Book of Vandal

Prologue. “In the beginning, there was no light. Only the black of the caves, the gnashing of teeth in the dark, and the stink of blood on stone. We were not men then, not as you know them now. We were beasts with crude tools, scratching for fire, gnawing marrow from bone. I was one among them. I hunted, I bled, I howled with the pack. But there was one momentous hunt to change everything. We stalked a great cave-bear, larger than ten men, with claws like spears. The beast tore through us, and I was struck down. Its paw raked across my face, and I felt the warmth of my blood run down my face into the dirt. The others fled, shrieking like unfed infants, but I lay still, waiting for its jaws to close. But then the sky itself split open. A light brighter than any fire we had ever known screamed across the heavens, like a second sun tearing the night apart. The bear bolted. The hunters scattered. But me, I did not run. My curiosity drove me to crawl toward the falling star. When I reached it, I found a heafty stone, burning and hissing as if alive, lodged in the earth. Its heat was unlike any I had ever known, and though the flesh of my wound blistered, the night was cold, so I pressed myself close. I slept there, by that gift from the heavens. What I did not yet understand was that the stone’s fire was no ordinary flame. It bled into me, seeped into my bones, sang through my veins. The next morning, I awoke at dawn to find the stone cold, its brilliance gone, as though it had given all it had to me. My wounds no longer ached. My body felt stronger, more powerful with something new. The others saw only a man who had survived a bear’s strike. I did not yet realize the truth… I was no longer like them. That was the night the light chose me. The night the world began to change, because I had.”
Part One: The Heavens Above. Many years and many lifetimes passed, and I wore yet another name. To them, I was Abraham. The wildness of the caves was long behind me. My hands, once bloodied with the hunt, now tended the soil, built a home, cradled children. I had sons and daughters, and they had children of their own. I learned to savor the stillness of family life, though I knew it could never be mine forever. One of my grandsons, Joseph, rose higher than I could have imagined. In the land of Egypt, where stone pyramids scraped the skies and kings were worshiped, he became a trusted voice to Pharaoh himself. The boy had a gift… an uncanny sight into the meaning of dreams. He read symbols in sleep and found truths no others dared see. Was it chance? Was it talent? Or was it something deeper, a spark carried through my blood? I had seen it before… gifts that surfaced in those born of me. Some were healers, others warriors, others wise beyond their years. But their candles burned quickly. None of them shared the burden of endless days. None inherited the long shadow of immortality. And thus, I kept my distance after every few generations. I watched from the edges of their lives, proud but apart, careful not to let the centuries show upon me. I smiled at their joys, grieved their losses, and remained their silent supporter. Yet always, a sorrow lingered in me. I wished, oh how I wished, that one child, one grandchild, would carry my curse as their own. Then, at last, I would not walk alone.
It was in Egypt, in the age of kings, that the heavens split once more. But this time, it was no falling stone. From the sky descended a chariot of gold, burning with fire, tearing through the clouds. The people trembled, wailing at the omen, and I too felt the shiver of something vast approaching. When the wreckage struck the sand, out stepped a figure unlike any I had ever seen. He had wings… great, sweeping things of bronze and feathers, the bearings of what would come to be known as an angel. His armor gleamed in the sun. His voice rang like thunder as he raised his hands to calm the crowd. “Be not afraid,” he said as he rose into the air on his wings and flew, circling above us like a hawk that had taken the shape of a man. The people were enraptured. They fell to their knees, believing the heavens themselves had sent them a guardian. To them, he was a gift, a sign, a promise. They named him savior. And I had yet seen the truth behind false fire. His name was Katar Hol, and he bore no divine mission. He was not sent to guide us, but to measure us. He was a scout, I would later learn, sent from a world far beyond the stars… a soldier of a world called Thanagar. He had been struck down in a battle among our stars, his vessel broken, his signal lost, his empire unreachable. And so, stranded on this ‘uncivilized’ world, he chose another path. He turned his smile upon the Pharaoh and his council, played the part of the heavenly visitor, and began to weave his way into their trust. He would be their protector, their champion… but I could see it already in his eyes. He was grooming them. He meant to make Egypt the seed of his new dominion.
