Alma's eyes widened, his breath catching as the weight of Ardath's words finally struck him. The meaning sank in slowly, painfully, as though his mind itself were resisting the conclusion she had placed before him.
He was supposed to believe that he was the Dragon Monarch—the next inheritor of the Dragon Mythical Beast, the figure bound to a title that should not exist so casually upon his shoulders.
It was absurd. Entirely, completely absurd.
For a fleeting moment, he convinced himself that he must have misheard her—that some subtle distortion of sound or meaning had twisted her words into something they were never meant to be.
"What?" he said at last, his voice flat and stripped of anything beyond raw disbelief, as though that single syllable was the only response his mind could still form.
Ardath nodded, calm and unshaken, her expression offering no room for doubt, no chance that this was some misunderstanding.
Alma's face tightened as he stared at her, his brow furrowing while his thoughts tangled into knots. "Are you serious?" he asked after a long, uneasy silence.
"Yes," Ardath replied without hesitation. "You are the Dragon Monarch."
Alma took a step backward, then another, his boots scraping faintly against the surface of the colossal domino beneath him.
"Are you serious?" he repeated, disbelief sharpening his tone. "And I'm supposed to just accept that? Believe it as truth?"
He exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I thought this place was a dreamscape—a reflection of my inner thoughts, my desires, my fears running unchecked. I didn't think it was… this. Not any of this."
Ardath stepped closer.
Without warning, she wrapped herself around him, her arms draping over his shoulders as she pressed her body firmly against his, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made escape feel impossible.
"No," she said softly, yet with absolute certainty. "This is not a dream. This place is Our World. It exists outside of time and space—a separate reality entirely, distinct from all others. It can only be accessed, named, and defined by my partner." Her lips curved faintly. "And you named it the White Void."
"Our world?" Alma muttered, his voice barely audible. "What are you talking about?"
"You are mine," Ardath said, her tone reverent and possessive all at once. "And I am yours. We own one another. We are one. We have always been this way—since the moment you met me at that lake."
She shifted her weight deliberately, guiding him backward until he lost balance and fell onto the surface of the domino beneath them, her form straddling his as she pinned him there—not to coerce him, but to force him to stop, to absorb what she was telling him.
Alma stared upward, unfocused, his gaze fixed on the endless white above. The sky—if it could even be called that—was hollow and empty, devoid of shape, color, or thought. Looking into it was like staring into absolute nothingness, a void that offered no answers and demanded none in return.
"I don't understand," he said quietly. "Why me?"
Ardath shifted closer still, resting her head against his chest as though the question itself had exhausted her. "Because," she whispered, "you are the most powerful being in this world."
His eyes widened again.
Before Alma could speak, Ardath lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.
"I knew the moment I felt you," she said. "Across infinite multiverses, across realities layered upon realities, I knew you were the most powerful existence any of them would ever see." She paused, her expression tinged with genuine wonder. "I still cannot believe the other Mythical Beasts did not claim you first."
Alma stared at her, confusion deepening rather than easing. "You mean… they know what I am?" he asked.
"Yes," Ardath replied softly. "But your power alone is not why I chose you."
She hesitated, then continued, her voice quieter. "There is something about you—something that resonates with me on a fundamental level. Harmony, perhaps, is the closest word."
"So you chose me for my power and my personality?" Alma asked.
She shook her head immediately. "No. Not your personality—your being. Your existence. Your role within creation itself." Her eyes gleamed. "It is something magnificent… and hauntingly terrifying. Something that should not exist—and yet does."
As she spoke, her leg slid against his, her hand slipping beneath his shirt as her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles across his muscular abdomen. Alma caught her wrist and gently but firmly pushed her hand away before standing upright.
"I don't know how I feel about this," he said, unease lacing his voice.
At that moment, golden gears materialized around him—perfectly formed, interlocking in square and circular arrangements as they rotated slowly through the air. The sight did not frighten him. If anything, it felt… familiar.
That realization unsettled him more than their sudden appearance ever could.
Ardath rose to her feet, folding her hands behind her back as she smiled. "There is no one quite like you."
Alma glanced between the spinning gears, his lips parting slightly as confusion and recognition warred within him.
"I have existed longer than the first dinosaur ever walked this planet," Ardath said, raising a finger toward him. "I have seen civilizations rise and crumble, universes ignite and collapse." She lowered her hand slowly. "But none," she continued, "have ever been as magnificent as you—Alma Daedulus Alastor. A true phenomenon, even by my standards."
Above them, an impossibly vast, and massive golden church bell materialized in the distance, suspended in nothingness. Chains wrapped around its clapper, which hung motionless as the bell consumed the entirety of the White Void's sky. The sight was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling.
"Why do you fear?" Ardath asked gently as she stepped closer. "It is of your design, after all."
"Of my design?" Alma echoed. "I never imagined any of this—let alone built it."
Ardath laughed softly. "Not that kind of design, silly," she said, gesturing to the world around them. "This is your internal representation within the White Void. That familiarity you feel—it comes from your consciousness. These things are you. I merely bring them into existence. I change nothing but their accessibility."
The bell suddenly rang.
The sound was slow, heavy, and suffocating—a deep, reverberating toll that scraped along the inside of the soul. The chains rattled violently against the bell's interior, each movement sending waves of dread through the void.
Alma looked back at Ardath, who wore the same knowing, teasing smile.
"What is all of this?" he demanded. "What am I?"
"You," Ardath answered simply.
The bell fell silent.
"As I have said," she continued, "everything here originates from you. You are its beginning. Its existence. You are it."
Two additional dominos appeared beside the one they stood upon, identical in size and form.
"To become a true Dragon Monarch," Ardath said, "the Mythical Beast and the bearer must form a bond—a relationship." She smirked. "And no, we do not need to have intercourse for that."
She straightened as emerald, reptilian wings unfurled from her back.
"The bond we create over time generates a unique energy—separate from Beast Masters and exclusive to any Monarch. It is called Liminal Bonds." She looked at him fully now.
"Flight is merely a passive ability," she added lightly, then came a long pause.
"There's something else you should know," Ardath said, her tone calm but carrying a weight that immediately set Alma on edge. "The Monarchs have already located the Phoenix Monarch—through a connection. A link, if you will."
