The bells had stopped ringing, but the square still pulsed like a living thing.

Old Town was no longer cobblestones and whispers. It was bodies – thousands of them – flooding in from every broken street and scorched alley. The marchers didn't arrive in formation, and they didn't wear colours. But their eyes burned. Ten thousand strong, and more still came, swelling the square past its edges like water pressing against a cracked dam.

Torchlight bobbed above the crowd, some gripped in fists, others welded to poles, others cradled in broken lanterns. Flames painted long shadows against the facades of buildings once sanctified by Tomas's name. The golden circle—Dan's halo—was daubed onto every shutter, scraped into every door, stamped across every wall with mud, soot, or blood. Each mark a promise: We see now. We remember.

"He was chained!" someone shouted.

"He was chained!" the square roared back.

Another voice picked up – raw, hoarse, high with fury. "Flame Father!"

The chant rippled out, overlapping with others – new and old, bitter and prayerful. Some were calling for vengeance. Others begged for salvation. But none of them were silent.

They didn't know what he was. Not exactly. The propaganda posters had shown a stylised silhouette – man-shaped, flame-wreathed, back bent in eternal penance. The Enforcers called him a god, a guardian, a symbol of order. But even the lies couldn't stop what he became.

To the city, the Flame Father wasn't doctrine. He was pain endured. A fire that never went out. The myth said he suffered endlessly to keep them safe – and somewhere along the way, that lie twisted into something truer than truth.

He suffered for them.

And now, they had seen the chains. They had heard the scream. And they had felt the warmth of his freedom sweep across the streets like dawn.

The Flame Father wasn't their tyrant. He was one of them.

And in this moment – wild, broken, rising – he wasn't just their hope.

He was their revolution.

Children sat high on shoulders, waving burning strips of cloth stitched crudely with blue spirals. A teenager climbed atop a streetlamp and held up a frying pan like a shield. He was laughing. Somewhere in the crush, a woman wailed into the night, clutching the picture of a daughter who never came home. No one stopped her. No one looked away.

From a rooftop, a man dragged a battered violin across his collarbone and played something discordant – off-key, hollow, but fierce. Every note scraped the air like a dare. Beneath him, four others stood on the roof's edge, spraying paint over a massive mural of King Tomas's coronation. The blue fire symbol bloomed across Tomas's face, dripping down over the eyes. Someone threw a rock at it. Then another.

On the ground, a group of young men dragged down one of the old propaganda drones. The machine whined as it fell, wings clipped by a brick through its vent. It sparked violently when it hit the square. Someone screamed. But then they were on it – boots and crowbars and curses all at once. The lens cracked. Then shattered. Sparks flew. The voice of Tomas hiccupped from its speaker – then died mid-word.

Above, the sky bloomed black with smoke. Chimneys belched. Prayer halls burned. But this time, it wasn't submission that filled the air.

It was reclamation.

For the first time in years, Prague wasn't obeying. It was defying.

The square howled.

From window to window, civilians watched, weeping or chanting or just standing, fists tight against railings. One old woman scrawled a gold circle on her floor in chalk, then crushed the chalk with her heel.

A butcher marched with his apron still bloodstained, dragging meat hooks on a chain. A nurse handed out gauze strips with blue symbols etched in pen. A boy with no shoes held a slingshot and stared straight ahead like he'd waited his whole life to aim it.

There were no generals. No drums. No declaration.

But they marched.

And when the chanting surged again, louder than before, it wasn't just ten thousand voices. It was a wave.

No longer scattered. No longer afraid.

Not trained. Not ready.

But united.

And the square – Prague itself – roared with them.

…………………

The wind pulled hard against the radio tower, but Chloe barely felt it.

She stood on the platform's edge, ash sticking in her hair, eyes fixed on the skyline east of Old Town Square. Fires danced across rooftops. Smoke stitched the sky black. But one building – one symbol – still loomed unbroken in the haze.

The Prague Astronomical Clock.

And now, someone was climbing it.

Chloe narrowed her gaze. No rope. No harness. Just raw fingers on ancient stone, boots scraping the carved ledges. The figure moved with reckless purpose – half desperation, half dare. Young. Barely sixteen by the look of him. Shirt torn, legs bleeding, one arm wrapped in what looked like scorched Enforcer cloth.

