He didn't take the serum. He didn't take the gold. He simply lit a cigarette, the ember glowing against the dark sky, and waited for the next name on his list.
He moved with a speed that defied biology. In one fluid motion, he drew the Lamento de Acero —his signature black-edged sword. He didn't aim for the Duke. He aimed for the pillar. El Destructor De La Realeza Normandie Alleman...
The gala at the Valois Estate was supposed to be a celebration of the new "Eternity Serum." The elite were dressed in liquid gold and synthetic silk, sipping champagne that cost more than a district’s yearly rations. Then, the lights flickered. He didn't take the serum
The "Royals" were the oligarchs who lived in the Cloud Spires, breathing filtered air while the rest of the world choked on smog. They thought they were gods. Normandie was the atheist with a high-frequency blade. The Night of the Gilded Fall He moved with a speed that defied biology
As the Spire descended toward the slums below—slowly enough for the escape pods to launch, but fast enough to ruin the elite forever—Normandie stood at the edge of the abyss. He watched the "Gods" scramble like rats.
"I’ve been dead since your father burned my sector to build this playground, Duke," Normandie’s voice was a metallic rasp.