December 3rd, 2032
Alma woke at precisely five in the morning, his eyes opening without resistance or confusion, his body already attuned to the schedule he had forced upon himself the night before when he chose—rarely and deliberately—to sleep early, fully aware that the day ahead would demand not only his full attention, but the sustained, relentless expenditure of his power for hours on end without pause or mercy.
Both the government's plan and his own were already set in stone, having been discussed, revised, and reaffirmed until there was no ambiguity left to resolve: the Beasts of Ruin were to be exterminated in a sweeping, methodical campaign that would begin in the northeastern corner of the United States, press upward through Maine, then descend all the way down the eastern seaboard to Florida before cutting across the continent toward California, ultimately concluding in Washington State, leaving no region untouched and no creature unaccounted for.
There would be no delays.
No room for hesitation.
After preparing himself, Alma spoke directly with the President and several other high-ranking government officials, exchanging confirmations rather than questions, understanding that at this point the conversation was no longer about whether this could be done, but how quickly the impossible would be made routine, and once that was finished, he departed without ceremony, already moving before the echoes of those final words had time to fade.
Across the country, Monarchs were deployed simultaneously, each sent to a different state to handle the lesser, yet still catastrophic, threats—creatures that could annihilate cities if left unchecked, but which, from the government's perspective, represented inefficiencies if he were to divert his attention from the far greater dangers that required his presence.
Even so, Alma knew the cost of prioritization.
Any Beast of Ruin left alive, regardless of classification, still represented suffering, death, and irreversible loss, and while logic dictated that anything below an EF5 threat was an unacceptable use of his limited time, morality argued otherwise, whispering that a few hours lost might save twice as many lives, and that was a trade he was willing—perhaps obligated—to make.
He began in New York.
Every Beast of Ruin, across every threat category, was hunted down and destroyed across the entirety of the state's surface, after which he moved seamlessly into Connecticut, then Massachusetts, then Vermont, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and finally Maine, the progression so continuous that the borders between states blurred into irrelevance, until, by mid-day—after nearly eight uninterrupted hours—the entire northeastern corner of the United States had been rendered silent of their presence.
From there, his path carried him through Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Virginia, though he was careful—deliberate—to avoid North Carolina entirely, choosing instead to leave it untouched until the very end, as though postponing a final obligation that demanded a different kind of resolve.
South Carolina, however, received no such mercy.
Alma entered the state from the northeast, beginning in Westminster, and from there he swept across it in a broad, unbroken motion, flying through every city and town, locating and destroying each Beast of Ruin he encountered, all the while fully aware of the fundamental futility underlying his actions.
In the immediate sense, what he was doing mattered—it saved lives, stabilized regions, reduced the uncontrollable proliferation of these creatures to something finite, something that could be managed—but in the long term, he understood all too well that people would continue to die with regret in their hearts, and those regrets would continue to give rise to Beasts of Ruin, because as long as humanity existed, so too would the conditions that birthed them, a curse intrinsic to living that could never be eradicated, only delayed.
Still, even with that knowledge weighing heavily on him, Alma pressed forward, because there were lives that could still be saved now, and destruction—far beyond collapsed buildings and ruined infrastructure—that could still be prevented altogether, and that was enough to push him onward without slowing.
South Carolina fell with ease.
Tennessee followed shortly after, Alma clearing every city at speeds that defied perception, his movement so fast it barely registered as motion at all, until the state, like those before it, was left free of Beasts of Ruin.
Back at the White House, the President and other officials watched in stunned silence as Alma's tracker mapped his progress in real time, each new data point further collapsing what had once been projected as a fifty-year endeavor into something that would scarcely last more than a couple of days, his power transforming the impossible into the inevitable.
Georgia came next.
After clearing the first few cities, Alma came to an abrupt halt in Atlanta, hovering above the city as realization set in—not gradually, but all at once—that there were no Beasts of Ruin anywhere to be found.
The city moved as though untouched.
People went about their lives unbothered, unaware of the devastation consuming the rest of the country, and the normalcy of it all struck Alma with a quiet, disorienting force.
