T-minus 19 days — January 16th, 2051
The countdown had begun. Nineteen days until the stars shifted, until the dark favor protecting William and his Tzitzimen burned away and Moonveil could finally strike.
But nineteen days could feel like a lifetime when evil refused to wait.
---
That morning, Marc woke before dawn. The London skyline glowed faint orange, lights still flickering in half-dreaming towers. Alexia stirred beside him, her breathing soft and steady. For a moment, he forgot what waited beyond that quiet—forgot William, forgot the gods.
She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily. "You're up early again."
"Work," he said, brushing her hair aside.
"You and that job." She laughed, then caught his hand. "Don't disappear on me."
He bent down, kissed her forehead, and lingered longer than usual. "Wouldn't dream of it."
---
At the Ministry, the air was thick with bureaucratic chatter and the hiss of coffee machines. Marc sat at his workstation, diagrams of the Aetherian jetpack projected in pale light across the table. The analysis was complete—blueprints rendered, energy output charted, and theoretical propulsion mapped to Tecciztecatl's murmured translations in his head.
He presented it to his superiors: a quiet conference of gray suits and tired minds. Howard sat beside him, still suspicious but too fascinated to stay angry.
Marc explained everything he could without revealing divine intervention. "The energy core functions through quantum Aether compression—essentially bending inertia itself. It's not flight as we know it. It's... willing the air to carry you."
The senior researcher blinked. "So it's psychic propulsion?"
Marc smiled faintly. "Let's call it gravitational persuasion."
The room chuckled, tension briefly broken.
Afterward, Howard brought him tea, his usual peace offering. "You're a magician with that thing," he said. "Makes me wonder if you've got alien DNA hidden somewhere."
Marc smirked, sipping carefully. "Don't start rumors."
Howard leaned on the table. "Speaking of aliens—did you hear? The department's switching us to Eclipse Ones. Whole building's getting issued the new phones."
Marc's hand froze halfway to the cup. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Orders came this morning. Something about security integration with Ynkeos's new systems."
Marc's jaw tightened. "Security? That's the one thing we'll lose."
He filed a formal objection within the hour. At the emergency meeting that followed, he stood at the center of the boardroom like a man against a tide.
"Ynkeos is a private entity with access to unmonitored systems," Marc argued. "These phones run on architecture we didn't build. You're handing them our research without realizing it."
His words met polite smiles, nods, and quiet dismissal. "The world moves forward, Mr. Stevenson," one of the directors said.
"Sometimes forward is just a faster fall," Marc replied, slamming the folder closed.
Howard caught up with him afterward. "You know you can't stop it, right? The government's been in Ynkeos's pocket since before we were born."
Marc stared down the corridor, anger tightening his throat. "Then I'll slow the fall until I can grab the edge."
---
That evening, he and Alexia walked side by side through London's winter drizzle. They'd escaped the office for a late coffee run—just two tired souls trying to pretend the world wasn't ending.
The streets were quiet except for the occasional drone overhead. She tucked her arm through his, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. "You're tense again," she said softly.
"Work," he lied.
"You say that every time."
Before he could answer, a scream cut through the air—raw, terrified, close.
They both froze. Ahead, under the jaundiced light of a streetlamp, two men struggled. One fell, the other plunged a knife downward again and again.
"Oh God," Alexia gasped. "Marc, we should run!"
"Yeah," he said automatically.
They turned into an alley, hearts pounding—but Tecciztecatl's voice ripped through Marc's thoughts like a siren.
Champion. Stop. The scent of blood is familiar. That is no man. That is Juarez.
Marc spun. The air behind them shimmered, and from the shadows emerged a figure tall and broad, wearing a grin that did not belong to anything human. Juarez's eyes glowed faint amber, veins black as oil crawling beneath his skin.
"Running so soon?" Juarez growled, voice distorted, like two people speaking at once. "You should've stayed dead, little soldier."
Alexia's hand clutched his sleeve. "Marc—who is that?"
He stepped in front of her, pulse roaring in his ears. "Go," he whispered. "Run."
"No, I—"
"Now."
Juarez's knife gleamed wet in the alley's dim light. "You look familiar," he sneered. "I've seen you in the shadows. The moon's little ghost."
Marc said nothing, stance tightening.
Alexia screamed as Juarez lunged. Marc moved on instinct—training from another life, enhanced by reflexes not his own. He blocked, ducked, struck back, the clash echoing between brick walls. But Juarez was faster, stronger—his movements too precise for flesh alone.
Marc landed a hard kick, sending the demon-possessed man crashing into a dumpster. "Stay down," he hissed.
Juarez laughed, rising effortlessly. "I don't stay down anymore."
He darted forward, blade flashing—a blur—and Marc felt the steel slide into his chest.
The pain was white fire. He stumbled back, clutching the wound. Alexia screamed his name, rushing forward, but he raised a trembling hand.
"Alexia…" His voice was thin, strained. "I'm sorry I lied."
