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.
In the neon-soaked gutters of a floating Neo-Paris, the name wasn't spoken; it was spat like a curse.
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.
"Normandie Alleman," hissed Duke Valois, clutching a vial of the blue serum. "You’re a dead man walking."
They called him El Destructor De La Realeza —The Royal Destroyer. He wasn't a revolutionary with a manifesto or a hero with a heart of gold. He was a mechanical nightmare in a tailored trench coat, a man who had replaced his own heartbeat with the rhythmic hum of a stolen reactor.
The Revolution didn't need a king. It just needed someone to keep swinging the hammer until all the pedestals were dust.