Then, without warning, a sword—medieval in design and radiant as though forged from the sun itself—shot toward him through the air, only to be intercepted by Shield, which manifested instinctively around him and shattered the weapon on impact, the fragments dissolving into nothing before they could reach the ground.
Canceling the barrier, Alma scanned the crowd below, Evil Eyes activating as his gaze swept across every individual present, scrutinizing heartbeats, expressions, and distortions of presence, yet finding nothing—no anomalies, no deviations, no hint of an attacker.
Confusion set in.
Was the strike launched from a distance?
Preplanned?
Concealed beyond even his perception?
He activated Eyes of Despair, scanning again, more deeply, more forcefully—still nothing.
Resting one hand in his pocket, Alma considered leaving, but abandoning such an anomaly felt less like caution and more like willful ignorance, especially after an attack with no identifiable source.
Then the explosion came.
Violent, deafening, and close enough to rattle the air around him, it snapped his attention instantly toward a nearby mall erupting into flames, from which three hooded figures ran inside without hesitation.
His eyes widened.
"Are they… people?" he muttered.
He followed them into the building, catching a fleeting glimpse of one disappearing around a corner, reaching out in an attempt to intercept them—only to grasp empty air.
"Shoot."
Standing alone in the vast, burning interior, Alma realized the truth with a sinking certainty.
They were gone.
---
Washington, D.C.—1:44 PM
"Are you serious?" Jasmine asked, her voice sharp with disbelief as she turned toward Max, who answered her not with words at first, but with a single, deliberate nod that carried far more certainty than hesitation.
"We need this, Jasmine," Max said, his tone unwavering as he stood at his desk, a screwdriver clenched in one hand and a small screw pinched between the fingers of the other, his attention split between the device in front of him and the argument he knew was coming. "The world does."
Jasmine exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting back to the blueprints spread across his desk, studying them as though the longer she stared, the more dangerous they became, tracing the outline of a device with a long, reinforced handle that rose into a stoplight-shaped apparatus at the top, its proportions deliberate, its presence imposing, housing a circular screen that glowed an unbroken green like a radar frozen mid-sweep, while a thick black wire extended from its base, trailing downward to connect with a pair of virtual reality goggles whose display was active yet disturbingly empty.
"You're all over the place," she said at last, frustration creeping into her voice as she gestured toward the schematics. "Dad told you to be careful with your projects, and yet here you are, creating one of the most dangerous things you've ever worked on."
"I know exactly what our dad said," Max replied without looking up, twisting the screwdriver with careful precision as though grounding himself through the motion. "And I would never dismiss his orders. But this isn't for me—this is for the world."
"That doesn't change the severity of what you're doing," Jasmine shot back, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What was it you called this again? The Illuminate Detection System?" She hesitated, the implication of the name settling in as she spoke it aloud. "The government only just figured out how to see Beasts of Ruin at all, and even that system isn't perfected. What you're making here is—" She stopped mid-sentence, the realization dawning on her so suddenly that it stole the rest of her words.
"Seeing into everything," Max said quietly, as if completing the thought she was no longer willing to voice.
"I wasn't going to say that," Jasmine replied, though the denial rang hollow. "Do you even realize the spotlight you'll be putting on yourself? Everything Dad built—every safeguard, every contingency designed to keep us protected—will fall apart the moment this goes public."
At that, Max finally set the screwdriver down.
He turned to face her fully, his expression devoid of doubt, anxiety, or fear, his gaze steady in a way that left no room for second-guessing, as though he had already accepted every consequence long before she had spoken them aloud.
"I do," he said. "I know exactly what I'm doing, the risks involved, the danger it brings, and the fact that it could dismantle everything Dad worked so carefully to build—but it has to happen. Either I do this, or someone else will. Eventually, it becomes inevitable, and just like Dad, I want it to happen on my terms. My rules. My way. If I don't choose it now, then it was never my choice to begin with."
Jasmine stared at him for several long seconds, stunned not by the words themselves, but by the absolute conviction behind them, realizing with a sinking certainty that there was nothing she could say that would stop him. Confidence, however, did not guarantee safety—or a happy ending—and in that moment, she found herself wishing Alma were there, if only to guide Max through dangers he might not yet see.
