That same man from the plantation all those years ago now sat in his penthouse, the luxurious surroundings a stark contrast to the squalor and brutality of his past. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking view of New York City, the skyline lit up like a field of stars against the night sky. The penthouse itself was a masterpiece of modern design—marble floors, abstract art on the walls, and furniture that spoke of wealth and taste. It was a testament to the journey he had taken, from a nameless, starving slave to the apex of human evolution.
He sat in a plush leather armchair, his posture relaxed, almost languid, as he watched the muted television screen. The news anchor's lips moved silently, discussing the recent appearance of a newly named "Wrath" and his companions. The footage showed Caleb Ward—no, Wrath—smashing through a wall, his body healing almost instantly from the barrage of bullets fired at him. The anchor's face was a mask of shock and fascination, his words thick with awe and fear as he spoke of the "unkillable man." It made the man think of his own name. He wouldn't dare think of his birth name. That young man was long dead.
"Wrath," he mumbled to himself, his voice a low, rumbling echo. He took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, the memories of Henry's defeat flickering in his mind like broken film. He remembered the sharp pain as the link had severed, the abrupt loss of connection as Wrath had torn his clone apart.
"He was strong," he muttered, his lips curving into a small smile. "Stronger than I could have imagined." He opened his eyes, staring at his reflection in the glass. For a moment, he saw not the powerful, well-dressed man he had become, but the twisted, monstrous form that lurked beneath. The true face of Amalgamation. A name bestowed to him from his moment of rebirth in the past nearly two-hundred years ago.
He reached out, flexing his fingers. The skin rippled and shifted, morphing into a claw before returning to its normal shape. He watched, fascinated as always, by the smoothness of the transformation, the way his flesh obeyed his every command. He could absorb any flesh, any muscle, adding it to his own. He had consumed hundreds—no, thousands—over the centuries, each one making him stronger, more powerful.
The shape manipulation he had mastered allowed him to control every aspect of his body's structure. He could be anyone, anything. His clones were scattered throughout the city, living ordinary lives, their true nature hidden behind masks of flesh and bone. They were his eyes, his ears, his hands. They were him, and yet not him. Disposable, replaceable.
"Henry was only one," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "One of many." He remembered the look of horror on Wrath's face as he had fought the clone, the way he had hesitated, uncertain of what he was facing. It had been a test, a small challenge, and Wrath had passed. Barely.
He turned his gaze back to the television. The image had shifted to show Vanguard and Vesper, their faces blurred, their movements precise and coordinated as they took down a group of armed men. The media had given them names, but to him, they were just pieces on a board, untested, unproven. He thought of Wrath's healing ability, the way the man's body knit itself back together almost instantly. It was beautiful, perfect. A gift from God.
"A test," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. "You sent him to test me, didn't you?" He smiled, a slow, reverent smile. "To see if I am worthy." He respected Wrath, admired his strength, his conviction. In another life, perhaps they could have been allies. But Wrath was too pure, too bound by his ideals.
He wondered, briefly, if he could break him. If he could make Wrath see the world as he did, stripped of its illusions and lies. If he could show him the beauty of his vision, the perfection of his design. But no, that would be a waste. To corrupt him would be to destroy what made him beautiful.
"You have your path," he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. "And I have mine. We shall see whose is stronger."
He glanced at the tablet on the table beside him, his fingers brushing over the smooth screen. Encrypted messages and financial reports scrolled by. He controlled the city's underworld, its businesses, its politicians. He had shaped it, molded it to his will. Every law, every crime, every decision—it all led back to him.
His clones were everywhere, living quiet, unremarkable lives. Doctors, lawyers, criminals, beggars. Each one gathering information, each one connected to him by a thread of thought, a whisper of consciousness. They were his army, his network. They were the future.
"No need for complex plans," he mumbled, leaning back in his chair. "No need for schemes or traps." He would let them come to him, let them believe they were winning. He wanted to see them strong, see them believe in their own power, their own righteousness. And then, he would take it all away.
He would create a world without weakness, without lies. A world where only the strong survived, where there were no masks, no pretenses. Just real human beings.
He closed his eyes a moment and prayed. For strength, for guidance, and gave gratitude to God for his divine purpose.
He drained the glass, setting it down gently on the table. The hunger stirred within him, a dark, insistent whisper that echoed through his mind. He would wait, he would watch, and when the time was right, he would consume Wrath. He would take his power, his spirit, and add it to his own.