mob tribunals—of ordinary men stepping into the role of executioner.

Among the ruined reputations, one name eclipsed the rest: Percival Ashford.

To many, he was the architect of modern industry—the mind who had pushed humanity into a new mechanical age. He was the engine of the Industrial Revolution, a genius who bent steam and steel to his will. To others he'd been a benefactor, a man whose factories promised livelihoods and whose patronage gilded whole cities.

Now, as the documents proved, he was a different thing entirely: the puppetmaster behind a cruelty so vast it dug graves in the conscience of nations. Percival—idol, kingmaker, man of science—had become public enemy number one.

His image, painstakingly built over decades, lay in shreds. Influence, trusts, alliances—gone. Governments that once courted him now called for his head. A war criminal, a pariah, and an open bounty worth fortunes.

If I were Percival, I thought, I would never return.

He had enemies enough to fill a small army. Nations, private mercenaries, grieving families—each would tear him apart if they could. Yet I could not imagine him cowed by posters and threats. Devils, after all, enjoy the storm. To his mind, this might be just another machine to be understood and outwitted.

WANTED

Percival Ashford

Dead or turned in to any national government.

Bounty: 152.8 billion

The posters pasted themselves to every inn, alley, and tavern—an invitation to fortune and damnation. Catch him, and a life of comfort would follow. Try, and most would find the last thing they saw was the barrel of someone else's pistol.

Finding Percival was not a matter of money; it was a matter of impossibility. Whoever hid him had done so with a care and cunning that made the devil look tidy.

"Try if you may," the whisper read between the lines. "But beware: death knocks first for those who seek him."

Country: Imperial Kingdom of Russia

Location: House of Ivanovich, Tsarigrad Citadel

While the world burned with rumor beyond its walls, a small, deliberate intruder traversed the Tsarigrad Citadel's vaulted hall toward the throne room.