"Well," she said at last, breaking the silence, "if you're sure, then I won't stand in your way." Her eyes hardened as she met his gaze. "But understand this—if the consequences of what you're doing hurt our father in any way, I swear to the Lord above, you won't live to see the day after."
Max nodded, unflinching beneath the weight of her words. "I'd expect nothing less," he replied calmly. "Anything else would mean I failed."
Jasmine nodded in return, accepting the unspoken agreement between them, knowing that even if Max had hesitated, even if fear had crept into his resolve, she would still act without hesitation herself, because her love for Alma outweighed everything else.
Max turned back to his desk, resuming his work as silence settled between them once more. Jasmine relaxed slightly, leaning against the wall beside him with her arms crossed, watching him in quiet contemplation.
"So," she asked after a while, "how long until it's finished?"
"One more day," Max answered. "At most." He paused, then added, "What Dad said yesterday really stuck with me—about whether weapons are what I should be known for."
Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "That's what you wanted? To be a weapons dealer?"
"No," Max said quickly. "I wanted to create weapons that were powerful and beautiful—things that had never existed before, things that would fascinate people." He fell silent for a moment before continuing, his tone darker now. "But people twist things. They turn even good intentions into something terrifying. Even weapons made to defeat Beasts of Ruin can be abused. A weapon is still a weapon, no matter why it was made."
He slid another blueprint toward her—the one Alma had explicitly warned him not to complete.
"I scrapped this," he said. "Used the steel beam for this device instead. If weapons can be repurposed for harm, then I'll make something that can't—something that opens possibilities without violence." He hesitated, then added dryly, "Well, unless someone tries to beat someone over the head with it."
Jasmine frowned. "See? You're still all over the place. I can't tell what you want to be—a peacemaker, or just an engineer with too much time."
Max met her eyes. "Someone who brought change."
Her eyes widened slightly, then she smirked. "You're just like him."
Max smiled at Jasmine, "That's why we're family," he replied softly.
Jasmine smiled, then turned away, walking over and settling onto the couch. As she leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes, a familiar unease crept in—because the world didn't know they existed, and Alma had ensured that attention remained fixed solely on him. But another breakthrough like this would change that, forcing eyes onto Max, then onto her, unraveling secrets that had been carefully buried.
And when that happened, she knew the truth about her family—about where she came from—would no longer stay hidden.
Eventually, she would have to tell them both.
---
Denver, Colorado—4:02 PM.
"Do you think we'll find one?" Weston Cooper, the Centaur Monarch, asked quietly, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity that didn't quite mask the tension beneath it.
Beside him, Amelia Spring, the Dryad Monarch, turned her head slightly, the dry leaves and vines that formed her attire shifting with the movement. "Find one?" she repeated, her tone cautious. "What exactly are you asking?"
Weston tilted his head, as though listening not to her, but to the open air above them. "An EF5 Beast of Ruin," he clarified after a moment. "Do you think we'll actually encounter one out here?"
Amelia stopped walking.
She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and unease, the kind that surfaced only when death became more than a distant abstraction. "Not if you value your life," she said firmly. "We're only meant to cover a handful of states. That's it. If we encounter even an EF4, we retreat immediately—no hesitation, no heroics."
Weston nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the rule without argument, and then slowly lifted his face toward the sky, the vastness above them stretching endlessly, unseen but undeniably present. "I wonder," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "if the sky is anything like me."
Amelia frowned slightly. "What?"
"It's always there," Weston continued, his voice thoughtful now, distant. "Above everything. Watching over us, or at least appearing to. But can it see us? Can it feel us? Does it even know that it… exists?"
Amelia hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Probably not," she said at last. "The sky can't see, and it can't feel. It doesn't know itself, or us. It exists so others can look up at it—so others can acknowledge it—but it can never return that awareness. It can't reflect anything back."
Weston was silent for a moment. "Then does that make it empty?" he asked softly. "Hollow on the inside, with everything meaningful happening outside of it?"