He moved like someone who knew what it meant to burn.

"Look," Alyssa murmured behind her.

Chloe didn't answer. Just watched.

The teenager reached the top. He paused only once – steadying himself beside the rusting wrought-iron frame of the bell. Then he pulled a flag from his back.

Ragged cloth. Hand-dyed blue. In the centre, the halo of the Flame Father – stitched in flame-threaded white. Not gold like the churches. Not red like the Enforcers. Blue, with lightning cracks through the ring.

He raised it over the gears.

The wind caught it instantly.

The flag snapped out wide, visible to every soul in the square below.

For a moment, time itself seemed to halt.

The chants died. The footsteps ceased. Even the flames seemed to hush.

The boy didn't shout. Didn't wave. He simply planted the flag in the crook of the tower's spire, knelt beside it, and placed one hand to his heart.

The city stared.

Then the first voice began – low, rhythmic. A woman, somewhere near the cathedral steps.

"Flame Father," she said.

Someone else joined.

"Flame Father."

Then another. And another.

"Flame Father. Flame Father. Flame Father."

The chant rolled outward like thunder. A drumbeat of belief. Not hope—faith.

It changed again, sharper, louder, cracking into cries:

"Let him lead!"

"Let him burn the chains!"

"Let him save us!"

The sound spilled down the alleys and out into the outer districts. Across rooftops, people lit torn bedsheets on fire and waved them like banners. Children clapped in rhythm. Old men wept. One woman collapsed to her knees in prayer, hands lifted to the sky.

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And then, something else began to happen.

Across the skyline, old screens flickered. Public announcement speakers squealed. The surveillance monitors, mounted like cancer on every second building, shorted – one by one. They sparked. Then burst. Sparks sprayed windows and steel. Drones that had once barked Enforcer slogans dropped from the sky like broken birds.

Every screen that had once shown Tomas's face – or Belphegor's sick, too-wide grin – froze in place.

One caught mid-blink. One mid-sentence. One with Belphegor's teeth half-bared in some twisted smile.

Then they all went dark.

Dead silence.

But the chant didn't stop.

It swelled.

It roared.

The people didn't know who he really was. They didn't know his name had once been Max Jaeger. That the "second dawn" had been Dan's doing, not divine fire. They didn't care.

Liz felt the irony like a knife in her ribs. Max had barely survived. Dan was the one who lit the sky. But the city cried for a myth, not a man. And maybe… maybe that was better. Let them worship what gave them courage. Let Max just rest.

The Flame Father had suffered. They had seen his chains.

Now he was free.

And they believed – down to bone and blood – that he had come back for them.

That he would lead them.

That he would save them.

From the depths beneath their feet, something ancient heard them.

And Belphegor smiled.

…………………

The streets were chaos behind them, but Liz didn't look back.

Max's weight dragged heavy across her shoulders, one arm slung over her like a fading banner. He moved, but just barely – legs sluggish, steps uneven. Every few metres, he muttered something under his breath.

"I know this street," he whispered, voice hoarse. "That bakery… April used to—"

Then it was gone. Swallowed by fog, memory, exhaustion.

Dan stayed tight on Max's other side, one arm looped under his ribs. His face was taut with strain, but he didn't complain. He simply nodded when Liz looked over. Just once.

They could see the spires of the Aria Hotel now, just past the crumbled arch of a half-fallen tramline. The Charles Bridge loomed beyond it – jagged in silhouette, glowing with torchlight and prayer fire lit by rebels.

Liz reached out.

We're en route to the Bridge. Stay sharp. Something's coming.

The pulse flicked through the bond, clean and sharp. Not panic. Not urgency. Just certainty. And it reached them all.

Ying was already moving before the words even finished echoing through her skull.

The plan was simple. Retrieve Max. Regroup at the rendezvous near Charles Bridge. Provide medical stabilisation. Hold the perimeter. Support the civilians. Kill anything demonic. Then voidslice them home – to the Institute.

No delays. No casualties. No mistakes.

Ying stepped into the void.