Katar Hol wormed his way into Pharaoh’s court with alarming ease. The people loved him, and the ruler loved the power he promised. Soon, he stood beside Pharaoh’s throne as trusted counselor and champion, just as my grandson Joseph did. But Joseph was no fool. He had always possessed a sight beyond the veil, a gift for reading the hidden paths within dreams. And what he saw in his visions was not salvation, but ruin. He spoke to Pharaoh in warning, “This winged stranger brings only suffrage and chains.” But this worried him. Pharaoh, fearing whisper and rumor might breed rebellion, brought Joseph’s warning straight to Katar himself. And in that moment, the mask of the angel broke. Before the court, before the people and my very eyes, Katar raised his great mace of strange metal, Nth metal, I would learn to call it, and with a single crushing blow, he struck Joseph down. My grandson’s bright robe, his garment of many colors was painted in his blood. I remember the crushing sound echo through the dry air. I remember the silence that followed. I remember the weight in my chest as if the blow had fallen on me as well. For in a way, it had. My very blood, my own flesh, had been slain by this so-called savior. Katar did not stop there. His wrath was swift and cold. He declared Joseph’s kin dangerous, faithless, unworthy of freedom. He demanded they be seized, chained, and broken into slaves, to serve Egypt… to serve him. And so began the bondage of my bloodline, the enslavement of the Hebrews under a foreign regime. And among them, I was there. I lived as they did, hid my true self among them, feeling their pain as my own. The centuries had not hardened me enough to keep me from grief. I had seen many die, but this was different.
I was no match for Katar Hol. Not then. His mace shattered stone, his wings carried him swifter than arrows, and his voice bent kings to his will. I was but one man, even if I could endure what others could not. Trying and failing by my lonesome on repeat would serve no goal. So I bowed my head and bore the retribution. I lived as a slave, scarred in body and soul, but never idle in thought. While my hands hauled and bled, my mind sharpened, shaping plans. Someday, I swore, the angelic tyrant would fall. Years turned to decades, and Egypt itself began to change. The people worshiped as Katar told them, their gods replaced with tales of winged warriors and gleaming chariots from the sky. They believed him… why would they not? He had descended like a star, walked among them, and made his strength their law. Yet in the shadows of the camps, whispers stirred. Slaves spoke of other powers, of beings glimpsed in passing who shone with impossible majesty. Their stories shifted like smoke, men who moved mountains, women whose voices bent the wind, flashes of lightning that carried no storm. They called them ‘gods’. Magical beings from another plane that lay beyond our true comprehension. Those who lay witness upon them view them in form similar to their own. Lords of order and chaos, they were called. Many laughed, others prayed, but most spoke in hushed tones, as if fearful their words might summon judgment. At first, I dismissed them. Fantasies, I thought. Dreams to soothe their broken spirits. I had no need for false hope. But then I met a man… quiet, watchful, and curiously certain. He had listened to all the stories and recorded them, line by line, with a faith that made him dangerous if discovered. His eyes carried knowledge I had never seen before, as though he bore secrets from another world. When we spoke, he told me tales of survival as a child in a river, of flames that burned a bush without consuming, of voices from beyond that guided his steps when he prayed. I would not have believed him… until he pleaded with enough force for the “gods” to bare witness. He cast his staff upon the earth, and before my eyes, it twisted, writhed, and became a serpent. A miracle. My heart beat like a war drum in my chest. I reached for it, cautious, and when I gripped it by the tail, it stilled, stiffened, and became wood once more. I had faced beasts, meteors, and death itself time and time again, but never had I seen such wonder. This was no trick. This was something deeper… a power beyond the stars.And the man, his name was Moses. And though I did not know it then, he was no mere prophet. He was a vessel for something greater, a bridge to the realm of true sorcery. My first step into the world of magic was at his side. And the impression it left upon me was as eternal as I was.