Alma's brow furrowed, confusion sharpening in his eyes. "A link? Does that mean…?"
"Yes," she replied, her gaze steady and unwavering. "If you continue to hide, time will not be your ally. Eventually, one of the Monarchs will find you." Her words struck him like a cold blade, exposing the truth he had feared most.
"So… will you accept your role as my partner, Alma Daedulus Alastor?"
Alma stood there in silence, his head slightly bowed as a thousand competing thoughts spiraled through his mind at once. Each one reinforcing the same inescapable conclusion—that the Monarchs of the world would be able to locate him in the exact same manner they had found the Phoenix Monarch, not through distance or proximity, but through connection alone, a link that could not be severed by hiding or retreat.
With that realization came another, far more sobering truth, one that settled into him with quiet certainty: discovery was inevitable.
If he chose to withdraw from the world, to slip beyond the Monarchs' awareness and attempt to exist outside their collective sight, the consequences would not be subtle, nor would they be forgiving. Because a power that fled scrutiny would never be trusted, and a nation would not place its faith in someone who ran from responsibility, especially not someone whose strength carried the weight of global consequence.
Alma found himself backed into a position where victory had long since ceased to exist as a real outcome, leaving him only with the burden of choosing which loss he was willing to bear.
For months, he had entertained the thought of revealing himself openly to the world, of standing unmasked as what he truly was and unleashing a power so overwhelming that it dwarfed even the authority of the President of the United States. Yet the sacrifice such an act demanded would always remain distant and abstract, something he could acknowledge in theory without ever fully accepting its reality or understanding the permanent cost it would exact.
How much time remained before they found him, before the choice was torn from his hands?
Had they already sensed him while he existed within the White Void, had his presence already brushed against their awareness without his knowing?
Now, that question no longer mattered, because the moment had arrived regardless, sharpening the abstract into something immediate and unavoidable: he would either reveal himself on his own terms, or be forcibly uncovered for what he was—the most powerful human alive.
Alma slowly lifted his head and turned toward Ardath, meeting her glamorous green eyes without hesitation.
"I accept," he said.
A pleased smile spread across Ardath's face as she began to speak, only to be interrupted before the word could fully leave her lips.
"On one condition," Alma continued, his voice steady and unyielding as his gaze hardened into resolve, "we hide my true strength."
Ardath inclined her head in agreement, neither surprised nor displeased, as though she had foreseen this outcome long before it was spoken aloud. "Very well," she replied calmly. "It is your choice whether or not you reveal the full extent of your power to the world, because your strength, if revealed without restraint, can just as easily bring peace as it can plunge everything into absolute chaos."
Alma did not answer, did not move, and did not look away, remaining exactly where he stood as the weight of her words settled over him.
In a single, silent instant, the massive bell suspended above them vanished, the intricate golden gears spinning endlessly around them dissolved into nothingness, and the three dominos beneath their feet ceased to exist, leaving only Ardath standing within the boundless emptiness of the White Void.
Behind Alma, a jagged fracture tore itself open in the void, a crack spreading outward as though reality itself had finally given way.
"Go forth," Ardath said, extending her arms outward in quiet benediction, "for there is much to be done, not only for the world, but for the bond we share."
Without taking a single step, Alma felt his body being drawn backward, slowly and inexorably pulled toward the widening crack in the White Void.
"I know you will accomplish great things, dear," Ardath said as her form began to fade from sight, her voice lingering even as her presence diminished, "and as you always have, listen to your heart."
With those final words, Ardath disappeared, and the White Void vanished along with her.
---
December 2nd, 2032.
Alma's eyes opened slowly as he stared up at the familiar ceiling of his apartment, his body heavy with lingering fatigue as he pushed himself upright and took in the quiet scene around him, where Jasmine slept beside him clutching her stuffed unicorn tightly to her chest, and Max remained slumped over his desk across the room, the lamp beside him still casting a dim, unwavering light over scattered papers.
Turning his head to the left, Alma saw that the digital clock read just past seven in the morning, prompting him to rub his face with both hands and release a long, weary sigh before rising from the bed and walking into the kitchen to start the coffee machine.
The mundane ritual grounding him more than he expected.
As the pot slowly filled, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the White Void, and he found himself wondering whether what he had experienced had truly been a dream at all, because while dreams often felt real, few left behind such vivid clarity. Every detail from the White Void still remained intact and undiminished even now as he stood waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
If he truly was the Dragon Monarch, then the implications of that truth stretched far beyond himself, reaching into the lives of his children, his friends, and the fragile normalcy he had worked so hard to preserve.
Another sigh escaped him, shorter and sharper this time, as the coffee finished brewing.
After pouring the steaming liquid into a white styrofoam cup, Alma returned to the living room and approached Max's desk with the intention of turning off the lamp, only for his attention to be drawn elsewhere as his eyes drifted across the cluttered surface and caught sight of something unfamiliar.
He hesitated before carefully pulling a folded blueprint from beneath Max's arm, his gaze scanning the page as the design revealed itself—two aluminum casings reinforced with steel bracers, welded together to encase someone's arms, a thick cushion set behind an oversized steel fist, and a smaller jet-like rocket mounted near the elbow on a rigid steel frame.
There was no mistaking it for anything else.
This was a weapon, designed with the explicit intent to harm.
Concern tightened in Alma's chest as he glanced back at Max, remembering how, after what he had seen on the news, Max had gone straight to his desk and worked through the night without pause, leaving Alma to wonder whether this device had been meant for Max himself, or for someone else entirely.
He did not know.
Carefully returning the blueprint to its place, Alma sat down on the couch and leaned his head back against the cushion, releasing another long sigh before lifting the cup and taking a slow sip of coffee.
There was a deadline now, one he could feel pressing in on him despite not knowing when or how it would arrive, forcing him to confront questions he could no longer avoid—whether he could afford to be late, whether acting too early would be just as dangerous, and whether silence, once his shield, had finally become his greatest liability.
Setting the cup down on the coffee table, Alma stood.
He would show the Monarchs, and he would show the President, that the Dragon had returned.
---
The White House, three hours later.