Inky black folded around her. The air turned thin. Then she reappeared mid-stride – between a collapsed church spire and the burnt-out husk of a tram station. Another slice – rooftop to alley. One blink later, she was at the edge of the bridge.

Smoke curled faintly from her cloak as she landed, boots skidding on broken brick. Her sword hissed into view. She waited. Silent. Motionless. Eyes on the skyline.

Across the river, Victor limped along the edge of a sewer outflow pipe. His jacket was torn, dried blood thick on his forearms. He paused beside a rusted guardrail, reaching down to snatch a half-crushed Enforcer baton.

He spun it once, testing the weight.

"A demon called Belphegor, huh?" he muttered to the wind. "Well… I'm gonna kick his ass."

It was bravado. Hollow and obvious. He knew it.

But the words helped. Helped keep the fear from settling too deep. Helped him pretend – for just a second – that he hadn't failed. That Max would still see him as the man who never gave up, not the one who let himself be dragged away while his brother screamed.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and moved faster.

From the radio tower, Alyssa and Chloe picked their way down the stairs two at a time, boots clanging on twisted steel. Smoke painted the city beneath them in wild shapes – blues, oranges, oily blacks. The streets hissed with chants and broken glass.

Alyssa didn't speak for the first block. Her jaw was set. Fingers flexing at her sides.

"I miss him," she finally said. "Dan. I need to see him. Make sure he's alright."

Chloe gave a tight nod. "We'll find them."

"Liz too," Alyssa added. "She's gotta be— God, I can't imagine what she's feeling."

"Victor," Chloe said quietly. "He gets squirrelly if he's alone too long. Especially after big fights."

They walked in silence a beat longer. Then Alyssa, more gently: "Max."

Alyssa didn't speak further, but her jaw clenched. It had been five years. Five years of holding on without knowing what for. Of pretending hope didn't hurt.

Chloe glanced sideways, reading her silence.

"It's going to be hard," she murmured. "But it's still him."

Alyssa nodded once.

"I know. That's why I'm afraid."

Chloe's mouth tightened.

"Yeah," she said. "I want to see him. But…"

She didn't finish.

The but was clear. He's been gone so long. What if he's different? What if he doesn't remember them? What if they don't remember how to be with him?

Still, they kept walking. Together.

Chloe glanced at the smoke curling above Old Town Square, still hearing the echoes of chanting in the distance. Flame Father. Flame Father.

"It wasn't even him," she muttered. "That light—that was Dan."

But the city had already decided. They wanted a saviour wrapped in myth, not a man on fire.

On the bridge's edge, Ying waited – a sentinel in the smoke.

The wind carried distant chants from Old Town Square. Firelight danced across the Vltava like stars had fallen into the river.

The team was moving.

And something else was coming.

…………………

The voices surged, an unbroken tide crashing against stone and silence alike.

"Flame Father! Flame Father!"

Ten thousand voices, hoarse with ash and longing, slammed against the walls of Old Town Square like waves. The crowd had become something massive and singular—less a protest, more a prayer turned inside out. And somewhere in the middle of it, a woman climbed the base of a shattered Tomas statue, arms outstretched, mouth open in song.

It started soft. Childlike. A lullaby worn smooth by memory. Her voice cracked on the high notes but she kept going. Another voice joined. Then another. And then twenty. Then a hundred.

They were singing now. A hymn twisted from sorrow. A cradle-song for something they'd never seen but desperately wanted to believe in.

Above them, the blue flame banner snapped in the wind—tattered, hand-stitched, defiant.

The wind changed.

Somewhere under the stones, something groaned.

It was faint. Distant. Like an underground tram rolling against warped tracks.

No one stopped chanting.

The tremor came next – light, almost playful. A few in the crowd laughed. Someone yelled that it must be fireworks. A woman clapped. For a moment, it was just another miracle about to arrive.

Then the stone cracked open.

Right beneath the statue.

The lullaby stopped mid-word.

Pink flesh slithered upward from the cobblestones. Not muscle. Not tendon. Something else. Something wet. Veined. Pulsing. The texture of chewed meat soaked in rot. It twitched once—and then another limb followed. And another.