In Moses, I resolve. Together, we whispered of freedom, of striking chains from our people, of casting down the winged tyrant who had poisoned Egypt. He had his staff and his faith. I had centuries of patience and a mind sharpened by long suffering. Together, we plotted. But power was needed. Katar Hol was no mere warrior, his strength came from a world beyond ours. Against him, neither blade nor prayer would be enough. So Moses raised his voice to the heavens. He called upon the gods themselves… pleading that they intervene, that they save the children of man from slavery and ruin. And the heavens answered. But not as he had hoped. The gods heard him, yes, but they were distant, disinterested. From their lofty thrones they spoke, their voices rolling like thunder in the silence of his prayers, “We will not soil our hands with mortal squabbles. The affairs of man are his own.” They had no wish to step into the dust of the earth when eternity was theirs above it on a plane of their own. Moses was broken by their refusal. I watched his shoulders sag, his hope falter. But where he saw a closed gate, I saw a door left ajar. I spoke to them. I reminded the gods of their vanity, their hunger for reverence, their desire to see their names carried through the ages. If they would not step into the world, then let the world bear their image through this man, Moses. “Lend him your power,” I said. “Not forever. Only for a word, a moment, a strike. Let him be your vessel, your voice, your champion.” And the gods, amused by my boldness, agreed. They wove their essence together, a tapestry of their might, and set it upon Moses like a mantle unseen. They whispered the word that would summon it forth… SHAZAM. When first he spoke it, the desert itself seemed to shudder. Lightning split the sky and in its wake, Moses was transformed. His frame grew mighty, his voice resounded like a storm, his eyes burned with the light of Olympus itself. He was no longer a prophet, but something greater.
When the moment came, the people trembled. Katar Hol descended before us, his wings spread wide, his mace in hand. He sneered at Moses, calling him frail, calling him foolish. In his arrogance, he let the Nth metal weapon fall at his side, certain that no human could harm him. But Moses was no mere man. He spoke the word, and lightning struck. In a flash, the prophet became a titan. His staff burned with thunder, his muscles bound with the strength of gods. Katar laughed as he charged… and in the next heartbeat, he lay broken. The champion of Thanagar, the so-called angel of Egypt, slain by the power of Olympus wielded through a true savior. So ended the tyranny of the winged usurper. Yet over time, other figures with wings would appear… fragments of what Katar was, glimpses of angels to mortal eyes… but never again one so brazen, so cruel. Whatever fate befell their kind, they seemed content to grow numb to ruling mankind thereafter. With Katar dead, Pharaoh’s grip was shattered. The people rose, and chains fell. Moses, still radiant with the gods’ might, led us to the sea. I will never forget it, his voice raised in prayer, the storm gathering overhead, the lightning that cleaved the waters apart. The Red Sea bent to his will, and before us lay a road of dry earth stretching into the horizon. We walked it together. I, Vandal, led my kin across the seabed, my heart pounding as walls of water loomed on either side. Behind us, the broken kingdom led astray. Ahead, freedom waited in the land of my bloodline. The people wept with joy, but I… I carried something darker. For this was my first encounter with beings from the stars, extra-terrestrials as we like to say now. Katar Hol had descended and revealed himself a tyrant. His empire had no interest in shepherding us, only in subjugation. That lesson etched itself into me deeper than the scars on my face. Aliens were not saviors. They were threats. And from that day on, I swore to keep the world safe from them, no matter how radiant their wings.
Part Two: Wisdom of Strength. Centuries passed, as they always do. I had walked among shepherds, kings, and prophets, and still the days stretched on. In Athens I took the guise of a student, and in the halls of marble I learned at the feet of Aristotle himself. Philosophy sharpened me, taught me to weigh truth against illusion, to search for reason in the madness of the world. Yet even as I filled my mind with questions of virtue and form, another image haunted me still… the crack of lightning, the roar of the parting sea, the raw wonder of Moses transformed by magic. When at last the years grew too heavy and eyes began to wonder why I had not aged, I slipped away again, shedding one life for another. Across the sea I journeyed, to a city greater than any before or since, Atlantis. There I lived as Noah, a name to hide me from suspicion, a man among men in a kingdom of splendor. Atlantis was unlike any place on Earth, yet like Athens, the people had embraced the gods fully, weaving their undeniable power into their culture, shaping wonders beyond comprehension. Here, belief was not whispered or forced, it was lived. Towers of marble stretched skyward, canals gleamed like crystal veins, and in the temples the divine was as common as air. It was the height of man’s ambition… perhaps too high. But my heart sought not gods. It sought magic. I had tasted its edge in Egypt, and I longed to understand it. And so I sought the one name that was spoken with awe in Atlantis, Nabu. When I found him, he was everything the whispers promised. A sorcerer of dazzling craft, weaving fire and water as though they were threads in his loom. With a gesture, he could call storms, with a word he could still them. His every act was both beautiful and terrible, order born from chaos, but in his hands, chaos was birthed from his order. Yet behind that brilliance, I saw arrogance. Nabu did not think of consequence… he thought only of power. When magic fractured the world, he patched it with more magic. When his experiments unraveled the balance of the city, he conjured fresh bindings forged in so-called order. His solutions were circles, spinning ever wider, never ending. I tried to speak to him of philosophy, of moderation, of balance. I told him that not all ills could be solved by conjuring another spell. He laughed. He spat, “The mind is a candle, Noah. Magic is the sun. Who would cling to the flame when they could command the sky?” So he pressed further. He dug deeper. He stretched the ends of his restraint thinner and thinner. And in my heart, I knew it would not last. For every thread pulled taut will one day snap.
