CHAPTER TEN - KEITH

The briefing room was quiet save for the hum of a projector and the occasional shuffle of papers. Keith stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed as he scanned the latest intel on the Fallen. The organization, splintered and fragmented as it was, had become more active in the wake of Leviathan’s defeat.

Defeat. It was still strange to think of it that way. For the better part of a decade, they had fought Endbringers with the expectation of survival, not victory. Yet here they were, standing on the other side of the impossible.

And now, this.

“Blood sacrifices?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with disbelief.

“Correct,” replied the analyst, May. She adjusted her glasses, pointing to a highlighted section on the report. “This particular sect believes that Leviathan isn’t truly gone, just… displaced. They think they can summon it back by offering sacrifices—large ones. Entire communities, potentially.”

Legend suppressed a sigh. He’d seen the devastation the Fallen could bring. Cults like these fed off fear and desperation, spreading chaos under the guise of twisted faith. The death of an Endbringer, rather than bringing relief, had given them new zeal.

“How credible is the threat?”

“We intercepted chatter suggesting they’re mobilizing in several locations across the Midwest,” another voice chimed in, this time a field operative, Callum. “They’ve been recruiting aggressively. Numbers are hard to pin down, but they’re better equipped than before. We suspect ties to rogue Tinkers or weapon suppliers.”

Legend nodded, his mind already racing through strategies. It wasn’t just about stopping the immediate threat. The Fallen were like weeds—pull one out, and two more grew in its place.

“I’ll head out there myself,” he said, his voice firm.

“Sir, with all due respect,” May interjected, “your presence might escalate the situation. They see you as a direct affront to their beliefs—‘the light that blinds the righteous,’ according to their propaganda.”

Legend let out a faint chuckle. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Even so, sending you might provoke them into acting prematurely.”

“Maybe,” Legend replied, his tone thoughtful. “Or maybe it’ll remind them that the Protectorate isn’t sitting idly by while they hurt innocent people. They’re trying to weaponize fear. We’ll answer with strength.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over everyone present.

“Coordinate with the local teams,” he continued, addressing the group. “Evacuation plans, containment strategies—whatever it takes to minimize civilian casualties. And keep me updated on their movements. If they’re as organized as you say, I want to hit them before they even have a chance to strike.”

He made his way to the exit. Outside, the air was crisp, a stark contrast to the heaviness in his chest.

Legend paused for a moment, glancing at the horizon. Somewhere out there, people were praying for salvation, for protection, for justice. He wouldn’t let them down—not today, not ever.

With a burst of light, he took to the sky.

. . . . .

The sky shimmered with hues of orange and pink as dusk descended over the Appalachian foothills. Legend floated silently above the treetops, his sky-blue costume aglow in the fading sunlight. The gentle wind tugged at his hair as he surveyed the scenery below—the Fallen encampment sprawled in disorderly clusters of tents, bonfires, and makeshift shrines. The air shimmered with heat from the flames and pulsed with an undercurrent of something darker—a frenzied energy that made his skin crawl.

Legend sighed, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on him. The aftermath of Leviathan’s death had brought strange consequences. Most saw it as a victory, a beacon of hope in a grim world. But for the Fallen, it was a call to action, a sign from whatever twisted higher power they worshipped. Blood sacrifices would bring the Endbringer back, they claimed, stronger, more wrathful. It was madness. But madness had a way of spreading when despair took root.

This needed to be curtailed before more damage could be wrought or the rumours spread among the general populace.

“They’re escalating,” Callum’s voice crackled through the communicator in his ear. “We’re getting reports of armed patrols and traps around their perimeter. Be careful.”

“I always am,” Legend replied, his voice calm yet edged with weariness. “But we need to act quickly.”

“Understood. Reinforcements are standing by if you need them.”

Legend nodded, though Callum couldn’t see him. The Protectorate’s support was always there, but he preferred to handle situations like this alone when possible. His presence could inspire, yes, but it could also overwhelm. Right now, he doesn't need any complications.

As Legend slowed his flight, he felt the familiar weight pressing down on him, the one he carried every time he faced something like this. On Earth Bet, he was more than a hero; he was a symbol. People looked to him for guidance, for hope. His marriage to Arthur, a love that had endured through six years, was a beacon for countless others in a world often too bleak to dream. But being a symbol came with its own set of chains.

He could end this camp in moments, dismantle it with precise lasers that wouldn’t leave a soul harmed. But that wasn’t how symbols worked. A hero couldn’t act without restraint, even in the face of such horrors. Diplomacy always came first.

Instead, he landed just outside the encampment, the glow of his powers dimming but ever-present. The moment his boots touched the ground, the surrounding noise seemed to shift. Conversations died mid-sentence. A child, no older than ten, dropped the stick he’d been playing with and ran to the nearest adult, who pulled him close and whispered frantically.

With a flick of his wrist, Legend activated his communicator again. “I’m moving in. Keep the perimeter secure.”

“Copy that,” Callum replied.

Legend stepped forward, calm and unthreatening. He knew the routine. First, fear. Then, defiance.

“Legend?” a man—either Vince or Jake Crowley, details of their exact appearance were parse—barked, stepping out from behind a tent. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by a mask painted with jagged teeth. “You’ve got no business here, Protectorate dog.”

Legend stopped a good ten feet away, keeping his voice steady. “I’m here to talk. No one needs to get hurt.”