The President of the United States sat behind the Resolute Desk, pen moving in steady, practiced strokes as he signed document after document, notes filling margins, orders stacking beside him, ink staining his fingers. He did not need hindsight to know this day would be the worst of his life.
Beasts of Ruin were manifesting across Maryland without pause, each one more powerful than the last. The most recent encounter—one he had faced personally—had come dangerously close to contesting him. For the first time in years, he had felt the sharp, unwelcome sensation of being tested rather than dominant. And it was no longer contained.
With the constant emergence of Beasts of Ruin, each one the President struck down seemed only to invite another in its place. The more he fought, the more they appeared, as though his efforts themselves fed the cycle. Even Washington—under his direct protection—could only ever be cleansed temporarily, the city never truly free of their return.
Across the country, Beasts of Ruin were appearing in growing numbers. Monarchs were deployed as fast as they could be mobilized, yet they always returned broken—bloodied, exhausted, some barely alive. Critical condition was becoming routine instead of the exception. The balance between humanity and the Beasts was not merely shifting; it was collapsing.
The doors to the Oval Office opened again, revealing Henry for the fifth time that day. Normally he carried thick stacks of executive orders or classified folders. This time, he held only a single orange folder, clenched tightly enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
The President looked up. One glance at Henry's face—ashen, trembling, sweat streaking down his cheek—was enough to make him exhale slowly and rub his hands over his face. The weight of command bore down on him not just as President, but as a Monarch tasked with holding a nation together through sheer force.
Henry stepped forward, his voice unsteady. "Sir…" He swallowed. "The Banshee Monarch is dead."
The words struck like a physical blow. The President froze, his hand rising to cover his mouth as his elbow dug into the desk for support. The room seemed to shrink around him.
"This cannot be…" he murmured, disbelief clouding his vision. Then his voice hardened. "Get me the Secretary of Homeland Security—Albin Johnathan—now."
He slammed his hand against the desk. "And where the hell is Maple?"
Henry flinched. "Right on it, sir—but there's more." He hesitated, then continued. "That creature we encountered months ago? The one whose power rivaled your own? It was here in Maryland an hour ago." He placed the folder on the desk. "It slaughtered roughly five thousand Beasts of Ruin."
The President opened it, and his breath caught.
The image stared back at him, unmistakably human.
"It's… human?" he whispered.
"Based on previous movement data, his speed registers at Mach thirty—possibly even faster." Henry said, fear evident in his voice.
A chill crept down the President's spine. The implications stacked atop one another with suffocating weight: a Monarch dead, the creature that had haunted his thoughts revealed to be human, and now this—speed approaching his own upper limits. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. It was the boy he had met in Henry, yet the realization didn't hit him as hard as it should have.
"From what we know of him, he appears fundamentally peaceful—protective of cities rather than destructive. That much can be confirmed from his actions in Henry, Nebraska, where he intervened solely to save the city and the people trapped inside. If anything, he is passive to an extreme." The President said.
The President leaned back, running his fingers through his air. "Mach thirty…" he repeated quietly, sitting straight up in his chair again. "That isn't evasion. That's purposeful restraint."
Henry stiffened. "S-sir?"
"If he wanted to disappear, to go unnoticed, we would have never found him," the President continued, folding his hands together, "there wouldn't be a sensor on this earth capable of tracking him." He looked up at Henry, his gaze sharp. "Which means this wasn't a mistake."
Henry's throat went dry. "You think he wanted us to notice him?"
"I know he did," the President replied. "He went all this time moving beyond what our devices could track, then one day he randomly reveals himself? He knows what moving like that would bring, the message it sends." He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "He's announcing himself—on his terms, his way."
"You haven't revealed the location of the Phoenix Monarch, have you?" the President asked, his tone sharp.
Henry answered immediately, shaking his head. "No, sir. The only information released to the press is that the United States has located the Phoenix Monarch. We haven't disclosed how that information was obtained, nor have we revealed his whereabouts." His voice was steady, resolute.
The President leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. "Which begs the question," he said quietly, "why would he choose now to reveal himself?"
The doors suddenly burst open as Maple Kali stormed into the room, Henry drawing his gun at her. She didn't even acknowledge the gun being pointed at her, only looking at the President, breathless. "Sir," she said, "the Dragon Monarch has been located."
Silence followed. Henry looked at Maple, putting away his gun, then at the President. The President said nothing, his eyes returning to the photograph.
"It's him," he said quietly, the gears in his head finally spinning.
"Sir?" Maple and Henry asked at the same time.
The President stood and handed Maple the photo. "Do you recognize this boy?"
Her eyes lit with recognition. "Yes, sir. This is the Dragon Monarch. How did you obtain this photograph?"
"It's the photo of the creature Henry was obsessed about. Now I know who this really is. It's him, that's the man I saw in Henry, Nebraska," the President said. "I sensed a Beast of Ruin and was heading toward it when the presence vanished entirely, as though it had never existed. When I arrived, he was there. I asked if he'd seen anything. He said no, so I moved on."
His jaw tightened. "I don't know why the other Monarchs couldn't sense him. I don't know how even I couldn't. But we need his help."
He pulled on black leather gloves. "Are you going to visit him now?" Maple asked.
"Of course," the President replied. "He is the key to ensuring the United States doesn't fall overnight. And with how things are progressing… that outcome feels dangerously close."
He wrapped a scarf around his neck. "I intend to make peace with the Dragon Monarch—if possible—and convince him to join our efforts to stop the surge of Beasts of Ruin." He left the Oval Office, leaving Maple and Henry behind.
---
9:03 AM.
Alma left a note on the coffee table explaining where he was going, telling Jasmine and Max that he would be gone for a while.
He changed into the clothes he had worn on Halloween night and secured the rusted machete at his hip, smiling faintly as the familiar weight settled there. It had been a long time since he'd used it, and whatever skill he once possessed was likely as corroded as the blade itself.
He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the abandoned district below crawling with Beasts of Ruin of every size and distortion. Midair, he twisted and extended both hands, releasing Spear from his left and then his right. He landed, drew the machete, and cleaved through a Beast, only for the blade to pass through harmlessly.
"Oh," he muttered. "Right."