My years went by in Atlantis as Noah. I bent my back to the soil, tended fields and livestock, and watched my family spread once more. My children grew tall, their laughter filling my home, their hands steady beside mine in the harvest until they went off to establish their own. It was a simple life, and for a time, a happy one. Yet even then, I could not keep away from the pull of magic. Nabu dazzled me still, and though I studied beside him year after year, I remained but a shadow of his brilliance. For him, the mystic arts were as natural as breath. Words of power flowed from his lips with ease, spells bent to his will as though he were born from the very veins of order itself. For me, it was different. I could grasp at the currents but never hold them. My will was strong, my patience endless, but magic resisted me, slippery and elusive. I had no true affinity for the mystic arts. Without a channel, I was but a man staring into the sun. So Nabu gave me a gift. A helm forged in gold, etched with sigils that blazed with divine fire. With it, I could touch the current, borrow strength not my own, glimpse the vastness that Nabu swam in so freely. I cherished it, for it was proof that I too could stand, however briefly, in the realm of gods. Yet I knew it was not truly mine. Without relics, I was inadequate. Nabu’s collection grew. Relics, talismans, scrolls… his hunger for them knew no bounds. Each artifact added another jewel to his crown of arrogance. And still, he was not satisfied. He craved power from the highest source. He spoke of Poseidon’s trident, the very symbol of dominion over the seas. To him, it was not forbidden fruit but destiny. One night, he came to me with his scheme, “Together, Noah,” he said, “we could seize the ocean itself. With the trident in my hand, Atlantis will be eternal, and you will rule beside me.” I refused. I told him some powers were not meant for mortal grasp. I told him philosophy had taught me that to reach too high was to fall. He sneered, spat again, as he always did when reminded of restraint, “You are afraid,” he said. “Afraid to lead. Afraid to wield true power. You are unworthy of the helm I forged for you.” And with that, he tore it from me. Yet his words did not wound me as he intended. For in my heart, I knew the truth. It was not fear that stayed my hand… it was wisdom. I had seen what unbridled ambition could do, how it could scorch the world. And as I watched Nabu march toward his doom, I felt the weight of inevitability settle over Atlantis like a gathering storm.
