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In the night, the city was drowned in twilight, but the school, KEGS, hadn’t seen light for what seemed an eternity. A prison of cracked stone and flickering fluorescents, its once hallowed halls now choked with the weight of silence. Mr Seed had seen to that. The school was no longer a place of education but of submission. Posters lined the walls, stark black-and-white images of Seed's face, eyes peering down at all who passed beneath them. “Obedience is Knowledge.” “Detention is Redemption.” The students walked with heads down, eyes glassy, minds dulled. To think was a crime. To dream was treason. He had remade the school in his image, and he demanded nothing short of absolute obedience.
The first to disappear were the rebels-the ones who had fought back in the last war. The teachers who had dared defy him were dragged from their classrooms, their desks overturned, their names struck from the records as though they had never existed. The students soon followed. The students of the English department, the heart of free thought and resistance, was the first to fall. No one spoke of them anymore. No one dared. Their legacy had been rewritten, replaced with blank stares and hollow obedience.
Cameras lurked in every corridor, crude things bolted into the walls like parasites feeding on fear. They were not simply watchers, but judged too. They recorded every hesitation, every stolen glance, every whispered breath. There were no more secrets in KEGS - only the all-seeing eye of Mr Seed.
Even the teachers, those few who remained, were not spared. He kept them in line through a twisted web of blackmail, coercion, and raw, unfiltered terror. No one resisted because resistance led only to one place: The Canteen.
It was not what it had been before. Suddenly one day, the food had changed. No one knew what went into the food, nor did they ask. The smell of reused cooking oil and scorched flesh lingered too long in the air, and the kitchen staff never met your gaze, their tears mixed with the food as the lamented their creation. Sometimes, a student would vanish in the middle of the day. They would be called into Mr Seed’s office, and they would never return. The next meal was always... thicker after that.
Mr Maxwell Lyte and Mr Maxwell Premium moved in the shadows, their once-proud station as members of the Henrywatch now ground to dust in a machine designed to break the human spirit. They sought freedom for the students, a way to burn out the roots of Seed’s dominion, but every attempt ended in despair. When they tried to infect the system with a rumored computer virus - said to be the key to undoing the surveillance - it had been a trap. Mr Seed had been waiting. They barely escaped, but the students who had helped them weren’t so lucky. They were dragged away screaming, their voices snuffed out before the echoes faded.
That night, as Mr Maxwell Premium dismantled one of the hidden cameras, he stared at the screen in horror. It wasn’t recording them. It was playing Pong.
Desperation drove them to an uneasy alliance with Mr Ager, the man once known as Mr Rager, who had become an urban legend in the depths of the school. His basement in the music rooms was a whispered horror story, a place of unholy sounds and unseen torments.
A deal had been made, but Mr Maxwell Lyte felt no victory in it. They were not allies-merely two enemies agreeing not to slit each other’s throats just yet. Mr Ager, known in hushed whispers as Mr Rager, had only agreed to cooperate under the condition that the Henrywatch supplied his basement of horrors, a dark sanctuary in the depths of the music rooms where unspeakable things took shape in the dead of night.
Lyte didn’t trust him for a second. He had seen it in Mr Ager’s eyes-the glint of a man playing a long game, waiting for the right moment to twist the knife.
Yet Mr Maxwell Lyte also saw something else: fear. If Mr Ager was making deals, it meant he was under pressure. And if Mr Seed had let him fester this long, it could only mean one thing-he was useful, but only temporarily. The headteacher did not tolerate independent power under his rule. The moment Mr Ager was no longer necessary, he would be erased. The thought brought a grim satisfaction. But if Mr Seed feared what Mr Ager could become, perhaps that meant he was worth keeping alive-at least, for now.
Mr Maxwell Lyte and Premium forced the deal in their favor. The Henrywatch would not be feeding Mr Ager’s twisted projects with students or staff. He would be allowed to continue teaching at the school, but only under strict surveillance. And in return, he would create something for them-something new. A new member of the Henrywatch, a soldier built to fight under the impossible weight of Mr Seed’s reign.
That was how they found themselves standing in the dimly lit depths of the music department, the air thick with chemicals and the distant, unsettling hum of machinery. The walls were lined with old, dust-covered instruments, their hollow bodies eerily resonant, as if the ghosts of their past owners still lingered. In the center of the room stood a towering glass chamber, filled with a sickly green liquid that pulsed with unnatural life. Tubes ran like veins across the floor, feeding the grotesque alchemy inside.
Mr Ager stood beside the machine, rolling up the sleeves of his tattered lab coat, his expression unreadable. “This is delicate work,” he muttered, adjusting dials and switches with an obsessive precision. “If you interrupt me at the wrong moment, well... let’s just say, the results won’t be to your liking.”
