Chapter Text
Westminster, United Kingdom, 1877
The skies above Westminster were stained crimson as smoke drifted across the old rooftops. For decades, a hidden war had raged beyond the knowledge of ordinary people.
On one side stood the Roses Blood, a secret society of demons hiding behind the name of the Labour Party.
On the other stood the Tories, an order of demon hunters led by their determined commander, John Major. Their fortress overlooked a small village that had become the center of an endless struggle.
Every assault launched by the demons had failed.
Every ritual had been interrupted.
Every attempt to claim the village ended in defeat.
Leading the attacks had been the fearsome demon lord John Smith, who dreamed of turning the village into a place where humans would be sacrificed to summon ancient horrors.
But fate betrayed him.
Inside the Roses Blood headquarters, John Smith suddenly clutched his chest.
His breathing became shallow.
The gathered cultists rushed toward him, but it was too late.
The demon leader collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
Silence filled the chamber.
John Smith was dead.
Not in battle.
Not by holy weapons.
But by a fatal heart attack.
The headquarters fell into mourning.
Candles burned around his body while hooded members knelt in grief.
"Our leader..."
"The Great One..."
"We have lost him..."
Without John Smith, the organization descended into confusion.
Meanwhile, John Major and the Tories continued protecting the village, defeating demonic attacks week after week, year after year.
The Roses Blood needed a new master.
Inside the council chamber, the senior members gathered around a long wooden table.
John Prescott stood.
"We must choose another leader."
No one answered.
The room remained silent.
Prescott looked around.
"There is only one candidate."
He raised his voice.
"Tony Blair!"
Across the room, Tony Blair slowly looked up.
"Me?"
Shock crossed his face.
For several moments, no one spoke.
Then every cultist lowered their heads.
"The Roses Blood has chosen."
"The new leader."
"The successor."
Tony Blair accepted.
From that moment onward, the organization belonged to him.
Training began immediately.
Unlike his predecessor, Tony Blair possessed terrifying dormant power that had never fully awakened.
As weeks passed, his body transformed.
His right arm twisted into the razor-sharp limb of a gigantic praying mantis.
Behind him grew enormous scorpion-like legs that scraped against the stone floor.
Black feathers erupted into vast wings.
The right side of his face split apart, revealing clusters of blue eyes that constantly moved in different directions.
His neck bent at impossible angles without breaking.
Inside his transparent chest floated countless imprisoned souls, forever screaming in silence.
When Tony Blair spoke, the voices of those trapped souls echoed beneath his own.
His abilities expanded beyond imagination.
He became immortal.
He could teleport through shadows.
He possessed minds.
He invaded dreams.
He controlled fire from the depths of Hell.
He manipulated objects through telekinesis.
He reshaped himself into eldritch creatures, humans, or animals.
His wounds regenerated almost instantly.
Invisible psychic force surrounded him wherever he walked.
He no longer resembled a man.
He had become the Demon of Roses Blood.
His followers also embraced monstrous forms.
Gordon Brown transformed into a savage demonic beast capable of becoming monstrous boars and other horrific creatures. His aggression was uncontrollable during battle. Carrying a mysterious red box, he spread fortune to some while bringing disaster to others. His right eye constantly watched everything around him.
Peter Mandelson preferred deception over brute force. His body shifted effortlessly between serpents, spiders, bats, and countless other forms. He whispered directly into minds, entered dreams, hypnotized victims, and wrapped them in coils whenever they resisted.
Alastair Campbell appeared as though stitched together from countless nightmares. One arm was a monstrous beast. The other constantly reshaped into living flesh. One leg resembled a powerful animal while the other ended in an eagle's talons. Across his torso opened countless blinking eyes. Only half of his face remained human. The other half appeared torn away, exposing skeletal jaws beneath ruined flesh.
Together...
The four became feared as the Demons of Roses Blood.
Their rise marked the beginning of a darker age.
Their ambition remained unchanged.
Destroy the Tories.
Seize the village.
Expand their influence.
Yet not all of Britain had fallen under their shadow.
Not yet.
Several days later...
Deep beneath the Roses Blood headquarters...
The council gathered once more.
While Tony Blair rested beside an enormous underground aquarium alongside his three loyal followers, the remaining members argued over strategy.
John Prescott sighed.
"So... what do we do to stop the Tories demon hunters?"
Robin Cook leaned forward.
"We could send Tony Blair into their headquarters."
Margaret Beckett frowned.
"What if we simply burn their headquarters down?"
Jack Straw scratched his chin.
"I think we should invade their territory first... perhaps their fortress... or even part of London..."
Voices rose louder.
Arguments overlapped.
No agreement emerged.
Then—
"SILENCE!"
The chamber shook.
Every candle extinguished.
The aquarium water rippled violently.
Tony Blair slowly stood.
His countless blue eyes opened across the right side of his face.
His wings spread across the chamber.
The trapped souls inside his chest began whispering together.
"You still do not understand how to defeat the Tories!"
His layered voice echoed through the headquarters.
"Every plan you have proposed... has failed."
"You are all... useless."
No one dared answer.
Even Prescott lowered his head.
Tony Blair walked toward the center of the room.
His shadow stretched unnaturally across the stone floor.
Then his expression softened into a quiet smile.
"I have watched every one of your failures."
"I have something greater."
John Prescott swallowed nervously.
"Y-Yes... sir?"
Blair folded his monstrous wings.
"My followers and I have created something new."
"A new ideology."
The room remained silent.
Slowly...
John Prescott knelt.
"I understand."
One after another, the other members followed.
Soon the entire chamber bowed before Tony Blair and his three loyal followers.
The old leadership had ended.
A new era had begun.
Torches burned brighter as the cultists began chanting ancient prayers.
Their rituals filled the underground halls.
Not to summon a new leader—
But to honor the one who now ruled them all.
The Demon of Roses Blood had risen.