Chapter Text
Garmadon did not know what to do.
That realization settled over him with a quiet finality that was somehow worse than panic. Panic implied movement, urgency, a direction to flee or fight toward. This was something colder – an understanding that no obvious path existed, and that every option carried consequences he might not survive.
It had been hours since he left that place.
Hours since the violet fire, the altar, the knowledge he had never asked for but could no longer escape.
The city had swallowed him whole again, neon lights and layered streets folding around his wandering steps as though nothing monumental had occurred beneath its foundations. Life continued. People laughed. Trains passed overhead. Vendors argued over prices.
The world had not paused to acknowledge the fact that something ancient and catastrophic had almost – almost – been set in motion again.
Garmadon walked.
He did not remember choosing a direction. He simply moved, letting instinct guide his feet through streets that twisted and branched endlessly. He passed districts he vaguely recognized and others that might as well have belonged to another city entirely.
The noise was easier to tolerate now. Or perhaps he was simply too tired to react to it.
His thoughts, however, refused to quiet.
He had thought – foolishly – that resurrection might mean freedom.
The idea had been small, tentative, barely dared even in the privacy of his own mind. But it had been there nonetheless: a fragile hope that death had burned something out of him. That whatever tether had bound him to the Overlord – whatever corruption had been woven into his blood since childhood – had finally loosened its grip.
After all, he had been purified once.
The prophecy scroll had been clear.
The Golden Power wielded by the Green Ninja had the ability to cleanse evil, to restore balance, to return what was twisted back to its proper shape. Lloyd had used that power. Garmadon had felt it tear through him like a storm, ripping away the Overlord’s influence in a blaze of light and pain.
For the first time in his life, he had been quiet inside.
No whispers.
No pressure.
No burning certainty that something else was watching from behind his thoughts.
He had believed – wanted to believe – that it was over.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
The Golden Power had not erased the evil within him.
It had reduced it.
Contained it.
Driven it so deep beneath the surface that it no longer screamed.
That difference mattered more than he liked to admit.
Garmadon stopped at a pedestrian crossing, the light flashing red as crowds flowed past him. He barely noticed when it turned green.
If the corruption still existed within him – dormant but alive – then resurrection had not freed him.
It had merely accelerated the clock.
Whatever Harumi had discovered, whatever truths she had unearthed and recorded with such devotion, had painted a far darker picture than the prophecy ever had. Evil was not a thing that could always be erased cleanly. Sometimes it lingered, waiting. Sometimes it learned.
And sometimes, all it needed was the right catalyst.
Garmadon’s steps slowed as he crossed into a quieter district, the buildings here lower, the streets narrower. He passed a small park where children played beneath glowing lanterns, their laughter sharp and bright against the evening air.
He did not stop to watch.
If Harumi still had access to whatever could awaken that corruption – if she had already set pieces in motion before her capture – then his resurrection was not just a mistake.
It was a vulnerability.
A trigger.
He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself as the implications unfurled.
According to what he remembered, the corruption did not need its host to be alive to grow. It would spread regardless, slow and patient, until it reached a breaking point.
But death delayed the process.
Life hastened it.
Which meant –
Garmadon clenched his jaw.
If he had remained dead, whatever Harumi intended might have taken decades. Centuries, even. Time enough for the Ninja to uncover it, to prepare.
But he was alive.
Which meant the timeline had shortened dramatically.
The Overlord did not need to return as an external force.
He could return through him.
The thought sent a chill down Garmadon’s spine that had nothing to do with the night air.
He imagined it with brutal clarity: that familiar pressure building behind his thoughts, the slow erosion of will, the way his body would respond before his mind could protest. He had lived through possession once. He remembered the horror of awareness without agency – the way his hands had moved against his will, the way his voice had spoken words he had never chosen.
He remembered watching Lloyd fight him.
The memory nearly brought him to his knees.
He staggered slightly and leaned against the wall of a closed shop, breathing hard as the image burned behind his eyes. Lloyd, standing his ground despite the fear. Lloyd, refusing to give up on him even when logic demanded it.
Lloyd, forced to strike down his own father.
He couldn’t let that happen again.
He couldn’t let Lloyd face him – not like that.
If the Overlord returned through his body, Garmadon would not simply be a threat. He would be the weapon. Every blow dealt in his name would be another wound carved into the people he cared about.