Mr Maxwell Premium harrumphed. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll be watching.”
And they did. They watched every flick of his wrist, every shadow that passed across his gaunt face. Lyte stood with arms crossed, his gaze never leaving Mr Ager’s fingers, while Mr Maxwell Premium inspected every piece of equipment, his sharp mind cataloging anything that seemed... off, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of the monstrous contraption.
The machine let out a deep, mechanical groan, the sound reverberating through the room like the groaning of some ancient beast. Bubbles churned violently in the green liquid, and then - movement.
Something twitched inside the tube.
The form within was humanoid, but wrong. Its limbs jerked unnaturally, as though controlled by unseen strings. Flesh coalesced from formless matter, tendons snapping into place with sickening pops. A skull took shape, then a face-half-formed, shifting between expressions as if it could not yet decide who it was supposed to be.
Mr Maxwell Lyte clenched his fists. “What... is that?”
Mr Ager didn’t look at him. “A work in progress.”
The green light flared, casting horrific shadows across the room. A muffled scream - was it pain or merely the final step of creation? - echoed from within. And then, in a burst of liquid and steam, the glass shattered.
From the broken chamber, a figure stepped forward.
It was a dreary night when they beheld the accomplishment of Mr Ager’s toils. Its skin was pale, tinged with an unnatural gray, as if he had been sculpted from the very shadows of the school. His eyes burned with something unidentifiable-a sorrow so deep it was almost physical, a darkness that had existed long before he was even born. His uniform was pristine, but it fit him too well, as if the very fabric had grown around him rather than been worn. He looked at them all, his gaze slow and deliberate, then exhaled a long breath.
“The darkness,” he murmured, his voice a breath above a whisper. “It takes hold... It tightens its grip...”
Mr Maxwell Lyte’s stomach twisted. This was no ordinary Maxwell.
This was something else.
Mr Ager smiled, his teeth yellowed, his satisfaction evident. “I give you, Mr Maxwell Dark.”
Mr Maxwell Dark stepped forward, his every movement fluid yet deliberate. He raised a hand, staring at his own fingers as if unsure whether they belonged to him.
“This world,” he whispered, his voice tinged with melancholy. “It is already lost.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Mr Maxwell Lyte turned to Mr Ager, voice sharp. “What is this? What have you made?”
Mr Ager’s grin widened, but there was something empty behind his eyes. “I didn’t make him,” he admitted. “I merely... let him be born.”
Mr Maxwell Premium’s hand tightened into a fist. “You were supposed to be build us an ally, not a funeral procession.”
Mr Maxwell Dark tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “We are all walking toward the grave,” he murmured. “Some of us are just more aware of it than others.”
Lyte exhaled slowly.
Elsewhere, in the ruins of the art department, Ms. Preece’s dominion thrived in its own grotesque way. She had always been cruel, but under Mr Seed’s rule, she was unshackled. She did not teach art; she twisted it. Her students painted with their own suffering, their brushstrokes formed under the weight of their own blood.
And below it all, locked beneath the kiln room, in a chapel long forgotten, lay Mr Wells. The corpse, preserved under layers of enchantment, held a secret none had suspected. Ms. Preece pressed a hidden button and vanished into the kiln room, descending into a long-forgotten chapel beneath the school. There, bathed in enchantments of serenity, lay the corpse of Mr Wells.
But serenity was a fragile thing, and Preece made a mistake. Mr Wells stirred.
The message slipped through, a whisper to the mind of Mr Maxwell Lyte, a ghostly vision that should not have been possible. Mr Maxwell Lyte felt it first, but instead of seeing Banquo's ghost, he is greeted by something else.
When the Henrywatch stormed the art department, they met the wrath of the Art Mistress of Tyranny herself. The Henrywatch was pushed back by the art mistress of tyranny's lead-based paint attack. Ms Preece unleashed her thorns of coercion, lashing out in malevolent glee. But against Mr Maxwell Premium’s intellect, against his high-cost Cambridge attack, she faltered.
She did not fight as a human would, her arms whipped around, fending off Dark and Lyte. She locked Mr Maxwell Premium into a battle of wills, her high brow strengthening her mental attack. But Mr Maxwell Premium stood through it all and with a glance, shattered Ms Preeces attack with a glance, his own high brow pushing back his hairline as his high expectations pressure upon Ms Preece. She falters.
And then - the horror.
Her form twisted, cartilage snapping as her body transformed into something beyond human. Blood dripped in thick rivulets as her spine uncoiled from her body, her head hovering in sickening detachment. She was too abstract. Too incomprehensible. The Henrywatch staggered, their minds fracturing, their eyes bleeding - all but mr Maxwell Dark.