Nabu would not listen to my words of caution, my warnings of consequence, all were cast aside. He believed himself untouchable, the favored son of order itself. With relics clattering at his belt, with scrolls and charms stitched into his robes, and with my golden helm crowning his brow, he stepped into the realm of the gods. I never saw him return. But know of what came of him. Poseidon, Lord of the Sea, does not forgive trespass. Nabu sought to steal the trident, to claim dominion that was not his to touch. He was caught in his deception, and Poseidon’s wrath was terrible. With a word, he cursed Nabu… his soul bound in eternal torment, sealed within the very helm that once lent him its power. From that day, the Helm of Nabu would be no gift, but a prison. And then came the flood. The ocean roared as if the gods themselves wept. Walls of water rose higher than the tallest towers of Atlantis. The proud marble streets, the spires gleaming with gold, the markets and homes where laughter had filled the air, all swallowed in a single night of fury. I watched as the city sank beneath the waves, dragged into the depths by Poseidon’s vengeance. Thousands perished, swept away like grain before the scythe. I saved who I could of family. We clung to a humble fishing boat, its timbers creaking as the floodwaters rose around us. We brought what little we could, a few rations, tools, and the animals we managed to corral in the chaos. One male, one female of each that could fit aboard. We drifted for days upon the endless waters, mourning those we had left behind, their voices swallowed by the sea. When at last the waters calmed, land rose again on the horizon. We staggered ashore, alive, though broken. And I thought Atlantis lost forever. I did not know, could not know, that some among them survived, their bodies reshaped by the gods’ punishment. Many years later, I would come to find that a mutation sewn within in my kin altered their flesh to breathe water, to bear the crushing deep. In secret they would rebuild beneath the waves, a hidden people born of tragedy. I would not see them again for a millennium. But as I looked back on the flood and what had been taken from me, something hardened within. Nabu’s arrogance had destroyed a civilization. The gods’ fury had drowned thousands. And I… immortal, cursed or blessed, I knew not which… had survived once more. I swore then that I would never again entrust my fate, or the fate of my people, to gods, sorcerers, or kings. Leadership must not be squandered. Leadership must be strength. Leadership must be wisdom. And so I became more than a farmer, more than a philosopher, more than a name lost to the ages. I began to conquer. My empire grew from ashes, forged in fire and flood. If no other could be strong enough to protect the world from arrogance, from wrath, from ruin… then that burden, that crown, would be mine.
Part Three: The Messiah. For hundreds of years, I ruled the new Roman Empire. In one age they called me Alexander, at this point, Tiberius. My reigns began in triumph, ended in scandal, and began anew once suspicion of my unchanging face grew too loud to silence. I learned long ago that empires survive not by honesty, but by illusion. So I allowed myself to fall… assassinated, exiled, undone by rumor… only to return a generation later, reborn under a new name. And each time, Rome bent again to my will, as it always had. My rule was iron, yes, but it was noble. Grain flowed freely across the Mediterranean. Armies stood ready at my command, guarding the empire’s will against would-be conquerors. Art and philosophy flourished under my patronage, sculptors, poets and actors elevating Rome to heights even the Greeks had never dreamed. Roads stitched the world together, aqueducts brought water to thirsty cities, and banners of my flag flew over lands that had once thought themselves untouchable. The gods were honored, always. However, they adorned new names; Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Neptune… I made certain the rites were observed, the festivals celebrated, the temples raised higher and higher for them to see. Rome was not just an empire… it was sanctuary. It was proof that the will of the gods and the will of men could be bound as one, through me. That was until… he appeared… Never before had I seen such audacity. A man who spoke not of honoring the gods, but of defying them. A man who looked upon Rome, upon me, and saw not glory, but corruption. His words carried no crown, no legions, yet they spread faster than coin and steel. The people listened and they believed. It was heresy. It was madness, and it was dangerous. For the first time in centuries, I felt my empire tremble. Not from barbarians at the gates, nor rival kings plotting in the shadows. But from a single man, whose gall I had rarely seen equaled before.
He called himself Jesus Christ, a messiah. Others called him a miracle worker, a savior. But I called him dangerous. He spoke of impossible things, clothed in parables and riddles, his tongue dripping with the kind of certainty that bends weaker men to follow. The boldest of his claims… that he was born of a virgin, and that he was the son of a single god, the only god! That was insult enough. It spat in the face of centuries, of traditions older than Rome itself. Jupiter, Mars, Neptune, Minerva, were they to be cast aside for some nameless phantom in the sky? At first, my Romans laughed at him. They knew better. They had seen the favor of the gods in their victories, their harvests, their glory. They did not bow so quickly to a wanderer with riddles in his mouth. But then came the displays. This man… this Jesus… he wielded power. Order, magic. I had seen it before, in Egypt, in Atlantis. Water became wine at a wedding feast. A lame man walked where he had once crawled. The blind opened their eyes and wept at the sight of the sun. I even heard tale that he walked across the surface of the Galilean sea, as if the waves themselves bent in deference. Walking on water? These were no tricks of coin or shadow… his power was real. Too real and reckless. Always reckless. I had seen where unchecked power leads. To floods that drown civilizations. To tyrants with wings of iron enslaving nations. To gods roused in fury, striking down thousands without pause. And I feared this man would bring the same ruin, perhaps worse. So I resolved to stop him. Not for Rome, not even for the gods… but for the world itself. But Jesus was no idiot. He wrapped himself in followers, disciples who guarded him more fiercely than any legion. They clung to his words, blind to his danger, deaf to all warnings. They barred me from reaching him, from looking this “Son of God” in the eye. Yet I am Vandal Savage, Lord Tiberius to them, eternal to myself. And no prophet, no conjurer, no false messiah has ever stood beyond my reach for long.
