Scene: Blackwood Capital Square – Midway into the Celebration
POV: Crowd / Public Perspective
The fireworks had already started.
Thousands of voices were still chanting his name in rhythmic waves—"Black-wood! Black-wood! Black-wood!"—when something strange happened.
The holograms stopped.
The crowd paused.
Even the massive Blackwood crest above the palace shimmered… and dimmed.
All screens cut to black.
For a full seven seconds, the Empire held its breath.
And then—
He appeared.
---
Chris Blackwood.
Not in hologram.
Not in memory.
In flesh.
---
The man the world had believed unreachable… untouchable… perhaps even dead…
Walked onto the top of the palace steps.
No guards. No entourage. No warning.
Just him.
Alive.
Present.
Whole.
---
He wore all black. Military-cut. A regal Blackwood crest pinned to his chest. His posture hadn't changed. His gaze was sharp.
If anything, he looked even more dangerous than before.
And the world saw it instantly.
Gasps swept the crowd. People dropped to their knees. Some screamed, thinking it was a ghost. Others just froze, blinking through tears.
---
On stage, Classic turned first. His mouth fell open.
Amara?
Her breath hitched.
She didn't move.
Not even when he slowly descended the stairs and stepped beside her.
Not even when he looked directly at her and gave a slight nod—like he knew everything, and forgave nothing, yet still returned.
---
He took the mic.
Didn't wait for silence. He was silence.
And then—
His voice.
Low.
Clear.
Undeniable.
> "I hear you've been celebrating my absence."
The crowd didn't laugh. They didn't know if it was a joke.
He continued.
> "Good. That means the Empire still fears its King."
He glanced sideways at Classic. Then at Amara.
> "And it's time they remembered why."
---
He stepped back from the mic.
Raised his right hand.
And in a single motion—
All of B.A.M. across the square saluted.
The crowd followed.
Thousands.
Millions watching across the world.
United in one moment.
He was back.
---