His public fall came like thunder wrapped in velvet. Not instant. Not dramatic. But precise.
The leaked files detonated at dawn: unethical contracts, buried payouts, falsified credentials. Every truth you planted, timed to fracture just when his empire leaned hardest on public trust. Broadcasts rolled. Memes spiraled. Support drained like blood from a fresh wound.
He gave a press conference.
You watched from the crowd, obscured behind a half-mirrored lens. His voice faltered. His hands shook. He named you—Caelum Dross—out loud. People began chanting it. Like justice had finally earned a syllable.
Later that night, he stood alone in the chamber where he had once humiliated you. The lights flickered. You stepped from the shadows. No mask. No pretense.
His face broke.
"You," he whispered. "All of this…"
You approached slowly, each step deliberate.
"I gave everything," he said, shaking. "I took what was offered. I tried to lead."
You looked at him like memory turned bullet. "You built a kingdom out of someone else's ruin. You wore my ideals like trophies. You laughed when I bled."
The silence stretched.
Then: "You destroyed me."
You smiled. "No. You did."
He fell to his knees.
The devil didn't appear—not yet. She was watching. Waiting.
You knelt beside him.
"There's no undoing what you stole," you said. "But now... you get to live in the bones you borrowed. Forever."
You left him there—crownless. Faceless. Echoed.
Outside, the sky burned purple with stormlight. Somewhere, your soul whispered its first breath of peace. And somewhere darker, the devil laughed softly, satisfied.