Marvel's master of cosmic magic-Chapter 818

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am your Emperor—ruler of Loen, East Balam, and the Rorsted Archipelago—George Augustus III."

The following day, Memorial Square in West Borough, Backlund, overflowed with people.

George Augustus III, mustache trimmed to sharp precision and posture carved from stone, stepped onto the platform. His voice carried across the plaza with practiced authority.

He spoke first of the past—the invasions of the Feysac Empire, the humiliation, the bloodshed. He let anger simmer in the crowd, feeding it carefully.

Then he shifted tone.

He painted a vision of triumph. Of restored dignity. Of prosperity once the enemy was crushed.

"With victory," he declared, "I will lower the property threshold for voting once more. Greater authority will be transferred to the House of Commons."

Thunderous applause followed.

High above, standing upon a drifting cloud, Rowan Mercer watched in silence.

"A fabrication," he muttered.

Grisha’s projected illusion might deceive ordinary eyes. It did not deceive him.

Beside him, Roselle’s gaze sharpened.

"He’s begun," Roselle said quietly.

As the previous Black Emperor, he could feel it. If George succeeded, Roselle would be erased completely.

But the corruption of the Mother of Depravity had already been purged from him. If he chose, he could reclaim his authority at any moment and return.

Rowan’s eyes drifted toward the capital.

"The royal family doesn’t trust the Church."

George had announced he would ascend in one of the nine imperial mausoleums after the speech concluded.

In truth, he had left the stage the moment the speech began.

The man delivering that impassioned address was nothing more than a construct born from Grisha’s imagination.

A decoy.

A calculated delay to prevent the Churches from reconsidering and intervening.

"Let’s see the real stage," Rowan said.

The world folded.

He and Roselle appeared inside a concealed mausoleum built by George Augustus III.

The path to becoming the Black Emperor required nine mausoleums. Only George himself knew which one he would use. The secrecy was meant to prevent sabotage.

It would not stop Rowan.

At his current height, nothing on this planet could escape his awareness. Not even the stirrings of something as ancient as the Celestial Worthy or the original Creator, if they were to awaken fully.

By Rowan’s estimation, even the original Creator in perfect condition would amount to little more than a force equivalent to twenty complete worlds.

Rowan now stood beyond thirty.

And that was before accounting for the leverage of his composite authorities.

Inside the mausoleum, George Augustus III sat upon a throne of black iron.

He drank the potion in a single motion.

Power detonated outward.

The air warped. Authority coalesced. The aura around him thickened into something imperial and absolute.

Then—

A young man wearing a monocle over his right eye appeared before him.

"Apologies," Amon said lightly. "I’ll be borrowing this ceremony."

He intended to usurp George’s apotheosis.

Though missing a fragment of the Time Worm authority, Amon himself embodied the unique core of his path. With an additional piece imagined into existence by Grisha, it would be enough.

Not perfect.

But sufficient.

"Impudent!" George roared. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

The mausoleum twisted violently as he attempted to crush Amon into paste.

Amon merely smiled.

He stole the distortion.

And hurled it back.

Before the warped force could reach George, a middle-aged man with black hair and blue eyes stepped forward, cloak billowing.

The force dissolved against him.

"Blasphemer Amon," the man said coldly, "we do not seek conflict. Leave."

William Augustus I.

Founder of Loen. Ancestor of the royal line.

A Hand of Order.

Amon adjusted his monocle, unruffled.

"You should be guarding the secret mausoleum in East Chester," he observed.

With William present, replacing George would be difficult.

If he were alone.

But he was not.

"This is the inevitable course of history," a calm voice said.

Grisha stepped forward in clerical black.

William’s expression hardened.

"Adam," he spat. "I knew you were behind this. You will not let Amon steal the throne."

Shadows shifted.

Three more figures emerged.

Delrink Augustus, a Balancer.

Grove Augustus, a Hunter of Disorder.

Katarina Pelle, the White Witch.

One formidable lieutenant and two powerful allies, armed with sealed artifacts.

They did not need victory.

They only needed time.

If George completed the ritual, the rest would become irrelevant.

The Witch’s presence was no accident. George had not fully trusted Adam either. In secret, he had negotiated with the Witch Cult, offering freedom to preach within Loen in exchange for their support.

He had even reached out to the Aurora Order.

They had agreed.

Then, at the last moment, withdrawn.

"Idiots," Amon said softly, retreating a single step behind Grisha.

Grisha lifted his hand.

The Cathedral of Bones descended.

An enormous skeletal structure manifested around William and the others, sealing them within.

They reacted instantly, unleashing the full might of their sealed artifacts.

The mausoleum shook.

Cracks formed in reality.

But the cathedral did not fall.

"How—?"

Their disbelief was palpable.

They thought they faced Adam at his former station.

They faced something else entirely.

Grisha stood at the threshold of outer divinity.

Nearby, unseen, Roselle glanced at Rowan.

"Now?" he asked.

If Roselle reclaimed his authority in this instant, George’s ritual would collapse.

And with it, Amon’s theft.

Rowan watched the unfolding storm, eyes calm.

The board was almost cleared.

Almost.