The city.
The Ninja.
Wu.
Misako.
And Lloyd most of all.
He would have to watch himself fight them.
Watch himself hurt them.
Watch himself try to kill his son.
His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as he pushed away from the wall and continued walking. Movement helped. If he stopped for too long, the thoughts would consume him entirely.
Sometime later – he wasn’t sure how long – he found himself near the outskirts of the city proper, where old structures blended into newer ones, and the crowds thinned to something manageable.
Here, the air felt less oppressive.
He slowed, allowing his breathing to even out.
Sooner or later, the confrontation was inevitable.
If the corruption awakened fully, there would be no hiding it. No subtlety. The Overlord was not a quiet presence once unleashed. The Ninja would sense it. Wu would sense it.
Lloyd would sense it.
Garmadon exhaled slowly.
He would have to fight them.
Not by choice.
But by consequence.
The irony was bitter enough to taste.
He had spent so much of his life defined by conflict – brother against brother, father against son, light against darkness. When he had finally found peace, when he had finally learned what it meant to guide rather than dominate, it had been ripped away.
Now fate seemed determined to drag him back into the same role.
The destroyer.
The obstacle.
The threat that had to be stopped.
“Enough,” he muttered.
He forced his thoughts forward, away from the spiral threatening to swallow him whole. Indulging in inevitability helped no one. There were still variables. Still unknowns.
Harumi was in prison.
That mattered.
As long as she remained contained, whatever she had planned could be delayed. Perhaps even prevented. The problem was that Garmadon did not trust containment – not after everything she had orchestrated from the shadows.
Harumi was not impulsive.
She was patient.
And she had believed – truly believed – that she was right.
If she escaped ...
Garmadon closed his eyes briefly.
He would not allow her the opportunity.
Which raised the question his thoughts had been circling for over an hour now.
Why not go to the Ninja?
Wu would listen. Wu always listened, even when he disagreed. The old man had a maddening talent for seeing potential where others saw only risk.
The Ninja had fought alongside him before. They had trusted him once.
Lloyd trusted him.
So why was he still walking alone through the city, avoiding every familiar landmark, every path that might lead him back to the people who could help?
The answer surfaced unbidden, heavy and unyielding.
Because he was afraid.
Garmadon slowed, gaze dropping to the pavement beneath his feet.
He was afraid of what would happen if he was wrong.
The Ninja trusted results, but they also trusted stability. He had neither to offer. His resurrection was an anomaly – unexplained, unnatural, and deeply suspicious given recent events.
From their perspective, he was supposed to be Lord Garmadon.
The oni warlord.
The figure Harumi had worshipped and tried to restore.
Even if he stood before them and spoke calmly, even if he swore he was himself – how long would that trust last once they sensed the corruption still clinging to him?
He was a liability.
That truth settled uncomfortably but firmly in his chest.
His resurrection was unstable. He could feel it in subtle ways – the way his energy surged unpredictably when his emotions spiked, the way exhaustion hit harder than it should. Something about his existence felt unfinished, like a spell cast without proper anchoring.
If he lost control –
Garmadon swallowed.
If the corruption surged suddenly, if the Overlord seized that moment of weakness, he would endanger everyone around him. Bringing the Ninja into that uncertainty would not protect them.
It would put them directly in harm’s way.
Especially Lloyd.
No.
Until he understood what he was dealing with – until he knew how close the edge truly was – he could not risk involving them.
Not yet.
For now, distance was the safest choice.
He exhaled slowly, forcing tension from his shoulders as he resumed walking. The city lights blurred softly at the edges of his vision, exhaustion settling into his bones.
He needed information.
He needed time.
And above all, he needed control.
Garmadon lifted his gaze toward the skyline, where the city’s tallest structures cut jagged shapes against the darkening sky.
Sooner or later, he would have to face them.
Wu.
The Ninja.
Lloyd.
Sooner or later, the past would catch up to him, no matter how carefully he tried to outrun it.
But for now, he walked alone through Ninjago, carrying a secret that could end the world if mishandled.
And he prayed – quietly, fiercely – that when the moment came, he would still be himself.
In Garmadon’s defense, this was absolutely not intentional.