The man laughed, loud and harsh, and it echoed across the clearing. “You think we’re scared of you? Leviathan’s coming back. Stronger. You’ll see.”

There it was—the defiance. But Legend had learned long ago that words like this were more for the crowd than for him. He scanned the area, his sharp eyes picking out subtle movements: the hands reaching for makeshift weapons, the group gathering near a tent where a woman—most likely Sabrina Crowley, Empusa—was manifesting a bubble that seemed to pulse faintly with energy.

Despite the perceived threat, Legend didn’t let his posture change. His body remained relaxed, his arms at his sides, though his mind catalogued every potential danger. But he did move closer, deliberately slow, keeping his movements nonthreatening. For all their bluster and the presence of some Crowley members—the branch family members generally had non-self-targeted duplication powers—they weren’t soldiers. They were scared, desperate people who had been led astray. 

That didn’t make them any less dangerous though.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said, tone resolute. “Leviathan isn’t coming back because you spilt blood. All you’re doing is tearing apart families, hurting people who don't deserve to be hurt.”

The man’s laughter died, replaced by a scowl. “You don’t understand,” he growled. “This world—this broken, cursed world—needs power. Real power. You prance around pretending to save it, but we both know it’s already doomed.”

“I know what this world is,” Legend said, stepping even closer. His tone hardened, just enough to cut through the rising tension. “I’ve fought to save it every day for decades. And I’ve seen what people like you do to it. You think you’re saving these people? You’re playing into the hands of powers you can’t control.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Doubt. Legend latched onto it like a lifeline.

"This doesn't have to end in violence," he continued, addressing not just the man but everyone within earshot. "You're scared. I get that. But killing innocents won't protect you from the end of the world. It won't bring Leviathan back, and it certainly won't fix what's broken. We have the power to make things better—not through fear, but through hope."

The crowd was silent, save for the crackle of the bonfires. The man with the mask clenched his fists, his body taut like a spring ready to snap. But he didn't attack.

Legend felt the weight of a thousand eyes on him, each one waiting to see what would happen next. He extended his hand—not glowing with power, not threatening, but open.

"I'm here to help," he said. "You just have to let me."

The man didn't move, but somewhere in the crowd, a woman took a cautious step forward. Then another. She looked at Legend with wariness, clutching a child to her chest—the same one from earlier.

The spell broke. The crowd shifted, uncertain but no longer united in defiance.

It wasn't a victory, not yet. But it was a start. And sometimes, Legend thought, a start was all you—

The woman barely had time to gasp.

One moment, she was moving towards him. The next, a translucent figure of herself appeared directly behind her, shimmering faintly in the dim light. It flickered, half-formed, like a glitch in reality—and then it thrust its hand straight through her back.

She staggered, a sharp cry of pain cutting through the uneasy silence, her eyes wide with disbelief. The child tumbled from her arms, landing with a startled wail as the crowd erupted in confusion and fear. The spectral duplicate shattered into fragments of light, leaving no evidence except the gaping wound in her chest.

Legend reacted instantly, his mind shifting from diplomacy to combat. His vision locked onto the masked man—Vince Crowley—now surrounded by a half-dozen spectral copies of himself, short knives in hand. The duplicates were still jittery, flickering in and out of existence, but each moved with a deadly purpose.

“You’ve made your choice,” Legend said, his voice cold and steady.

Vince sneered, his expression hidden but his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re just a puppet, a relic of a dying world.”

Legend didn’t waste time with a retort. Twin beams of searing light erupted from his eyes, targeting the duplicates closest to the child. They shattered into nothingness under the assault, but more appeared just as quickly, their ephemeral forms circling the man like a shield.

He moved toward the child in a blur of motion, his body becoming streaks of blue and white as he dodged a spectral knife aimed at his chest. His hand caught the boy just as another duplicate materialized behind him, swinging a glowing blade. Legend twisted, his free hand emitting a concussive blast of light that disintegrated the attacker before it could connect.

The crowd scattered in terror, but some crept closer, projected weapons (courtesy of Empusa) in hand and malice in their eyes. 

“You think you’re a saviour?” he taunted, his real body hidden among the spectral clones. “You’re just one man against the tide. We are many.”

“You’re wrong,” Legend shot back, his voice carrying over the chaos. “You’re not many. You’re a coward hiding behind shadows.”

Before the cultists could react, beams of radiant energy erupted from Legend's hands, disarming them with pinpoint precision. Guns melted, knives shattered, and a burly man was struck down before he could fly away with Empusa. 

With a surge of power, he unleashed a burst of light that filled the camp, disorienting everyone within its radius. The duplicates flickered violently, their forms struggling to hold together against the brilliance. And Legend seized the moment, pinpointing the real man’s location by the subtle movement of his shadow against the ground.

In a split second, he was there, his hand gripping the man’s wrist before he could summon another spectral blade.

“No more,” Legend said, his tone low and filled with finality.

The man struggled, his eyes wide behind the mask. But against Legend’s strength, his resistance was futile. A surge of focused blue-white light crackled along Legend’s hand, forcing the man to his knees.

The crowd was silent now, staring as the hero subdued the one they had followed. The boy in Legend’s arm clung to him tightly, his small body trembling.

Legend turned his gaze to the others. “This ends now. No more sacrifices. No more blood.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a promise.