And then, before her wide, horrified eyes, the air shimmered around him. Light bled from his skin as the cloak of Moonveil unfolded, wrapping him in shadow and silver.
The wound sealed, leaving only torn fabric.
"I'm Moonveil."
Her mouth fell open, disbelief and terror colliding.
He turned toward her, voice steady. "Babe—hide. I'll take care of this."
---
Tecciztecatl's warning cut through the moment. Do not fight him here. The stars are still against us.
Marc gritted his teeth. "Then I'll make the stars regret picking sides."
Juarez lunged again. Moonveil blocked with bare arms, the impact sparking like metal. He caught Juarez's wrist, twisted—bone cracked but healed instantly.
"Not bad," Juarez snarled. "Let's see what you bleed now."
He swung a heavy punch that sent Moonveil skidding backward through the alley. Marc darted sideways, dodging debris. He couldn't win—not yet—but he could move the fight.
"Come on," he shouted. "Let's take this somewhere quieter."
Juarez followed, laughing. "You'll run out of breath before I run out of bodies."
They burst onto the main street, alarms blaring as bystanders fled. Marc sprinted toward his apartment, every step guided by Tecciztecatl's voice.
Draw him away. The weapons. The axe, the rifle—use them.
Inside his flat, he ducked into the hidden floor compartment and yanked free the Aetherian axe. It flared alive at his touch, runes glowing blue.
Juarez crashed through the window, glass exploding in a storm of shards. "You're full of surprises."
Moonveil swung the axe in a wide arc. It hummed through the air and struck Juarez's arm clean off.
The limb hit the floor—and grew back within seconds.
Juarez smiled with bloodied teeth. "Didn't you hear? We don't die easy anymore."
---
Outside, the sound of chaos drew crowds. Police sirens wailed. News drones hovered like vultures, their feeds streaming to millions.
Moonveil tackled Juarez through the wall, the two of them crashing into the street below. The asphalt cracked under the impact. Marc's suit shifted mid-fight, adapting—armor plating thickened, cape retracting into streamlined fibers. The crescent symbol burned white across his chest.
They fought through the streets, a storm of light and shadow. Each punch from Juarez felt like being hit by a train; each counter from Moonveil cracked concrete.
"You're stubborn," Juarez hissed, wiping blood that evaporated into smoke.
"Yeah," Marc grunted, landing a knee to his ribs. "It's a bad habit."
Juarez hurled him into a building. The structure groaned, glass raining down as floors began to buckle. Moonveil scrambled up, grabbed the edge of a beam, and shoved against the collapsing wall, muscles screaming.
Save them, Tecciztecatl commanded.
Marc braced the beam as people inside scrambled out, his strength magnified by divine will. He held until the last scream faded, then leapt clear as the building crumbled.
The street was chaos—flashing lights, police cordons, shouts. Officers opened fire, bullets uselessly bouncing off both combatants.
Moonveil turned to Juarez. "You wanted a show? You got one."
He drove his fist into Juarez's jaw, sending him through a bus stop. Energy rippled through his arms as the suit shifted again—white now, radiant, like his first awakening. The crescent burned brighter, the veil extending like living light.
For the first time, Juarez looked uncertain.
"Doesn't matter," he hissed, retreating into shadow. "The stars protect us. You can't kill what they bless."
Moonveil raised the axe, its edge gleaming. "Then I'll settle for breaking it."
But before he could strike, the sky shifted—the faint shimmer of a constellation aligning overhead. The favor.
Tecciztecatl's voice cracked like thunder. Enough! If you strike now, the blow will return threefold. He is shielded!
Juarez laughed and melted into the darkness, his voice fading. "Next time, hero. Bring your god."
---
Marc fell to one knee as dawn broke, every muscle trembling. Around him, the wreckage of the city smoldered. The police had cleared a two-kilometer radius; news drones buzzed, capturing the image of the vigilante kneeling in smoke.
He vanished before they reached him.
By the time he stumbled back into his apartment, Alexia was waiting—eyes red, hands shaking.
She'd seen everything on the news.
He stepped inside, armor still flickering away, eyes hollow.
"Marc," she whispered, "you could have died."
"I'm fine."
"You're Moonveil."
He nodded, ashamed. "I wanted to tell you. I couldn't."
She crossed her arms, tears glinting. "You think I'd have run from you?"
"No," he said quietly. "I was afraid you'd stay."
She stared at him for a long moment, then turned away. "I don't even know what that means."
He moved to speak, but she stopped him with a raised hand. "Just—don't. Not tonight."
When she finally walked into the bedroom, Marc stood alone in the living room, the dawn light breaking across his bruised face.
Tecciztecatl's voice returned, low and tired. You survived, but so did he. This was not a battle. It was an omen.
Marc looked toward the rising sun. "Then I'll be ready for the real one."
And somewhere, far below the earth, William Lex Webb watched the footage in silence, his lieutenants gathered behind him—smiling.