He had been walking. Thinking. Spiraling internally in what he considered a perfectly controlled, dignified manner. His pace had been steady, his posture composed, his attention focused inward rather than on the shifting crowd around him.
Which, in hindsight, may have been the problem.
The impact came suddenly.
A solid shoulder slammed into his chest, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and jolt him violently out of his thoughts. His boots scraped half a step back on the pavement before instinct kicked in.
“Oh – ” Garmadon caught himself automatically. “My apologies.”
The words were calm, measured, spoken without edge. A reflex honed over years of de-escalation and restraint.
The man he had bumped into stumbled, then spun around with a snarl, as though Garmadon had just committed a personal crime against him.
Garmadon blinked once, already tired.
He inclined his head politely, the way Wu had once taught him, and turned to continue on his way.
Big mistake.
A rough hand grabbed his sleeve.
The force behind it was sharp and aggressive, yanking him sideways before he could properly react. His shoulder twisted awkwardly as he was dragged off the sidewalk and shoved into the narrow mouth of an alley, his boots scraping against concrete as his balance barely held.
Garmadon exhaled slowly through his nose.
Why is it always an alley.
Five men followed him in, spreading out with practiced ease. They moved like people who had done this before – blocking the exit, claiming space, voices overlapping almost immediately as the noise hit him all at once.
“HEY – what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
“You blind or just stupid, huh?!”
“This asshole just hits people and walks off – ”
“You got a death wish or something?!”
The alley seemed to compress around them, sound bouncing off brick and metal until it felt louder than it had any right to be. Garmadon stood where he’d been shoved, posture straight, hands relaxed at his sides.
He smoothed down his jacket calmly, brushing dust from the sleeve that had been grabbed. His expression remained neutral, eyes half-lidded as he assessed the situation.
Five men. All adults. All visibly agitated.
Weapons: one bat, one knife clipped to a belt, the rest relying on numbers and bravado.
Threat level: manageable.
Unnecessary.
“This is unnecessary,” Garmadon said evenly.
“Oh, listen to him!” one of them barked out a harsh laugh. “Unnecessary my ass!”
The man in the center – broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, a presence that screamed leader – stepped forward and jabbed a finger hard into Garmadon’s chest.
“You smash into me and then try to run, and you think that’s unnecessary?!”
“I did not run,” Garmadon replied calmly. “I walked away.”
“OH, YOU WALKED AWAY,” another man snapped. “Hear that, guys? He walked away! Guess that makes it fine!”
“Yeah!” someone else chimed in. “Real fucking classy, grandpa!”
Garmadon sighed softly.
“I apologized,” he said. “That should have concluded the matter.”
The leader let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Apologized?” He leaned closer. “You think a sorry fixes everything?”
“It usually helps,” Garmadon answered, honestly.
For half a second, there was silence.
Then –
“THIS GUY’S GOT JOKES!”
“Cocky bastard – ”
“You think you’re better than us or something?!”
The noise surged again, louder, more chaotic. One of them swung a metal bat lightly against the wall, the clang ringing through the alley like a warning bell. Another cracked his knuckles, grin tight and eager.
Garmadon remained still.
“I am not interested in proving anything,” he said calmly. “I would like to leave.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” the leader sneered. “You don’t just leave.”
He stepped closer, invading Garmadon’s space, breath hot with anger and cheap alcohol.
“You think you can just bump into me, disrespect my crew, and then fuck off like nothing happened?!”
“Disrespect was not my intention,” Garmadon replied.
“Oh my GOD,” one of the men groaned loudly. “He’s still doing the calm voice!”
“I swear, I hate guys like you,” another snapped. “All quiet and shit, like you’re not scared.”
Garmadon tilted his head slightly, studying the speaker. “Should I be?”
That was the wrong answer.
“OH, THIS MOTHERFUCKER – ”
“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE – ”
“I’LL WIPE THAT LOOK OFF YOUR FACE – ”
The leader shoved Garmadon hard in the chest.
Garmadon didn’t budge.
The impact barely shifted his weight.
The leader froze.
His hand lingered there for half a second too long, confusion flickering across his face.
“ ... The hell?” he muttered.
Garmadon glanced down at the hand pressed against his chest, then looked back up, expression unchanged.
“Please refrain from touching me.”
“Oh, FUCK THAT,” the leader snarled, pulling his hand back. “You hear this asshole? He’s asking politely now!”
