Whispers began in the marble hallways of institutions that had once erased you.
"Caelum Dross." A name that wasn't attached to any birth record, degree, or legacy—yet it lingered in boardrooms, flickered through encrypted memos, and bled into protest slogans by morning. No one could prove he existed. Everyone feared he did.
Your old name was forgotten.
Good.
You no longer needed it.
An editor at a major journal received an anonymous essay—a searing, prophetic piece titled The Illusion of Good Intentions. It dissected the speech your traitor gave at the podium. Line by line. Truths twisted back into daggers. The essay went viral. His approval cracked.
That night, he stared at his reflection longer than usual.
By dawn, he was no longer sure which face in the glass was his.
Meanwhile, your power pulsed underground. Caelum Dross began funding initiatives that looked radical, too organized, too smart. Old alliances crumbled quietly. You built your empire not with chaos—but with elegance. Precision. Emotional shrapnel wrapped in velvet.
The city started turning.
Slow.
Certain.
And behind it all, the devil whispered:
"You've learned to wound without touching. Ready to crown yourself?"
Not yet.
First, the traitor has to bleed metaphorically—and maybe, if fate allows, more than that.