Soon people started to call Homeless as Hell Mender.The smoke from the government hall still curled into the grey London sky, a silent reminder of the beggar who became a storm. People woke that morning to a city
changed. The newspapers printed hurried headlines: "Government Crushed by Unknown Power," "The Demon in London," "Beggar Turns Avenger." Every corner, every tea stall, every crowded bus was filled with whispers about Homeless.The alley where the boys had been found became another point of fear. Their bruised bodies and burned clothes told a clear story—Homeless had punished them as cruelly as he had punished the guards and ministers. To the poor, it was justice: a man who once begged for pennies had risen to punish the arrogant, whether they wore suits of power or simply laughed at the helpless. "He is our shadow," some whispered. "He is the hand of vengeance."But not all saw him as a savior. Families grieved, mothers wept, and fathers cursed his name. "If even children are punished by fire, then who among us is safe?" they asked. Fear spread as quickly as admiration. Shopkeepers closed their shutters earlier, gangs left their corners, and even police officers avoided patrolling the places where he had been seen.And yet, in the dark parts of the city, small gatherings began. The poor lit candles in hidden basements, calling him the Black Flame, praying that he would strike down the corrupt who had stolen their lives. To them, he was not a demon but a god of vengeance. They began to draw his symbol—a burning eye—on alley walls, marking him as their unseen protector.Meanwhile, the survivors of the government ranks were not idle. Behind closed doors, ministers, generals, and businessmen gathered. They spoke in hushed tones of the beggar who had humiliated them before their own people. They called him a monster, a threat to order, and they vowed to put him down before he grew into something unstoppable. Weapons were ordered, secret alliances formed, and spies sent out into the streets.Homeless himself walked in silence through the city that once spat on him. His bare feet left ash where they touched, and his shadow flickered with the demon's fire. He cared nothing for worshippers, nothing for enemies. The voice inside him, ancient and hungry, whispered that vengeance was not finished—that more blood must be spilled.And so London trembled, caught between awe and terror. Some prayed for his rise, others plotted his fall. But all knew one thing: the beggar who had once been nothing was now everything they feared in the dark.