"No," Amelia said, turning toward him fully now. "What makes the sky what it is isn't what it can perceive—it's the fact that it's always there. It's constant. Reliable." She paused, then added gently, "And if you think that being unable to see makes you like the sky—distant, unfeeling, incapable—you're wrong."
She smiled at him, warmth softening her expression. "You are everything the sky could never be. You are present. You feel. You understand. You're extraordinary without being hollow."
Weston smiled in response, though she couldn't see it.
Those were the words he had needed for a long time.
He had never asked outright why he had been chosen—why, out of everyone, the mantle of Centaur Monarch had fallen to him. Instead, he circled the question endlessly, hinting at it, brushing against it, never daring to voice the fear beneath. This was just another one of those moments—another quiet confession disguised as philosophy.
Weston Cooper, the Centaur Monarch, was blind.
He could not see the world he was sworn to protect, and the loss of that once-beautiful sense he had since birth, which had been stripped from him upon ascending to his role, had been a terrible sacrifice that nearly broke him. Even now, traces of that fear lingered, faint but persistent, like a shadow he could never quite outrun.
And yet, despite everything, Weston never questioned the role itself.
Slowly, painfully, he had grown into it—not because the fear vanished, but because he learned to carry it, and in doing so, became something far greater than sight ever made him.
Weston and Amelia continued their measured walk through the streets of Denver, their presence almost indistinguishable from the city itself as they moved between buildings and intersections with practiced ease. Their assignment was simple in structure, if not in danger: patrol the city for several hours, eliminate any Beasts of Ruin that revealed themselves, then move on to the next location without lingering longer than necessary. Amelia extended her awareness downward, listening for disturbances through the earth beneath her feet, while Weston remained attuned to the subtle language of vibration and motion that traveled through the streets and structures around them—yet neither sensed anything out of place. The city, for the moment, was quiet.
Too quiet.
Just as they began to shift their attention toward departing for the next city, a presence surged outward from across town, abrupt and unmistakable, striking both of them at once like a pressure wave rather than a sound. The ground beneath Amelia's feet split open without warning, the earth obeying an unfamiliar command as it swallowed her whole in a single, fluid motion, sealing itself behind her as though she had never been there. In the same instant, Weston reacted, his body already in motion before conscious thought could catch up, dashing forward with explosive speed.
He tore through alleyways and streets, vaulted rooftops and cleared intersections in a blur of motion, guided not by sight but by the pull of the disturbance itself, until he came to a sudden stop before a large building near the heart of the city. The ground nearby rippled, then parted once more as Amelia rose from it, the pavement knitting itself seamlessly back together beneath her. Ahead of them, clustered around a street food stand as if drawn there deliberately, stood several Beasts of Ruin.
A bow of translucent, light-blue energy materialized in Weston's hand, its form clean and elegant despite its ethereal nature. With his right hand, he drew back the string, and as he did, three arrows of the same faintly glowing translucence coalesced into existence. He released.
The arrows tore forward in near silence, piercing through three Beasts of Ruin in a single, decisive motion, dropping them instantly. Without losing momentum, the arrows curved sharply through the air, looping back as though guided by intent rather than physics, and struck a second cluster, skewering them just as cleanly before fading from existence.
Amelia slammed her foot into the ground.
In response, thick, bark-covered roots burst violently through the asphalt, tearing through the road as if it were soft soil rather than reinforced pavement. They coiled around another group of Beasts of Ruin, wrapping tightly, constricting with slow, merciless force. Amelia clenched her right hand, and the roots responded, crushing inward until the creatures were reduced to nothing beneath the pressure. Even after their targets were destroyed, the roots remained, swaying gently above the broken road like living sentinels, poised and waiting.
The moment the thought crossed Amelia's mind—that it might be over—another presence flared.
A new group of Beasts of Ruin appeared behind them and to the left, so sudden that there was no warning at all, no buildup, no detectable distortion. Amelia turned, already reacting, but they were dangerously close.
Weston had already fired.
Without turning his head or shifting his stance, the Centaur Monarch drew back his bowstring once more, arrows forming instinctively as he released them in a single fluid motion. The arrows struck true, piercing through every one of the newly arrived Beasts, then rebounding again to tear through three more before vanishing, leaving nothing but stillness behind.
