District Nine had developed rumors.
This was inevitable.
No civilization in recorded history had ever successfully prevented people from inventing nonsense.
The fact that the nonsense now involved Void entities only made matters worse.
---
"The Void Princess rescued Mrs. Holloway's cat from a tree."
"She did not."
"She absolutely did."
"She can manipulate reality. Why would she rescue cats?"
"Maybe she likes cats."
"That's ridiculous."
Nearby, Mrs. Holloway looked up from her tea.
"She absolutely rescued Mr. Whiskers."
The entire table fell silent.
"…Seriously?"
"She climbed the tree."
The silence somehow became deeper.
---
Several blocks away, Elara stared at a local community message board.
She regretted this immediately.
Someone had pinned dozens of handwritten notes and rumors to the board.
Some were normal.
Most were not.
> VOID PRINCESS RETURNED MY LOST WALLET
> VOID PRINCESS SCARED OFF MUGGERS
> VOID PRINCESS HELPED FIX PLAYGROUND EQUIPMENT
Reasonable.
Then:
> VOID PRINCESS LIKES BLUEBERRY MUFFINS
Elara frowned.
"…How do they know that?"
Hex appeared upside down beside her.
"I may have contributed to local mythology."
"You started the muffin rumor."
"I started many rumors."
Elara closed her eyes.
"This was a mistake."
"On the contrary," Hex announced proudly, "you're becoming folklore."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It absolutely is."
---
Meanwhile, life continued.
Markets bustled.
Construction projects advanced.
Street musicians performed.
Children ran through newly restored public parks.
District Nine felt alive.
Not because it was perfect.
Because people had started planning futures again.
That was the difference.
---
Captain Vale walked those same streets hours later.
No uniform.
No insignia.
No Guild authority.
Just observation.
For once.
The district disturbed her.
Not because it felt dangerous.
Because it didn't.
She passed:
open-air markets,
repaired apartments,
community gardens,
active businesses,
functioning infrastructure.
Everything looked...
Normal.
The realization bothered her.
A lot.
Nearby, two elderly residents argued over bird feeders with the intensity of rival warlords.
A teenager apologized after bumping into someone.
Children chased each other through puddles.
Life.
Ordinary life.
The sort of thing heroes were supposed to protect.
Vale stopped walking.
Across the street, she recognized a familiar figure.
Dark coat.
Black gloves.
Mask.
Lord Malachai the Dread.
He was carrying grocery bags.
Vale blinked.
That alone wasn't strange anymore.
What happened next somehow was.
An elderly woman emerged from a nearby store carrying far too many packages.
Malachai immediately moved toward her.
No audience.
No cameras.
No advantage.
"Those appear heavy."
"Oh, don't worry dear, I've carried heavier."
"You are seventy-eight."
"I am young at heart."
"That does not alter gravity."
The woman laughed.
Malachai took half the bags.
The conversation continued as they walked away together.
Ordinary.
Mundane.
Human.
Vale remained standing there long after they disappeared around a corner.
For reasons she couldn't fully explain, that image disturbed her more than battle footage.
---
Elsewhere, hidden behind layers of abandoned networks and stolen archives, the Deceiver watched.
Dozens of screens floated through darkness.
Each displayed something different.
District Nine.
Reconstruction projects.
Markets.
Schools.
The bakery.
Elara.
Vale.
Malachai.
Life.
Real life.
The Deceiver watched carefully.
Not searching for weaknesses.
Searching for patterns.
The same way an artist studies a painting.
Or a scientist studies a reaction.
One screen showed Elara returning a dropped bag to a civilian.
Another showed reconstruction workers laughing together.
Another showed children drawing pictures.
The Deceiver paused.
One drawing remained displayed longer than the others.
A child's crayon artwork.
Poorly proportioned.
Brightly colored.
It showed:
a giant black castle,
a smiling stick figure labeled "Mr. Malachai,"
and a smaller figure labeled "Void Princess."
The Deceiver stared at it quietly.
Then another image appeared beside it.
An old photograph.
Decades old.
Recovered from pre-Uialon archives.
Malachai sitting among civilians after a disaster.
Tired.
Smiling faintly.
Alive.
The similarities were obvious.
The Deceiver enlarged both images.
Side by side.
Past.
Present.
The same pattern.
The same attachment.
The same investment.
The same hope.
And finally—
the same vulnerability.
A smile slowly appeared across the Deceiver's face.
Not cruel.
Not malicious.
Worse.
Interested.
"There it is," they whispered softly.
Another screen activated.
Showing Elara.
Then another.
Showing District Nine.
Then another.
Showing the bakery owner laughing with customers.
Then another.
Showing Malachai helping unload supplies.
One by one.
The connections expanded outward.
The Deceiver leaned back slowly.
Understanding at last.
Not what created Uialon.
What prevented him.
For now.
Far away, an encrypted message arrived on an ancient communication network used only by a handful of surviving members of the Old Guard.
Three words.
Nothing more.
> They're asking again.
Across the country, multiple recipients read the message.
And went silent.
Because they understood something younger generations did not.
People feared the Angel.
But history became dangerous long before the wings appeared.
Back in the darkness, the Deceiver studied the network of lives surrounding Malachai.
The city.
The district.
The people.
The connections.
The family.
Their smile widened slightly.
Softly.
Almost affectionately.
"You built a family again."
And somewhere beyond the screens, thunder rolled across the night sky.