A boy in the front row screamed just as a tendril shot forward – wider than a sewer pipe – covered in hairline mouths and twitching bone. It wrapped him waist to shoulder and yanked him upward with a sickening pop. He didn't even have time to scream again.

Then the ground exploded.

A woman closest to the fissure was caught mid-turn. A fleshy tentacle whipped into her abdomen and crushed her in half—blood spraying across the stone in a thick, pulsing arc.

People began to scream.

Not in rage. Not in chant.

Real screaming.

The hymn collapsed, shattered by screams sharp enough to slice bone.

From beneath the square, more flesh erupted – groping blindly, spasming, tearing apart cobblestone and bone alike. It wasn't one monster. It was dozens. Hundreds. A forest of tendrils, mouths, suckers, and bone fragments wrapped in nerves.

The blue flame banner vanished, ripped in half by a tendril mid-lash and pulled screaming into the pit.

A man tried to lift his daughter – only for a pink rope of sinew to pierce through both their chests. They didn't fall. They were lifted. Shaking.

Panic exploded.

The crowd scattered, stumbling over each other, screams folding into stampedes. The edges of the square turned into stamp mills of bodies – running, trampling, shoving.

But the flesh multiplied.

It spread from the cracks like ivy in fast-forward – wet, grasping, alive. It punched through sewer grates. Slid down alley walls. Punched through windows and into mouths. The city's heart, which had just begun to beat for itself, now choked on something older.

Belphegor had been listening.

And now, he was answering.

…………………

The world was still screaming.

Chloe barely kept her footing as the crowd split down the centre like a vein torn open. People tripped over cobblestones, over each other. Hands grasped for purchase, for loved ones, for anything – only to be dragged backward into the nightmare rising from the ground.

And then she saw it.

At the edge of the square, near the Cathedral gates, something was growing – rising. Not built, not summoned. Assembled. A spire of fused tendons and twitching skin, mouths whispering fragments of names as they slid past one another. The shape was vaguely human, but too tall. Too fluid. Too wet. At its peak, a head took form – a twitching mask of faces, all of them grinning, all of them Tomas.

Hundreds of Tomases. Smiling, cracking, overlapping.

The mouths opened.

And the city spoke.

Not with lungs. With marrow. With blood vibrating in pipes. With mucus dripping through stone.

"You begged to be led…"

The voice dripped like syrup left too long in the heat. Layered. Wrong. Each syllable pulsed with breath that didn't belong to a throat.

"So, I wore a name for you. Gave you smiles. Gave you hope."

Chloe staggered back as Alyssa gripped her arm.

"Now... there be none to follow."

The tower of flesh shivered. Teeth pushed out of muscle. Eyes opened and rolled in opposite directions. Somewhere in its gut, a pelvis spun like a wheel, birthing twitching ribs from nowhere.

"You gave me your children."

The smile of Tomas split wide open, revealing a slick orifice of meat. Lips parted sideways. A mockery of a kiss.

"Now let me take your meat."

The last word dragged – drawn out in a sighing croon, as if tasting it from every angle.

"I will savour every piece."

Chloe felt Alyssa shiver next to her. Not from cold. From contamination – like the words themselves had tried to crawl down their throats.

Then the ground gave way.

A wave of flesh – not tentacles, not limbs, but a tide of people-parts fused together – erupted from the square like vomit from the throat of the city. The wave ran. Fluid and screaming, it rolled through the streets, sucking up the injured, the screaming, the praying.

Some tried to fight. Blades and gunfire flashed. But the flesh learned. Every cut was a new mouth. Every scream a new tongue.

Walking down from Prague Castle, Liz felt the pulse and was staggered. Her mind seized for a second – the weight of Belphegor's disturbing presence pressing down like wet meat.

She didn't need to see it to know what had happened.

"He heard us," she whispered.

The crowd – once a rebellion, once a tide of rising hope – broke. Not from shame. From horror.

And the flesh remembered.

It surged toward the Cathedral.

Toward the Charles Bridge.

Toward them.

And somewhere deep inside— inside a cocoon of crawling flesh that writhed across the cobblestones, Belphegor whispered: "Come home to me, my little delights."

The rebellion was not extinguished—

But it was swallowed whole.

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