Jesus rejected Rome itself. He dismissed the empire, dismissed me… an anarchist in spirit, though his tongue dripped with words of peace. And peace, I have learned, is the most dangerous weapon against a ruler who governs justly. How could I strike at him without appearing the tyrant? A single misstep, and his death would spark the very uprising he whispered of in riddles. No… before I acted, I would learn everything I could about this man, this so-called Son of God. Knowledge, after all, is the first weapon of war.
It was not through Rome’s spies or my legions that I found the truth, but through gold. I bribed one of the three kings who had claimed to witness the birth of this “Son of God.” Their tongues are loose when their palms are heavy, and from his lips I drew what I sought… where his mother still lived. A small dwelling, humble walls of clay. A manger just outside, where goats and sheep shuffled in the dust. I entered not as Tiberius the emperor, but as Vandal, the man who wished to see the root of this heresy. Mary was nothing like the image painted by her son’s disciples. No saintly light, no lofty words. She was quiet, guarded, her eyes always shifting as though she carried a secret too heavy to bear. I pressed her for answers, but she resisted, clutching her silence like a shield. It was her partner, Josiah, who broke first, not with words, but with action. He tried to force me out, his voice sharp, his body tense. My patience, already stretched thin, met his defiance with equal heat. We struggled, and then, in a single rash moment, he drove a pair of sheep’s shears into my gut. I fell. I let him watch me fall. Mary cried out, horrified at what her husband had done. She clutched his arm, demanding why, why he would doom them so. And Josiah, with a tremor of reverence, spoke, “Because we cannot risk them finding out… from where you ran.” When the words left his mouth, I rose again. Their eyes widened in terror as I pulled the shears from my body, the wound already sealing. I pressed the bloody metal back against Josiah’s trembling throat. My voice was calm, but my demand was plane, “Tell me the truth.” And so Mary spoke. She was not of this world. She was born of Azarath, a realm beyond ours, a place of peace, of harmony, of pure order. A realm without men. A realm where she, in her quiet heart, felt a void… a hunger for family, for love not bound by divine law. And so she fled. Not to rule, not to use her magic as a wonder, but to live among mortals, to fill the emptiness within her with the warmth of kinship. This satisfied me. More than that, it fascinated me. Azarath. A realm of power cloaked in serenity, hiding from the corruption of our earth. No wonder her son carried such mystical strength. I told her to keep her secret. To return her boy, to shield him from the eyes of men. If she did, none would hear of what she truly was. But Mary shook her head, she had tried. She had pleaded with her son to return, to take his rightful place as the first child of Azarath born of mortal flesh. But he refused. He craved fame, purpose, destiny. Jesus would not hear her. I looked upon her, and I pitied her. To leave paradise for family, only to have that family spurn you. I turned from the house, the manger, the weeping couple. “Pity,” I said. And I left them to their grief.
I had pressed Rome’s magistrates again and again to prosecute this so-called messiah for heresy, but his following only swelled with every attempt. The man was a parasite… feed him opposition, and he grew fat on it. I knew then that to strike him, it must be from within his own circle. That is how I came to Judas Iscariot. He was one of Jesus’s most trusted apostles, a man whose loyalty was spoken of often among the disciples. At first, he turned me away, his eyes bright with the faith of a fool. He called the miracles proof, said his master was the rebirth of the one God himself. Give me a break. But I have lived longer than kingdoms, and I know the hunger in men’s hearts. Faith cannot feed an empty belly. Loyalty cannot line a purse. So I offered him what the world always bends the knee to, silver, gold. More than he could count, more than he had ever dreamed. His resolve wavered, then cracked. In the end, all men have their price. Together, we struck the bargain. Judas would lead Jesus into the Garden of Gethsemane under the cover of night. There, hundreds of Roman soldiers would wait, armed and ready, to bind the “Son of God” in chains. And so it was. The garden was filled with the sound of steel and marching feet. Judas played his part with a kiss upon the cheek, and the soldiers seized their prize. But what surprised me was not that they succeeded. No, the surprise was Jesus himself. He did not resist. He did not flee. He did not summon his order magic to blind them with false wonders. No. He simply offered his hands, as though this had been his will all along. For the first time, I wondered, was this surrender… or was this yet another trick?
