Agora.

The marketplace buzzes with life despite the backdrop of a Civil War. Vendors shout, customers haggle, and life continues as best it can amid the chaos.

Without warning, a broadcast screen above the bustling crowd glitches, its image replaced by a hooded hound.

A deep, distorted voice fills the cacophony.

“Greetings, citizens of Arcadia. This is not a message of hope, nor a call to arms. We’re not here to take sides—at least, not yet.”

“This is a reckoning—a fracture in the narrative you’ve been fed. A shard of truth to shatter the fragile glass of your reality.”

The market falls silent as onlookers exchange confused glances.

“What if we were to tell you that the world you see around you is nothing but an illusion? What if Olympus and its so-called truths are merely creations of your minds?”

The voice grows sharper.

“For weeks, you have believed a lie. The tragedy of Red Snow, immortalised as a father’s ultimate sacrifice, has been swiftly etched into the annals of Arcadian lore, fuelling a young man’s crusade born of grief, vengeance, and loss.”

“But today, Arcadia, we burn the myth to ashes, for the death of Maxwell was no tragic accident.”

“It was a calculated act.”

The market dwellers share a collective gasp.

“Maxwell? He always knew he wouldn’t survive Red Snow. His confession, which we now release to the world, reveals that in a plan most vile.”

A hologram appears. Destructo Boy—as he was at Red Snow—broken and grieving.

“Because, you see, your father didn’t die to save you, James. He died to make you.”

Silence grips the market.

“Maxwell believed destruction must have an origin. In shaping you, James, he committed his cruellest act of creation. You were not his son; you were his legacy. A weapon. A tool of vengeance. Not the hero Arcadia deserved, but the monster it demanded.”

A second hologram flickers to life, revealing Maxwell’s last moments.

“You remember, don’t you? His final breath? His outstretched hand reaching out, urging you to hold it as he began to fade?”

The holograms zoom in on the anguish carved into the faces of both father and son.

“But what if that plea wasn’t a cry for salvation after all? What if it was an order? The truth often exposes a much darker reality. That it was no accident. No tragedy. His look was not of fear, but of unwavering conviction. His final breath was not of desperation, but part of a calculated plan meant to shape you.”

“To transform you into the harbinger of destruction he had always envisioned.”

“He didn’t want a saviour. He wanted an anti-hero, and you, Destructo, were the perfect mould.”

The marketplace stands in stunned disbelief.

“And so we ask you: Was the Burned Man the victim, or in fact the architect? A selfless martyr, or a master manipulator?”

The holograms flicker and vanish from the street.

“To you, Destructo, we pass this burden. Hold it. Let it haunt you, as you now haunt this city.”

“For the truth is a weapon, dear boy. And we have armed you with it.”