“Man’s got a death wish,” someone laughed, though it sounded a little strained.
“Yeah,” another added. “Let’s see how calm he is after – ”
Something stirred.
It was subtle. A pressure beneath his skin, like heat coiling just out of reach. A whisper of power responding to threat, to escalation, to the unspoken challenge in the air.
Garmadon felt it immediately.
And he hated how easily it answered.
His muscles tensed – not from fear, but from restraint. He could end this in seconds. He knew exactly where to strike, how to move, how to incapacitate without killing.
But power drew attention.
Violence echoed.
And the last thing he needed was the Ninja sensing a disturbance and tracing it back to him.
He swallowed the impulse down.
“This situation does not benefit any of us,” he said quietly. “You can still walk away.”
The leader’s face twisted with fury.
“You don’t get to talk like that to me!”
He pulled his fist back, muscles coiling.
“I’ll teach you some fucking manners – ”
“HEY YOU, STOP THAT!”
The shout cut through the alley like a blade.
All five men turned sharply, irritation clear as they faced the source of the interruption.
Garmadon lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in interest.
Whoever it was, they had stepped in without hesitation.
Which meant one of two things.
They were very brave –
– or very foolish.
Either way, Garmadon found himself suddenly curious.
.
Ahh – waaah!!!
Freedom!!!
Vinny practically floated as he walked down the street, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, shoulders loose for once. His shift had ended early. Early. That almost never happened. His boss had waved him off with a tired but genuine smile, muttering something about “good work today” and “go home, kid.”
Vinny had nearly bowed on the spot.
Normally, he’d take a taxi. The city was exhausting on foot, especially after a long day of filming, editing, running errands, and getting yelled at by people who thought “camera guy” meant “do-everything guy.” But tonight? Tonight he felt good. Light. Like the air itself was congratulating him.
So he decided to walk.
Fresh air, he told himself. That was important. Plus – he knew a shortcut. One that wound through the outskirts, away from the packed streets and blaring lights. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful.
Exactly what he needed.
Vinny hummed under his breath as he went, an off-key tune he didn’t even realize he knew. His camera bounced gently against his chest with each step, the strap familiar and comforting against his shoulders. It wasn’t anything fancy – small, a little scratched, the lens cap held together with tape – but it was precious to him.
His grandma had given it to him years ago.
“Don’t wait for big moments,” she’d told him. “Little ones matter too.”
Vinny smiled faintly at the memory and adjusted the strap. He mostly used it to snap pictures of street food, sunsets, funny signs, or record short clips when something interesting happened. Nothing heroic. Nothing dangerous.
Just ... moments.
He was about halfway home when the shouting started.
At first, he thought it was just city noise carrying strangely through the narrow streets. But then the words sharpened.
“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE – ”
Vinny flinched.
More voices piled on top of it – angry, loud, aggressive. The kind of sound that made your stomach twist before your brain could catch up.
He slowed.
The noise was coming from an alley.
Vinny frowned, glancing toward the narrow gap between two buildings just ahead. The smart thing to do – the correct thing – was to keep walking. Mind his business. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t trained. He was just a guy with a camera and a bad habit of worrying too much.
... But the shouting didn’t stop.
It got worse.
Vinny hesitated, feet planted on the pavement as his thoughts raced.
Don’t look. Don’t get involved. You’ll just make it worse.
He took one step forward.
Then stopped.
With a quiet, frustrated noise, Vinny turned around and crept toward the alley.
“Just a peek,” he muttered to himself. “Just to see if someone’s hurt.”
Heart pounding, he leaned just enough to look inside.
And his breath caught.
Five men.
Big ones.
One of them was holding a metal bat, resting it casually against his shoulder like it was nothing. They were spread out in a loose circle, blocking the exit of the alley.
And in the middle –
An old man.
Vinny’s eyes widened.
The man stood straight, posture calm despite the situation, dressed neatly but plainly. His hair was white, his face lined with age. He couldn’t be younger than – what – seventy? Eighty?
Oh no.
Vinny’s chest tightened painfully.
The men were yelling at him, swearing, shoving, crowding his space. Vinny didn’t hear all the words, but he didn’t need to. He knew this kind of scene. He hated it.
He hated people who picked on those weaker than them.