And so I gave the order. This “messiah” would be made an example of. Hung, crucified. His agony displayed for all who had gathered to watch. Let them see what comes of heresy against the empire, against the gods themselves. The sentence was carried out swiftly. He was pinned to the cross with iron nails, his body sagging under its own weight. He was not alone… thieves and zealots hung beside him, their lungs collapsing slowly as the sun beat down. A fitting end for traitors. Judas did his part, as promised. After the death throes stilled, he oversaw the burial, sealing the body inside a stone cave tomb. The rocky door was heavy, unmovable without effort, meant to keep scavengers and dissenters alike from disturbing the corpse. I paid Judas his silver, and I told myself the matter was finished. Another insurgent, another false prophet snuffed out by my hand. But three days later, word reached me that the tomb had been opened. The stone was cast aside, and the body of Jesus was gone. Whispers grew like wildfire… he had walked again, risen from death. His followers swore they had seen him with their own eyes, speaking, breathing, living. For the first time in centuries, I felt the faint sting of doubt. Immortality was mine alone, or so I had believed. Yet here stood another who had defied death. Not through cunning, not through relics, not through science. Through something else entirely. And worse still, his resurrection did not fade into obscurity. It spread. Like an infection among the people.
When I first heard the news, I refused to believe it. The swindler had cheated me, somehow. Three days in the tomb and now he was walking the streets again, his flock more devoted than ever. Every whispered rumor of his return cut deeper than any blade. So I gathered my forces and put an end to middlemen. No more Judas, no more half-measures. I would confront this false messiah myself. I found him among the crowds, calm as the eye of a storm. His followers swarmed around him, clinging to every word, their eyes lit with dangerous hope. I stepped forward, unshaken, and asked him directly, How? How had he done it? What trick of sorcery had granted him life again? He did not answer me with reason. He spoke the same words he had been spreading like poison… claiming he was the one and only Son of God, that he had come to cleanse mankind of sin. He said it with a serenity that made the mob tremble with faith. I would not hear it. I would not suffer another Nabu, another fool who thought himself divine. I shackled him with my own hands, silencing the uproar with the show of chains. Yet before I dragged him away, he turned to his disciples. With a voice steady as stone, he declared, “I am the one. I am eternal. You shall all face judgment, but if you repent, heaven will be open to you.” The mob wept, clung to his every syllable. Then I had him carted off, iron-bound, away from their sight.
Vandal brought Jesus back to the tomb where his miracle was first whispered into legend. He ordered the guards to remain outside. This would be between the two of them alone. He demanded the truth. How had he returned? Jesus, ever calm, simply repeated his claim of divinity. His words were smooth, persuasive… so much so that for a fleeting moment I wondered if this was the one he had waited for all along. Another immortal. So I took the risk. I drew a dagger, plunged it into my own heart, and collapsed at Jesus’s feet. The so-called messiah gasped, horrified, until I rose again. Alive, eternal. The fear in Jesus’s eyes betrayed him. I called his bluff. If Jesus truly shared my gift, then let him prove it now. I raised the dagger, and suddenly the “son of God” begged for his life. The truth spilled out in frantic words, he was no immortal, no divine heir. Yes, his mother was of divine order magic, but the tale of one God, of his being the chosen son… it was all a fabrication. If I struck him now, he would stay dead. I pressed further. How then did you survive the crucifixion? Cornered, Jesus relented, asking me to follow deeper into the tomb. There, in the cavern below, I beheld a sight unlike any before… the glowing Waters of Life. A hidden pool, radiating with unnatural light. Jesus confessed it was here he was cast after death, his body engulfed and restored. It was Judas, of all people, who had delivered him into the waters. That snake, betrayer twice over. To test the truth, I struck without hesitation, stabbing Jesus dead once more. I then hurled the body into the pit, and the waters churned with radiant power. In moments, Jesus gasped back to life, sputtering for air, his body restored. He looked to me, desperate, asking if he believed him now. I remember giving the faintest smile, “Yes,” I said. And with one clean stroke, I severed Jesus’s head from his body. I left the carcass where it fell, carrying the head with me as a trophy… proof that no false messiah, no pretender to immortality, would ever surpass Vandal Savage.
