Paris. A quiet café. Laughter, clinking cups, warmth. Then a cup fell.
A man's hands trembled. His veins glowed faintly red. He gasped—then screamed.
"I… I can't—eat—can't—sleep—"
Others froze, horror spreading as bodies collapsed like dominoes.
The laughter died. The silence broke.
The world's newest plague had begun.
Hospitals overflowed by dawn. Airports turned into morgues.
Doctors whispered, "It eats the brain."
Soldiers convulsed mid-step. A reporter sobbed on live air: "No cure… no explanation…"
Hunger vanished. Sleep vanished. Humanity began to unravel.
Then came the screens. Every phone, billboard, and television bled to black.
Static. Then a shape. Crimson eyes opened across the planet.
Lacolone and Maya froze before the same flicker.
Valgor smiled in awe.
The serpent had found its voice.
Elito appeared—perfect, terrible, beautiful. His smile cut through every circuit.
He spread his arms as though blessing his children.
Across continents, millions knelt without knowing why.
"My beloved children," his voice thundered, "your king has arrived."
It wasn't sound—it was hypnosis.
The world held its breath as Elito's speech filled every device:
"Do not resist.
The world you knew is gone—shattered by greed and false gods.
Your presidents lied. Your religions betrayed you.
I am not your plague. I am your cure.
This virus is judgment.
You reject truth, and now your bodies reject life.
But I bring salvation.
Worship me, and you will live.
Obey me, and you will receive the vaccine.
Defy me, and madness will consume you."
Every syllable dripped like honey—and burned like acid.
Crowds dropped to their knees. Families prayed to glowing screens.
Elito smiled wider. "Freedom? Lies. Democracy? Theater.
I offer eternal order, eternal purpose, eternal survival."
Soldiers threw away their weapons, chanting his name.
He did not command. He seduced.
He raised his hand, and maps appeared—red zones spreading across the globe.
"Nations beg me. Leaders kneel. Enemies unite… under me."
His gaze pierced the lens, personal and infinite.
"You will call me king. You will call me god."
The Dajjal had spoken.
In the safehouse, no one moved.
Maya whispered, "He's weaponized faith."
Jessica trembled. "It's worse than Johan… worse than Aizen."
Valgor grinned: "Finally, the true war begins."
Lacolone struck the wall, voice shaking. "That virus… is slaughter without guns."
Hope faltered.
On-screen, Elito lifted a golden chalice.
"Drink of my covenant, and be spared. Spit on it, and rot."
The feed died.
Riots ignited. Churches overflowed. Cities burned.
The seed of despair had found soil.
Lacolone stood amid the noise, sweat on his brow, the world collapsing around him.
"We're not fighting a man anymore," he whispered. "We're fighting belief itself."