The Tattooed Emperor: Reborn Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 3: Young Master, How Could You Possibly...

Uncle Frank was barely three steps into the ward when the first rays of dawn broke through the window, spilling golden light across Damon Sterling's bare back.

And in that light, a masterpiece slowly revealed itself across every inch of muscle and skin.

The first image to catch the eye was Vlad, the Impaler a cold, merciless face carved in ink, the kind of stare that belonged to a man who'd built an empire out of corpses. The blade gripped in his fist looked wet, like the paint hadn't fully dried on the blood. Every line of the piece radiated slaughter.

Beside it sat Saint Jerome, the Suffering Pilgrim hunched, weary, his expression heavy with sorrow for a world he couldn't save. His whole posture seemed to strain forward, as if still dragging himself through some endless, thankless road.

Then came the Inferno Griffin, rendered so lifelike it seemed ready to leap off his shoulder blade. Wings spread through curling flame, every feather catching invisible firelight, its talons braced mid-stride like it was still running.

Beside it, the Everfrost Phoenix feathers like carved glacier ice, pale blue and impossibly delicate, its wings thrown wide in a way that made the air around the ink feel colder just to look at.

Sensing eyes on his back, Damon turned without a word, letting the rest of the piece come into view.

Across his chest, Michael the Seraph stood in full glory wings blazing gold, a sword of pure light raised high, radiating judgment and mercy in equal measure.

Beside him, in stark contrast, sprawled Lucifer, the Fallen black wings unfurled like a curtain being drawn across the sun, an aura so heavy with ruin it seemed to swallow the light around it.

Lower down, Jesus Christ hung from the cross, His face caught between agony and total peace, a crown of thorns pressed into His brow, a faint halo bleeding gold into the skin around Him the kind of image that made grown men go quiet.

And near His feet, robed and serene, stood Merlin, the Arch-Sage eyes closed, staff in hand, wreathed in slow-turning mist, radiating the unmistakable weight of a man who'd outlived kingdoms and still knew things no living person should.

But it was the piece at the very center of his back that stopped the breath in anyone's throat.

Nine Dragons Bearing the Coffin.

Nine massive serpentine bodies, coiled and twisted together, scales catching a light that shouldn't have existed in the room. Each dragon's eyes burned with something ancient and furious, and together, their combined strength hauled an old, rune-carved coffin through what looked like the void itself.

The coffin's surface crawled with symbols no living language could read each one humming faintly with the promise of secrets nobody was ever meant to survive learning.

Every tattoo bled into the next so seamlessly it didn't look like art anymore. It looked alive. Like something had simply been let loose under his skin and allowed to stay there.

Anyone who looked too long felt like they were being looked back at.

Watching Uncle Frank freeze completely, jaw slack, Damon finally broke the silence with a soft, familiar call.

"Uncle Frank."

The name snapped him out of it. Frank crossed the room in three fast strides and grabbed Damon by both shoulders, turning him like he was inspecting him for wounds, utterly speechless for a full five seconds.

"Young... Young Master! Why would you get tattoos like these?! Do you have any idea what you've just done to yourself?!"

His hands were shaking. His eyes were wet.

Because Frank knew things most people didn't.

Every made man in the Crimson Talon Syndicate held one figure above all others: Ares, god of war and unbreakable brotherhood. It was practically gospel among them.

And there was one rule nobody broke you never, ever got Ares inked with his eyes open.

An open-eyed Ares wasn't a tattoo. It was a death sentence you signed yourself.

Even if it didn't kill you outright, it would cripple you slow, drain you from the inside until there was nothing left. War-eyes like that demanded blood, real blood, on a scale no man living in this fragile, half-broken world could ever hope to pay back.

Practically nobody attempted it. Nobody sane, anyway.

And here was the boy Frank had pinned every hope on not just flirting with one taboo mark, but wearing an entire gallery of them.

Vlad the Impaler alone should have been unthinkable for a mortal body to survive.

But no. There were eight more.

Saint Jerome. The Inferno Griffin. The Everfrost Phoenix. Michael the Seraph. Lucifer the Fallen. Jesus Christ Himself. Merlin the Arch-Sage.

And crowning it all Nine Dragons Bearing the Coffin.

It was only then that Frank's attention snapped sideways, landing on Smith Taylor, who was still hovering near the bed with his tattoo pen clutched in one trembling hand.

Frank crossed the room in a blur and had the old artist by the throat before Damon could blink.

"You did this to my young master?" Frank's voice had dropped into something guttural, his eyes bloodshot with fury. "You think you can gamble with his life and walk out of here breathing? Undo it. Undo it right now, or I will skin you myself!"

"Uncle Frank. Let him go."

Damon's voice was quiet, but it cut straight through the room. Something in Frank's chest cracked open at the sight of the old man's raw, desperate concern it warmed him more than he expected.

"I asked for every single one of these. I know exactly what they mean, every rumor and every secret behind them. This was my choice."

Frank's grip loosened, and Smith slumped free, gasping. Frank turned back to Damon, his face crumpling with something close to grief.

"Young Master... if you understood all of that, then why?"

"Your parents are watching over you right now. Do you honestly believe they'd want to see you throw your own life away like this?"

Damon didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned to Smith Taylor with an apologetic, almost gentle smile.

"Mr. Taylor would you mind doing one more piece? For my brother, this time. I'll double your f*e for the trouble."

Marcus, still hovering by the door, blinked twice before Damon jerked his head toward the hallway, and Marcus half-dragged a still-shaken Smith Taylor out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut, Damon turned back to Frank, whose face was still tight with worry, and held his gaze steady.

"Uncle Frank. Do you trust me?"

Something in Damon's eyes had changed Frank could see it plainly now, and it stopped him cold. Not the eyes of the boy he'd watched grow up.

Something older. Something that had already lived and died and come back changed.

Glug. Glug.

Frank drained an entire cup of tea in one go, using the silence to steady his nerves before he finally found his voice again.

"Young Master... is everything you're about to tell me actually true?"

"Every word of it."

Damon's nod was firm, certain, unshakable.

Frank sat with that for a long moment. Then, slowly, he let out a breath and nodded back.

"Then this old man is all in. I'll go crazy right alongside you, Young Master."

"I'll have every one of our men stripped of their old ink and re-marked, starting today."

He paused. Something flickered behind his eyes.

"And I'll be taking a tattoo myself, while we're at it."

Damon's mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. "Good."

"I'll go handle things, then. Rest while you can, Young Master."

"I will. Don't worry, Uncle Frank two days from now, you're going to be very glad you trusted me on this."

"I already do."

Damon watched him go, and once the door shut behind the old man, he drifted back to the window. A strange light flickered behind his eyes, and the edge of his mouth curled into something colder.

"Uncle Frank... brothers and strength will keep us alive out there. But surviving what's coming takes more than that. We'll need resources. We'll need a base."

"The first two, I can handle easily enough. But a base worth holding..."

His mind sharpened, turning the map of the city over and over until one location clicked into place. Perfect terrain. Perfect defenses.

And, conveniently, already owned by someone he had every intention of ruining.

A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.

"Preston Whitlock."

"Don't get too comfortable. I'll be paying you a visit real soon and trust me, I'm going to enjoy every second of watching that pretty face of yours fall apart.”