He fired Spear into its face, killing it instantly.
"Well come on, then," he called as the others charged, "you'll all be used to showcase my existence!"
He sidestepped the first strike, vaulted over the next, fired Spear mid-motion, ducked beneath another blow, shot Spear upward through a jaw, and rolled as claws cut nothing but air. A smile surfaced, the memory of his fight with the General flickering through his mind. There had been something joyful in that battle, if not for the consequences it carried.
Alma stopped. He slipped his hands into his pockets and stood still as the Beasts closed in.
"The False Action: Echo."
They were reduced to ash. The Beasts behind them were hurled backward by the shockwave, smashing through concrete and steel.
"It's really a bad time for all of you to be spiritual constructs," Alma said, smiling wide. "Every ability I have works on you. The only question is whether I want to go easy... or have some fun!" He vanished.
"Spear."
Another Beast dropped.
Gale lifted him skyward, and from above he fired Spear after Spear, erasing the Beasts of Ruin on street below in seconds. Silence followed as Alma landed and straightened. He looked around, realizing that nobody was around to witness him.
"This isn't enough," he said quietly. "I need to be somewhere public." He turned toward the city and was gone.
His starting point lay near Forest Haven Asylum, where the neighborhood surrounding the old buildings had long since been abandoned—rows of empty houses standing like hollow shells, windows dark, streets choked with silence. From there, Alma moved outward, threading his way through Clarksburg with methodical inevitability, erasing every Beast of Ruin that infested the town before pressing onward without pause, leaving nothing behind but stillness.
Gaithersburg fell next, then Rockville, each city relieved of its burden in turn. Alma passed through them at hypersonic speeds, yet even within that violence of motion, there was restraint—an unconscious throttling of his velocity, a constant recalibration guided more by instinct than thought. He could feel how easily he might go faster, how simple it would be to let go entirely, and so he didn't. Anyone capable of reacting to his movements would have been struck less by their speed than by their grace, the way he shifted and turned with seamless precision, like a dancer moving on pure instinct, fully immersed in the moment.
When he reached Bethesda, he crossed the distance in a split second—Mach 30, the realization hitting him only after he had already arrived. The speed sent a chill through him. At that velocity, the margin for error vanished completely; the wrong movement, the slightest misjudgment, could turn the air itself into a weapon. He feared not the Beasts of Ruin, who could no longer even perceive him, but the innocent people who might be caught too close, victims not of malice, but proximity. Killing the creatures at this speed brought him no greater ease—it was effortless either way.
He slowed himself deliberately, settling just above hypersonic once more, and began moving through the city with controlled intent, hunting down every Beast of Ruin he encountered. He spun through the air, Spear flashing as three creatures fell in rapid succession, then dipped beneath an incoming strike, destroying the attacker from below before it could recover. A massive Beast of Ruin—nearly half the size of a gas station roof—reared up before him. Alma leapt onto its back, planted his feet, raised both hands, and fired Spear point-blank. The creature collapsed instantly, its enormous form crumpling beneath him.
When it was over, Alma hovered briefly above Bethesda, scanning the streets and rooftops, sensing for any lingering presence. Finding none, he turned away and sprinted toward his next destination.
At last, Washington came into view.
He had planned it this way—starting far out, moving inward deliberately, giving the government ample time to observe, to track his movements, to understand his intentions. He wanted them to see him clearly, not as an unpredictable force of destruction, but as an ally. Or at the very least, not as an existential threat.
He landed in the center of Logan Circle, touching down atop the back of the J
Quincy Logan statue. The reaction was immediate. People screamed. Some fell from benches in panic, scrambling to their feet before fleeing in every direction. As fear rippled outward, several Beasts of Ruin manifested around him. Alma raised his hand and fired Spear, then shifted his aim and fired again, eliminating both before they could move. Within seconds, the distant thrum of rotor blades filled the air—a news helicopter hovering overhead, its camera already trained on him.
More Beasts of Ruin appeared without warning. Some took to the air, others crawled rapidly across the ground, converging on Logan Circle from all directions. Alma aimed upward first, firing Spear again and again in rapid succession, shredding the flying creatures before they could threaten the helicopter. Only then did he turn his attention to the ones below.
One of the Beasts slammed into the statue, shattering it in a single blow and forcing Alma to leap away as stone exploded outward. Two insect-like creatures coiled around nearby trees, crushing the trunks and ripping them from the ground before hurling them toward him with tremendous force.
The trees struck the ground short of their target, embedding themselves deep into the earth. Alma extended both hands and fired Spear simultaneously, piercing the heads of both Beasts of Ruin. They fell lifelessly where they stood.
In fifteen seconds, the thirty-four Beasts of Ruin that had swarmed Logan Circle were dead.
Alma had just finished off the last when he felt it—a sudden presence behind him.
His eyes widened slightly, equal parts shock and intrigue, as he turned to find the President of the United States kneeling on one knee behind him. Alma glanced upward and spotted the hovering helicopter, understanding immediately where the man had come from.
Then the air shifted again.
Two Monarchs appeared beside the President, followed by two more materializing opposite Alma. Behind him, additional Monarchs emerged atop the embedded trees, their arms raised and aimed directly at him.
Alma slowly turned, taking in their positions, his gaze lingering briefly on those perched above him before returning to the President, who now stood upright.
"I would like to have a few kind words with you, son," the President said calmly, not moving an inch.
The Monarchs in the trees tightened their stances.
"Is this how you treat accomplices?" Alma replied, his hands resting loosely at his sides. "Quite rude, don't you think?"
"I apologize," the President said evenly. "It's a precaution—for someone of your power."
"Oh?" Alma said, extending his arms slightly. "All of these Monarchs for little old me? You must have a distorted perception of my abilities. I couldn't dream of fighting the President of the United States plus six Monarchs and coming out on top. That line of thinking would be ludicrous."
The President nodded. "I know where you come from. But you don't yet understand the power you possess—or the risk you pose."
Alma raised an eyebrow. "Care to explain?"
"October thirty-first. Halloween night. Were you or were you not the hooded figure chasing a man in a dark trench coat?" the President asked. "October twelfth—were you not the one who freed Henry, Nebraska from a Beast of Ruin infestation?"