The roots Amelia had summoned sank back into the earth, the road repairing itself as if the battle had never occurred. She exhaled slowly, then reached out to pat Weston's shoulder.
"Thank you for that," she said, genuine relief in her voice. "They really came out of nowhere."
"Yes," Weston replied, his expression unreadable beneath the sack that concealed his face. "They appeared behind us without warning. Even I couldn't detect them before they were upon us." A brief pause followed. "Almost as if they teleported."
"Well," a voice said from above them, smooth and amused, "you could say that."
Both Monarchs stiffened instantly.
A woman clad in a black hoodie dropped down from above, landing in a crouch before them, the impact controlled and deliberate. Even in that low position, her height was unmistakable. A second woman followed, landing beside her with equal precision, dressed identically.
"Though," the first woman continued lightly, "it's a little different than that."
Weston raised his bow, angling it between the two figures, while thick roots began to push up around Amelia's legs and across the ground near him, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Neither of them had sensed the women's arrival—no vibration, no disturbance, no warning at all—just as with the Beasts moments earlier.
"Who are you?" Amelia demanded, her tone leaving no room for evasion.
"How rude," the second woman snapped. "You should prostrate yourselves when addressing us."
"Easy," the first woman said, placing an arm across the second's chest to restrain her. "They won't be alive long enough to regret it anyway."
Before either Monarch could respond, a violent force erupted outward, hurling them away from the building as smoke and debris filled the air. They skidded across the road, rolling before coming to a stop. Weston was already on his feet, drawing and firing blindly into the smoke. The arrows struck their target—he felt it—but they failed to deal any damage.
"The second woman can harden her body," Weston said calmly as Amelia rose beside him.
His arrows, and even the bow itself, were bound to him through a mental link; anything they struck, he could feel and perceive vividly within his mind, down to the material's density and resistance.
"Understood," Amelia replied.
She summoned a massive root and launched it forward, the force of the attack clearing the smoke in an instant. The women leapt away—the second clinging to the building behind them, the first landing across the street. Weston fired once at each. The second woman hardened her hand, deflecting the arrow with skin turned black and unyielding, while the first dodged effortlessly, the arrow shattering concrete where she had stood.
Weston clicked his tongue. "She can adjust the hardness of her skin," he said, nodding toward the second woman. "It'll be difficult to kill her. Can you hold her?"
Amelia grinned slightly. "I've got her. Impenetrable Iron Wood."
A massive root erupted from the ground, forcing parked cars aside without crushing them. It split into smaller roots that vanished underground, only to reemerge behind the second woman, binding her tightly. As she hardened her skin to resist, the roots absorbed the energy itself, converting it into a golden sap that flowed back toward Amelia.
Within a protective space formed by roots, Weston drew his arms as if grasping a bow submerged in the glowing liquid. When he pulled them free, he held a brilliant golden bow, a massive arrow drawn back.
"Specific Shot," he said evenly. "Absolute Negation."
The roots receded, revealing the blinding light of the weapon.
Specific Shot: Absolute Negation—a combined technique. By merging Weston's Absolute Negation with Amelia's Impenetrable Iron Wood, the arrow was forged from the very energy absorbed, adapting to it completely. It would not merely pierce the woman's hardened skin—it would erase the ability itself, negating it entirely, permanently.
As soon as the roots were gone, he released the arrow.
Immediately after, a tremendous shockwave tore through the street, born from the sheer might behind Weston's release. The force of it rippled outward in every direction, shattering windows along the road, tearing up the asphalt beneath them, and ripping straight through Amelia's Impenetrable Iron Wood as though it offered no resistance at all. The arrow surged forward, aimed directly at the second woman.
Before it could land, she disappeared.
She was gone in an instant, vanishing from its path and reappearing beside the first woman as if the space between them had never existed. Amelia stared, shock written plainly across her face, while Weston merely turned his head toward the two of them. Outwardly, he remained calm, composed—but inside his mind was anything but. Fear, confusion, disbelief, and dread tangled together as he struggled to understand how his attack had been avoided at all.