It didn’t matter that the old man looked oddly composed. It didn’t matter that he didn’t seem scared.
All Vinny saw was five grown men cornering someone who couldn’t possibly defend himself.
His hands curled into fists.
“Bastards,” he whispered.
Before his fear could talk him out of it, Vinny sucked in a breath and shouted –
“HEY YOU, STOP THAT!”
The sound came out louder than he expected.
Every single one of them turned around.
Vinny’s heart slammed into his ribs.
Five sets of eyes locked onto him, irritation flashing across their faces almost instantly.
“What the hell?” one of them snapped.
“Who’s this guy supposed to be?” another sneered.
Vinny swallowed, legs screaming at him to run, but he stayed put. His fingers twitched, brushing against the camera resting against his chest.
He lifted his chin, voice shaking only a little. “What do you think you’re doing?! That guy’s – he’s old! Leave him alone!”
The men exchanged looks.
Then they laughed.
“Old?” one of them barked. “You serious?”
“Mind your business, cameraboy,” another growled.
“Yeah,” the leader added, eyes narrowing. “Before you get hurt.”
Vinny’s pulse roared in his ears – but then the leader’s gaze dropped.
To the camera.
The smile on his face faded.
“ ... Hey,” he said slowly. “What’s that?”
Vinny blinked. “ ... My camera?”
The leader’s jaw tightened. He took a step back, eyes flicking between Vinny and the device.
“You recording?”
“N-no!” Vinny yelped. “But I could be!”
That was a lie. Sort of. But it worked.
The mood shifted instantly.
“Shit,” one of the men muttered.
“Is he with the press?”
“Or the cops?”
The leader clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Damn it. Not worth it.”
He glared at Vinny. “Delete whatever you’ve got.”
“I didn’t record anything!” Vinny said quickly.
“Good.” The leader shoved past him roughly, shoulder-checking him on purpose. “Keep it that way.”
The others followed, bumping into Vinny as they passed, muttering insults under their breath.
Within seconds, the alley was empty.
Vinny stood there, shaking.
His knees nearly gave out.
“ ... Oh my god,” he breathed.
Then he remembered.
The old man.
Vinny spun around and rushed toward him. “Sir! Are you okay?! Did they hurt you?!”
The man looked at him – really looked at him – with a strange, assessing gaze.
“I am fine,” he said calmly. “I thank you for your assistance.”
“Oh thank the FSM,” Vinny sighed. “I thought – when I saw them – ”
“I will take my leave now.”
The man turned to walk past him.
Vinny panicked.
He reached out and grabbed his wrist.
The man stopped instantly.
Vinny realized what he’d done and yelped, releasing him. “S-sorry! Sorry, I just – sir, you were just attacked! You can’t just – just leave like that!”
“I am unharmed,” the man replied evenly.
The man stepped around him as if that settled everything. “I will take my leave now.”
“W-wait!” Vinny reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
The man stopped.
Slowly, he looked down at Vinny’s hand.
Vinny yelped and let go immediately. “S-sorry! Sorry – I just – !”
He rubbed the back of his neck, flustered. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. I can call you a taxi. Or – uh – an ambulance? Or – something!”
“I do not require either.”
“ ... Do you have somewhere to go?” Vinny asked gently.
The man hesitated.
“No.”
Vinny’s heart cracked a little.
“ ... Oh.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Well,” Vinny said awkwardly, forcing a smile, “I do.”
The man’s brow furrowed.
Vinny took a breath.
“I – look, I know this sounds weird. And you don’t know me. But it’s late, and that was ... a lot, and I don’t feel right just letting you walk off alone.”
The man studied him again, expression unreadable.
“ ... What is your name?” he asked.
“Vinny,” he replied quickly. “Vinny folson. And yours?”
The man paused.
“ ... Gravadon,” he said, reluctantly.
Vinny nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gravadon.”
Something about the name tugged at his memory. It sounded familiar.
He ignored it.
“Come on,” Vinny said, gesturing down the street. “I’ve got a small apartment. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm. You can stay the night. No pressure.”
The man – Gravadon – hesitated.
Then, finally, he sighed.
“ ... Very well.”
Vinny grinned. “Great!”
And just like that, he had accidentally brought one of the most dangerous warlords in Ninjago history home.
Vinny, blissfully unaware, started walking.