"And what if I say it wasn't me?" Alma replied.
"Don't play dumb," the Cetus Monarch interjected from beside the President. She had dark black hair, pale skin, and wore an oversized black bodysuit that concealed her figure, a single purple stripe running down the center of her torso. "We have solid evidence. Kindly refrain from playing that card."
The President shot her a brief, concerned look before returning his attention to Alma.
"It's true—we have the evidence," he said. "But this isn't an accusation. What you've done is good. You've saved more people in an hour than we can in a day."
He paused, then continued, his voice softer. "The creatures you've been fighting are called Beasts of Ruin. You know they're overpopulated, don't you?"
"What are you suggesting?" Alma asked.
He already knew the answer. It was, after all, the very purpose of the Monarchs surrounding him. Still, he wanted to hear it spoken aloud, to have something concrete to hold onto when the moment came.
The President understood this, too.
"I'm asking you to join the Monarchs," he said. "Help us defend this nation from the overpopulation of Beasts of Ruin."
Alma smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets as he tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. His plan had worked. Perhaps life as a revealed superhuman wouldn't be so terrible after all.
He looked back at the President, his smile gone, his expression firm.
"Will you ensure my privacy?" Alma asked. "My life outside of Monarch status?"
The President nodded—a simple gesture, yet one that carried immense weight.
Alma smiled once more. "Then I see no problem with your offer. I'd be happy to defend this country from any and all Beast of Ruin attacks… President Emmanuel."
The President returned the smile and gestured subtly, signaling the Monarchs in the trees to stand down.
The two most powerful men in the world stepped forward at the same time, their movements measured and deliberate. Each extended a hand, and when they met in the space between them, their grip was firm—not ceremonial, not hesitant, but solid, as though both understood the significance of what was being sealed in that moment.
"Welcome aboard," Emmanuel said.
"It's good to be here, sir," Alma replied.
They shared a brief smile—one born not of triumph, but of mutual recognition. No words were spoken about trust or loyalty, yet something unspoken settled between them all the same. Whatever followed from this point forward, neither man would forget this moment.
High above Logan Circle, the news helicopter continued to hover, its camera fixed on the scene below. Inside, the reporter leaned toward the microphone, his voice filled with barely contained excitement.
"And there you have it, folks," he said. "After two years without a single confirmed sighting, he appears before us here, in our own backyard. The Dragon Monarch has been found—right here, in the Land of Freedom."
---
Jasmine stared down at the note Alma had left behind, her fingers tightening around the paper as the meaning of its contents settled fully into her chest. Without another word, she rushed to the couch, snatched up the remote, and turned on the television. She flipped through channels in frantic succession until the familiar blue and red banner of the news network filled the screen.
She froze.
There he was.
Alma stood in the center of the broadcast, shaking hands with the President of the United States—just as the reporter revealed his identity to the world.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips.
The sound startled Max awake. He bolted upright, disoriented, then followed Jasmine's gaze to the television. He crossed the room slowly, confusion giving way to disbelief as the image registered in his mind.
Their father.
The President.
A handshake broadcast to the entire country.
"Woah…" was all Max managed to say.
He turned to Jasmine, who stood unnaturally still, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly. "Jasmine?" he asked softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Her eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a sharp breath as if she'd been underwater. She looked at Max, then back at the screen.
"It's nothing," she said, though the words sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than him.
Max frowned. In all the time he'd known his sister—which was, of course, just a little more than two weeks—he had never seen her like this. Something about seeing it so plainly, so undeniably, had shaken her in a way he didn't yet understand.
Jasmine reached forward and turned off the television, plunging the room into silence. She placed the remote back on the couch and walked to her bed, sitting down slowly before pulling her stuffed unicorn into her arms and holding it close to her stomach.
Max watched her, unsettled. Seeing their father on the news was one thing. Seeing him shaking hands with the President of the United States was something else entirely—something that didn't simply fade into normalcy.
"Is that it?" Max asked carefully. "That's all you're going to say?"
Jasmine didn't answer. Instead, she absently toyed with the stuffed animal, her eyes fixed on the piece of paper lying on the floor. Max followed her gaze and bent down to pick it up.
As his eyes scanned the contents, his expression changed—confusion giving way to shock, then disbelief.
"Our father is the Dragon Monarch," Jasmine said quietly.
Max looked at her, then back at the note.
"Dear Jasmine and Max," he read aloud. "I can no longer keep what I've seen a secret. A month ago today, I awoke in a gigantic, seemingly infinite world of white—one I've come to call the White Void."
"And there," Max continued, his voice lowering, "I met a woman named Ardath. I believed it to be nothing more than a dream, a product of my imagination, which is why I chose not to tell you. But last night, I dreamed again. Ardath told me who I was… what I was… and what I could become. The Dragon Monarch."
He swallowed and kept reading.
"To keep this already long letter short, I'll summarize my actions. I've gone out to clear nearby towns of Beasts of Ruin, starting far from Washington, in hopes of drawing the attention of the government and the Monarchs. I never intended to hurt either of you by doing this. If I've upset you, I hope you can forgive me. I didn't want to drag my precious children into a life they neither asked for nor deserved."
"If things go well and I meet with the President," Max read on, "I won't mention either of you unless directly asked. The government likely already knows everything about me—possibly even about you."
His voice softened at the end.
"I also left you breakfast in the microwave. It's probably cold by now, so warm it up. And don't forget the metal spoon, either!! Love you—Dad."
Max lowered the note onto the coffee table, his hands unsteady.
"I can't believe it," he said. "Our father… the Dragon Monarch."
"I know," Jasmine replied softly. "I'm still trying to process it." She gestured toward the television. "But it's real. We both saw it. And unless he suddenly gained mind-control powers, everything he wrote is true."
"Even if he did," Max said quickly, "he wouldn't use them. That doesn't sound like him at all."
Jasmine nodded. "Exactly. That's how impossible this would be to fake."
Max hesitated. "Do you think everything will go well?"
Jasmine lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Our father is a highly intelligent man," she said after a moment. "If anyone would think this through from every angle, it's him. He's probably planned every possible outcome—every word, every response."
She paused.