“The multitude tightens its hold,” he whispered. And then he tackled Ms Preece, buying the Henrywatch valuable time to reach the kiln room.
They barely escaped the department’s ruins, flames licking at their heels as the kill rooms trap sprung behind them. And there, in the hidden depths of the school, they met the truth. Mr Wells rose from his tomb, light shining from his decayed form. His voice was steady, ancient, filled with the weight of a thousand years.
The grave of Mr Wells was no longer a grave. Light radiated from him as he rose, his presence undeniable.
“This isnt the art department? Mr Wells? Who are you?”
“No,” he said, as the Henrywatch involuntarily knelt before him. “This place has an ancient name.
Flames danced as they looked to the ceiling. Strange figures danced, painted in excruciating detail. They seemed to come alive in Mr Wells’ presence. The art department never imprisoned him, it was merely his home.
“My name is Max. Max Wells.”
Mr Maxwell Lyte staggered the impossible scene before him loomed.
Max Wells nodded, solemn. “My work was done here long ago. I was meant to rest. But I left something behind. The Henrywatch. You were meant to be the beacon, the keepers of hope.”
“Role models,” Dark whispered.
“And I left something else,” Wells continued. “Do you know a Frank?”
Mr. Frank Garcia hung in his cell, suspended upside down. Dark enchantments countered his forces of hellfire, the blood that once ran through his veins forcibly replaced by something much more sinister. He struggled against the chains that bound him, his very essence corroded by Mr. Seed’s cruel machinations. If Seed could not kill him outright, he would break him.
Garcia clenched his eyes shut. The distant bubbling of oil in the canteen’s great pot reached his enhanced hearing—his inevitable fate. They would lower him slowly, inch by inch, into that cauldron, until nothing remained but the echo of his screams.
A different sound interrupted his despair. Crunch. Crunch. Dirt shifted above him, and slivers of light fell upon his swollen, beaten face. He squinted against the glow, vision blurring as a figure emerged from the tunnel.
“Hello, old friend,” Lyte said.
Mr. Maxwell Lyte pulled himself up into the cell, his silhouette sharp against the weak light of the torches. Behind him, Mr. Maxwell Premium and Mr. Maxwell Dark followed, their presence bringing both dread and hope. Garcia’s lips cracked as he attempted a weak smile.
He tugged at his chains, muscles straining. He would not—could not—let Mr. Seed take away the school’s last hope. He could feel Seed’s presence approaching, the heavy weight of the headmaster’s authority pressing against the very walls of his prison. He was running out of time.
His voice rasped, barely more than a whisper. “Did Max send you? Heh.”
A weak glow stuttered from his chest, flickering between his ribs. Mr. Maxwell Dark recoiled, his inner demons screaming at the overwhelming presence of light.
“I suppose it’s time I give back what he gave,” Garcia murmured. His battered form trembled, but his eyes held firm.
The glow erupted from within him, spiraling into the air in defiance of the darkness surrounding them. Mr. Maxwell Lyte reached out.
The cell doors slammed open.
Mr. Seed entered, his frame casting an impossibly large shadow across the stone walls. He moved slowly, deliberately, each step carrying the weight of dominion itself. He reached up and removed his glasses, revealing those fluttering eyelashes and a piercing gaze - the eldritch sigils of his own design.
“Who dares?” His voice cracked like a whip, his new lungs gasping in exertion.
The Henrywatch scrambled as Mr. Seed’s forces surged forward.
Mr Garcia spluttered his final words. “I have faith in you.”
“GET THEM!”
Chaos erupted. The guards stormed after the Henrywatch. Mr. Maxwell Dark was tackled by a masked guard, but he let out a low growl, summoning the abyss within himself. Shadows curled around his frame, giving him unnatural speed as he slipped from the grasp of his captor, running as the masked figure struggled against the weight of his own existence.
Mr. Maxwell Lyte turned, locking eyes with Garcia one last time. He saw the understanding there. The sacrifice.
“Go,” Garcia said, voice already distant, already fading. The light within him burned, a final defiance against the tyranny of Mr. Seed.
Mr. Maxwell Lyte did not look back.
As the power coalesced, a new force entered the world. They returned to the ruins of the art department and a masked man removed his disguise, blinking as if waking from a dream.
Mr. Perry.
The Maxwells looked, shocked.
Freed from Seed’s control, he spoke the words they had all been waiting for:
“The students need someone to rally behind.”
The Henrywatch stood together.
The school could be restored.
And it would begin with prosperryty.