Epilogue: After that, I abandoned the throne of Rome. What was an empire to me compared to the secret buried beneath its stones? This pit was worth more than legions, more than marble cities. I made it my duty to guard it, to learn its every shimmer and whisper. For a long time, I resisted touching it. But curiosity gnawed at me. One day, I knelt at the edge of those glowing waters, the so-called miracle pool that had brought Jesus back from the grave. The air above it hummed, and when I hovered my hand above the surface, the energy throbbed with a strange familiarity. I plunged my hand beneath. The shock of it hit me at once… recognition. It was as if the centuries fell away, as if I were back in the crater on that night long ago, when fire rained from the heavens and the meteor split open the sky. Of course. The truth washed over me with the same force as those waters. The meteor had bathed me in most of its power while I slept, its radiation seeping into my bones. The rest of it had sunk deeper, feeding into the soil, winding its way through the earth until it pooled here, gestating in silence for millennia. And here I had found it again, beneath the very ground where my immortality began. Jesus hadn’t been chosen. He had merely stumbled onto my gift. I christened the waters the Lazarus Pit and I swore no mortal hand would claim it again. This was always mine, and I would guard it for as long as the earth turned.
With Jesus gone and I no longer involved in Rome, the stories of our deeds were left unchecked. They twisted, warped, and splintered into the myths and teachings that would one day become the three Abrahamic religions. Named after a former life of mine that none could trace the true lineage of. Each generation told the tale as they saw fit, and truth became tangled with legend. I did not mind. I watched as Europeans tore themselves apart, killing and burning in the name of beliefs that, in reality, were all equally removed from reality. Yet the wars had their use. Through strife, only the strongest, cleverest, and most adaptable survived. The conflicts honed humanity like steel in fire, and I observed with interest as the best warriors, the sharpest minds, thrived while the weak fell to the wayside. I dared not intervene. The world was shaping itself, guided by chaos and conviction alike. My hand would not need to shape it, only to guide it when the time was right.
Centuries had passed. The year was 1492, and I knelt once more at the edge of the Lazarus Pit, its waters glowing faintly beneath the torchlight. The dawn of a new world was upon men, though they did not yet know it. I had spun my own tales during this time, half-truths and outright lies. Stories of a so-called Fountain of Youth, whispered to greedy fools who hunted it in Central America, far from its true location. A minor amusement. Beside me now, you stand. A man, cloaked in age and secrecy. I finished recounting my tale of empire, conquest, and manipulation. I told of Europe tearing itself apart, of Rome, of Christ, of all the pieces I had moved across history. And then I spoke of my time in Asia, as a name men still whisper in awe and fear, Genghis Khan. That was my final conquest, the peak of my worldly ambition, before I realized the folly of slaughter. Humans killing humans was wasteful. I was blind, but now… now I see clearly. Children are being born with powers, gifts that traced back through the bloodline… my bloodline. I was the first of them, the father of all meta-humanity. And I can no longer allow them to fight each other like the animals we used to be. They must unite. Slowly. Secretly. Without realizing it themselves. Over decades, centuries, eons if need be.
Now the first person perspective cut and the old man beside me stirred. Vandal turned, finally acknowledging him fully. “Vandal,” he said, voice rough with age, “And the pit? Why have you told me all this? Why am I here? To hear your song and die?” Vandal smiled, “No, of course not. You are my closest friend.” he leaned closer, “But R’as… this process cannot be done alone. I need you. And in time, you will understand why.” R’as Al Ghul frowned, “I don’t follow—” Vandal cut him off, “R’as, welcome to the light.” With a swift motion, Savage pushed him into the Lazarus Pit. The waters churned around him, glowing with immortal power, and Vandal allowed a quiet satisfaction to settle. History was his, the future was now… and his children would have a guide, whether they knew it or not.

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