"It all depends on whether the President is willing… and whether some Monarch decides they don't like the hierarchy being restored."
"Restored?" Max asked.
"The Monarchs hold political power in the Senate," Jasmine explained. "Their terms last until death. And without the Dragon Monarch watching over them, they've had far more freedom than they should."
She turned her head toward him.
"The President is powerful—third most at that, but his strength, is over all prowess, doesn't come close to the Dragon Monarch's. There's a reason why the Dragon Monarch has always been ranked the strongest even above the Phoenix and Chimera Monarchs."
The realization finally settled fully in Max's mind.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "The United States just witnessed the return of the unquantifiable strongest."
---
Thirty minutes later.
"I would like to personally thank you for coming here today," the President said, his voice measured and formal as it carried through the Oval Office, the low crackle of the fireplace filling the brief silence that followed.
"It's an honor to sit in this room with you, sir," Alma replied, inclining his head slightly. "And to be welcomed into the White House."
He sat beside the President, both of them positioned in front of the softly roaring fireplace, its warmth casting long, flickering shadows across the polished floor. Facing them were two couches arranged in deliberate symmetry. On one sat Emmanuel, while opposite him were the Vice President, Cordell Brodie, the Secretary of Defense, Maple Kali seated rigidly at his side, and the Secretary of State, Luther Carson, her posture attentive and pen already poised.
Across from Alma and the assembled officials sat three Monarchs, their presence immediately commanding the room, with the remaining three standing behind them like silent sentinels.
Closest to Alma sat the Cetus Monarch, Montana Bristol, her posture composed and unreadable. Beside her was the Centaur Monarch, Weston Cooper, dressed in a crisp business suit that contrasted sharply with the unsettling anonymity of the white potato sack covering his head—featureless, without even eye holes—paired with black shoes and gloves that gave him an almost ceremonial stillness. Next to him sat the Hydra Monarch, Tanner Ormond, clad in a pitch-black trench coat whose four additional sewn on sleeves hung beneath the normal two, while the tail of the coat split into twelve thin, segmented flaps that brushed against his black shoes like dormant limbs.
Standing behind him was the Leviathan Monarch, her attire striking and severe—black-and-white striped leggings beneath a thin black skirt, a high black turtleneck pulled unnervingly high to hook just beneath her nose, and tall black boots that subtly elevated her already imposing height.
Behind the Centaur Monarch stood the Cerberus Monarch, dressed almost casually by comparison—a dark green V-neck shirt beneath a white jacket, blue jeans, and red sneakers laced in white. Around his neck rested a red, spiked collar reminiscent of something animal, something restrained rather than ornamental.
And behind the Cetus Monarch stood the Dryad Monarch, her appearance blending the organic and the human. A dark green sweater clung to her frame, while thick, tangled roots—dark and ancient in appearance—coiled tightly around her left arm. Equally dense green vines wrapped around her right leg, winding over her brown pants and into the open-toe high heels she wore, the roots and vines gripping the heel breast as though refusing to let go.
Behind the couches, nearly filling the remainder of the room, stood a dense cluster of media stations—boom arms, high-quality cameras, and microphones angled forward with predatory precision, every lens trained on the moment unfolding before them.
"I feel the same way," the President said at last, offering a practiced smile before gesturing toward the sea of equipment behind them. "I hope you don't mind our guests—the news people, that is."
Alma raised a hand slightly and shook his head. "No, not at all," he said evenly. "I take it the Monarchs and government officials are here for a reason?"
"Yes, that would be correct," the President replied, turning slightly and gesturing toward the Secretary of State. "This is Luther Carson, the Secretary of State. She's here to document anything that transpires."
"Then you have Maple Kali, the Secretary of Defense—she's here to—"
"Now, onto bigger matters," the President interrupted smoothly, redirecting his attention back to Alma. "Your position as the Dragon Monarch."
The words settled heavily in the air.
"There is an office you will be escorted to," the President continued, "traveling in The Beast alongside myself, the other Monarchs, and several police and military brigades. Once there, you will be sworn into duty and publicly accept your role as the new Dragon Monarch."
He paused briefly before continuing. "But before we reach that point, I'd like to ask you a few questions—so the public may get to know you, and perhaps be a little less afraid than they already are."
Alma nodded, offering a polite smile. "Understood. That sounds fair. I'd like them to know I'm not someone they need to fear."
"What are your ideas for the future?" the President asked without hesitation. "Will you aid in the eradication of the Beasts of Ruin, or will you assist in their growth?"
The bluntness of the question caught Alma off guard. He had expected something softer, something gradual—but instead, the President had gone straight for the heart of the matter.
"I will help not only in killing the Beasts of Ruin," Alma said after a moment, his voice steady, "but in defending the American people from them. So long as I am alive, no life will be taken, and no life will be threatened."
He drew a quiet breath before continuing. "I will ensure the safety of this nation and see that every one of its inhabitants can thrive without fear of these lurking creatures."
The President nodded, visibly pleased.
"Next question," he said. "As the soon-to-be-instated Dragon Monarch, what are your goals for the coming year, and how do you intend to achieve them?"
"At present, I have only one goal," Alma replied. "To eradicate the Beasts of Ruin from this country. But rest assured—I am not limited to a single line of thinking. I will ensure there is no collateral damage, that taxpayer money is not wasted repairing buildings that should never have been touched, or replacing lives that should never have been endangered."
He paused, then added, "How I will achieve this is… specific. For now, all I can say is that you should look forward to it."
The President nodded once more.
"Final question," he said. "Who are you?"
Alma froze.
The confidence he'd worn until now slipped, if only slightly. This should have been easy—a name, a background, something simple. Instead, the words caught in his throat.
"M-my name is Alma Daedulus Alastor," he said, the faintest stutter betraying him. "I'm nineteen years old."
The President noticed—but chose not to comment.
"Very well," he said. "You will now be inaugurated at the Monarch Approval Building, two blocks away, as Secretary of Monarch Supervision."
"Sounds fantastic," Alma replied, standing as the President did. "Lead the way, sir."
The Monarchs, officials, and press followed them outside, where armored Beast vehicles awaited. The Monarchs boarded one, the officials another—each equally fortified.
Alma sat beside the President, the Cetus Monarch seated to his other side, while the remaining Monarchs lined the seats across from them, some relaxed, others rigid.
Moments later, the convoy was in motion.
Ten minutes passed before they arrived.
The Monarch Approval Building rose tall and white before them, a red carpet unfurled up its gray concrete steps. Inside, pristine marble floors reflected the extravagant ceiling above, golden chandeliers hanging like captured suns.
At the far end of the hall stood a pedestal atop deep red carpet, upon which rested a single Holy Bible.
As the press filed in and the cameras turned toward him, a priest approached, lifting the Bible with reverence and stepping beside Alma.
The book was held out.
Alma raised one hand to touch it, the other resting over his heart.
No music played as the crowd gathered—only the low, restless murmur of hundreds of voices pressed together beneath the vaulted marble ceiling. The sound carried strangely in the vast chamber, echoing softly against polished stone as cameras lined every conceivable angle, their lenses unblinking and patient. Government officials stood arranged along the marble pedestal in careful symmetry, each spaced with deliberate precision. Behind them, the Monarchs mirrored that formation exactly, their posture identical, their distance measured to the inch, while politicians clustered closer to the entrance, lingering just beyond the reach of the camera crews as if unwilling to step too far into the gravity of the moment.
The presence of the Monarchs saturated the room, thick and inescapable, like a pressure that settled into the lungs rather than the air. It was a presence that demanded respect without ever asking for it, an unspoken reminder of what stood within those walls. These were not merely officials or protectors—they were among the most powerful individuals in human history, beings whose existence alone could topple nations in more ways than one.
At precisely noon, the murmuring ceased.
The President of the United States stepped forward, and the sound of his shoes against stone carried farther than it reasonably should have, each step echoing with a clarity that sharpened the silence rather than breaking it. He did not smile. This was not a day for triumph or spectacle. It was a day for acknowledgment.
Behind him, a single space remained empty.
The absence was deliberate.
"Today," the President began, his voice steady and stripped of ornamentation, "marks the end of an era defined by uncertainty, unsafety, and unrest. It also marks the beginning of an era defined by responsibility—by protection—and by an equal measure of unrest that will now fall upon a single pair of shoulders."
He paused, allowing the words to settle, allowing the weight of them to press into every corner of the chamber.
"For two years," he continued, "the world has endured the consequences of a tragic vacancy that should never have existed. A role central to the balance between humanity and the forces that threaten it stood unfulfilled."
The cameras did not cut away. No one dared look elsewhere. Every eye remained fixed on the President.
"The Dragon Monarch," he said, his voice firm, "is not a symbol of authority. It is not a reward, nor a throne, nor a crown, nor a title granted by governments or nations. It is a burden—one that exists to ensure that no single power, including my own, stands unchecked, unrivaled, or weaponized against the citizens of this country."
A subtle ripple passed through the gathered Monarchs at that, barely visible yet unmistakable to those who understood its significance.
"Today," the President said, turning slightly, "that burden has been taken up once more."
Alma stepped forward.
He wore no ceremonial attire—no armor, no insignia meant to signify status or command. Only a dark coat against the winter cold, blue jeans, and black boots chosen more for familiarity than appearance. His posture was straight, his expression composed, neither proud nor fearful, but resolute in a way that suggested he understood precisely what stood before him.
As he reached the empty space beside the President, something subtle shifted.
Those closest to the pedestal—the Monarchs—felt it first. A pressure without force. A presence that did not seek dominance, yet excelled in commanding it. It made no attempt to assert itself, and yet it demanded acknowledgment simply by existing.
The President gestured toward him.
"This man," he said, "has been chosen by the Dragon Mythical Beast to assume the role of Dragon Monarch. Not because he sought it. Not because he demanded it. But because he was deemed capable of carrying what others could not."
Alma did not look out at the crowd. His gaze remained forward, steady and unwavering.
"Let it be known," the President continued, "that the Dragon Monarch stands above political allegiance, beyond national borders, and outside the reach of any singular government—including this one. His duty is not obedience. It is balance."
A pause followed—long enough for the cameras to still, for flashes to cease, for the assembled crowd to collectively hold its breath as the President weighed his next words.
"And his power," he said carefully, "is not measured in destruction—but in restraint."
The murmuring did not return. The silence held firm, dense and absolute.
The President turned fully toward Alma. "Do you accept this role, with full knowledge of what it demands and what it will cost?"
Alma exhaled slowly before answering.
"I do," he said.
His voice carried—not because he raised it, but because nothing dared compete with it.
"Do you accept the responsibility of intervening when others cannot," the President continued, "and refraining when intervention would bring greater harm?"
"I do."
"Do you accept that this title does not grant you freedom," the President said, "but binds you to the consequences of your choices—seen and unseen?"
Alma's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I do."
The President nodded once.
"Then by the authority vested not in this office," he said, stepping aside, "but in the world that requires you—not only by those gathered here today, but by the world entire—I formally recognize Alma Daedulus Alastor as the Dragon Monarch."
There was no applause.
Instead, something far more telling occurred.
One by one, the Monarchs present lowered their heads—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. It was a gesture of respect, reserved only for one willing to bear a role so heavy it reshaped the world simply by existing.
Cameras captured the moment the realization spread: not that the world had gained a weapon, nor a savior—but that it had regained a ceiling, a limit to how far power could rise without consequence.
Alma finally turned toward the crowd.
"I will not promise safety," he said. "I will not promise peace. And I will not promise victory."
The honesty of it cut deeper than any oath.
"What I promise," he continued, "is that no threat will go unanswered, no abuse of power will go unseen, and no life will be treated as expendable—no matter how small, insignificant, large, or blindingly obnoxious, and no matter how inconvenient. What I promise... is the solving of the root."
He paused, his gaze sweeping slowly across the sea of faces.
"I did not choose this role," Alma said. "But I will not run from it. I will set a bar so high it will seem impossible to match. I will be the example by which future Dragon Monarchs are judged—and the standard they are expected to meet."
Outside, the wind stirred, striking against the building as if to underscore his words.
On the pedestal—unseen by cameras, yet felt by every Monarch and every soul present—something vast shifted. Ancient. Watchful. Satisfied.
The Dragon Monarch had been inaugurated.
And for the first time in years, the world knew where its upper limit stood—and what surpassing truly meant.
---
After the inauguration, Monarchs, government officials, and camera crews slowly filed out of the Monarch Approval Building, their voices subdued, their expressions unsettled. Alma remained behind, leaving only after the chamber had nearly emptied.
In the end, only two figures remained.
The President. And the Vice President.
"Sir," Cordell said at last, breaking the silence, "are you certain this was the right decision?"
The President turned fully toward him and nodded once. "If you fear retaliation—or betrayal—rest assured. The Dragon Mythical Beast does not accept sour hearts."
Cordell hesitated, then asked quietly, "Then why do I have the suspicion we've just made a mistake?"
"It is not us making the decision," the President said quietly. "The Dragon Mythical Beast is."
He paused, the weight of that truth settling between them. "And if it were making a mistake, there would be no way to know—no metric, no warning—only superstition and hindsight."
After a moment, he continued, his voice steadier now. "I believe that with the Dragon Monarch returned, this country—and the world—will finally see the peace it has so desperately tried to achieve."
He turned toward Cordell then, a faint smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "What was it the Fortieth—and the Forty-Seventh—President once said? Peace through strength."
The smile widened slightly. "With the Dragon Monarch in place, that idea has become far more than rhetoric. It has become… realistic."
Cordell met his gaze, uncertainty lingering in his expression.
"I hope you're right," he said quietly. "Because if you're not—God help us all."
---
December 2nd — 12:30 P.M.
Alma arrived at his apartment without using the front door.
He slipped in through the window instead, landing lightly as if gravity itself had chosen not to announce his return. On the way there, his thoughts had drifted unbidden—toward the new perspectives Roseanne and Jody would inevitably carry now, and away from the far more difficult reality he was actively avoiding.
He did not want to think about how his children might react.
It was a confrontation he had no desire to face, yet one he knew could not be postponed forever. If he could not even face his own children, then the people of the world would surely walk over him without hesitation.
He settled briefly on the fire escape outside the apartment window, his gaze sliding through the glass into the living room. It was empty. Jasmine and Max were gone. His attention shifted toward the kitchen just in time to see them placing the breakfast he had prepared earlier into the microwave.
He smirked faintly at the sight—how late it was, and how they were only now fixing breakfast.
Though a quieter, heavier thought lingered beneath the humor.
They were late because of him.
The window opened with a soft creak, and Alma climbed inside, closing it carefully behind him. The latch clicked—barely audible.
Jasmine heard it anyway.
Her eyes snapped toward him instantly. Alma offered a sheepish smile.
"Surprise…?" he said.
The microwave beeped, signaling that the food was ready.
"If you think we're upset—or feeling down," Jasmine said as she removed the container, "then you've got it wrong."
Alma blinked, confusion crossing his face.
"We read your letter," Max said, glancing over from the counter. "And the only thing we don't like about it is how sudden everything was." He paused, then continued more carefully. "It read like this was something planned months in advance—something thought through, considered, weighed."
"We want to know," Jasmine added, meeting Alma's eyes, "if what you wrote was truly the truth—or if it was meant to soften the blow."
"It wasn't planned," Alma said immediately. "It wasn't foreseen. And it wasn't conceived for longer than an hour."
He swallowed. "Everything happened today. That is the truth."
"Then why didn't you wake us up?" Jasmine asked, frustration slipping through her voice. "Why didn't you tell us beforehand? You could have done that instead of leaving a note and having us learn about something so important through the news." Her voice trembled. "We didn't even find out before the world did. We found out with them."
"I was told that at any moment," Alma said quietly, "even while asleep, I could have been found by another Monarch."
He exhaled slowly. "I was afraid that if I lingered longer than necessary, it would put you both in danger. I didn't want to drag you into something I believed I could prevent."
"But that doesn't change the fact that you didn't tell us first," Jasmine said. "If it were anything smaller—an earlier shift at Jody's shop, or going out shopping—that would be one thing. But discovering that your father is the Dragon Monarch isn't something that can be brushed aside like that."
"I know," Alma said. "I knew the moment I woke up that this would be my decision." He hesitated. "I'm not trying to excuse myself in any way. What I did was inconsiderate. But please understand—it was meant to protect you."
Jasmine let out a long sigh as Max portioned out his breakfast into a disposable bowl.
"I know," she said softly. "I'm sorry for my outburst."
She paused. "I just… I felt entitled to knowing first. We felt like we should have been part of the decision—your consultants." She shook her head. "I didn't stop to think about what you were feeling, or the situation you were trapped in. I'm sorry."
Alma shook his head gently. "Don't be. It's understandable."
He smiled faintly. "I just wish I'd had more options on the table—and more time to think everything through."
Then he placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"But," he said, "everything worked out in the end. Right?"
"Yeah," Jasmine said slowly. "I guess it did."
She hesitated. "But I have one more question."
Alma tilted his head.
"What are we going to do now?" she asked. "Or—let me rephrase that—what are you going to do now? Jody and Roseanne probably won't see us anymore. And the limited time we already had with you will only shrink now that you're the Dragon Monarch."
"It'll be okay," Alma said, gently patting her head. "I'll make my time with you two my top priority."
"I believe that," Jasmine said, looking up at him. "But do you?"
"Of course," Alma replied without hesitation. "My words come from my heart. And if my heart were filled with hollow promises, then I wouldn't be who I am today."
Max looked up from the table. "Hey—aren't you gonna eat?" he asked Jasmine. "Your food's probably cold by now."
Jasmine sighed and grabbed her bowl and a plastic fork before joining him. "You said you wouldn't eat without me."
"You're in the same room," Max said with a sly grin. "That counts."
She rolled her eyes as she sat down beside him. "Did you even say grace?"
"Hey," Max said, taking another bite, "God knows I'm thankful. He can see what's in my heart, right? No need to overexplain."
"That's not what I meant," Jasmine said, pouting.
"Then what did you mean?" Max said, one eye wider than the other.
Alma exhaled softly, watching them bicker as the tension finally began to fade. "Oh boy," he muttered, "it's going to be a long day."