"Careful, Noelle," the first woman said, her voice measured as she pointed toward Weston. "They may be beneath us, but that one requires caution."
Noelle, the second hooded woman, gave a short nod. Then, without urgency, both of them reached up and pulled back their hoods. The first woman revealed dark black hair, a strong jaw, and dark brown eyes that held quiet confidence. Noelle's dark red hair framed a softer, more feminine face, but her fiery amber eyes were stern, giving off the opposite impression of warmth.
The two women stared down Weston and Amelia in silence. Neither moved. The first woman wore a faint smirk, while Weston stood ready, body tense, prepared to attack at the slightest shift in the air.
Before he could even blink, a medieval sword—radiant, as if forged from the sun itself—shot toward Weston.
At first, nothing happened.
No pain. No sound. Nothing at all.
Then, several seconds later, Weston's right arm was severed, falling limply to the ground. Amelia's eyes widened in horror as Weston screamed, the pain crashing into him all at once. Beyond the immediate agony of losing his arm, there was something far worse—a burning sensation that went far deeper than the surface of his skin, burrowing inward, reaching down to the cellular level.
Amelia turned, her gaze catching on the sword embedded in the concrete behind them. It was slowly sinking into the ground, as though the earth itself was yielding to it.
From the sky directly above them, a cloaked man descended.
He landed in front of Noelle and the first woman, straightening as he reached up and pulled back his hood. His face was young, no older than his mid-twenties, marked by a jagged yellow symbol with sharp ridges that ran diagonally across his features.
Weston staggered back, clutching at the fresh wound. Amelia immediately surrounded him in her Impenetrable Iron Wood before pressing her hand to the severed spot, activating her Regenerative Iron Wood. The process would take at least a minute. If she could stall long enough, they might still escape.
They were clearly outmatched.
Even before the man's arrival, that much had been apparent—but now, with someone else they couldn't detect at all, someone who had landed a clean, devastating strike, the reality was undeniable. They were not powerful enough.
"What's taking you so long, Norene?" the man said, his voice deep, though still edged with youth. "These two should have been killed already."
"Funny how that works, right?" Norene replied calmly. "You're supposed to still be delaying the Dragon Monarch. You shouldn't be here right now."
The man turned sharply, locking eyes with her. "Do you think I'm stupid? If you think I'm going to delay that thing by myself, then you're even dumber than I thought."
Noelle drew a sword from beneath her cloak. Its guard, handle, and hilt were pure silver, gleaming faintly, while its blade matched the color of her hair. She pressed it to the man's throat, drawing a thin line of crimson blood.
"Watch your tongue, serpent," she said sternly. "Or else I cut it from your miserable mouth."
The man raised his hands in mock surrender, forcing Norene to lower the blade.
"Geez," he said, grinning. "She acts like your pet puppy. Put her on a stronger leash or somethin'."
"I do not control her," Norene replied evenly. "You know that. She acts independently from me. And you also understand that we've just recently woken up, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," the man said dismissively, cocking his arms back, hands open. "Let's just get this over with. I'm just ready to find out what their flesh smells like when burned."
Behind him, a multitude of identical swords materialized.
They shot forward all at once, tearing through both the Impenetrable and Regenerative Iron Wood that protected Weston, interrupting the healing process completely.
Amelia's eyes widened. In the same instant, she vanished beneath the ground, dragging the still-injured Weston with her. She moved quickly through the earth, the swords striking dangerously close as she fled. Above them, the man kept pace, flying atop a massive version of his sword as he continued his assault.
He plunged a blade into the ground, forcing Amelia and Weston back into the open. Another sword, nearly the same size as the one he rode, appeared in his hand. With a single-handed swing, he cut through multiple buildings at once. Amelia wrapped Impenetrable Iron Wood around herself and Weston, but the impact shattered it, sending them crashing back down to the street.
They hit the ground hard.
Amelia's vision blurred as pain throbbed through her head. Weston tried to lift her with his remaining arm but collapsed almost immediately. Blood loss was catching up to him, his head growing dangerously light.
As he fell, his palm brushed the ground, sending pale blue circles rippling outward before slowly fading away.
The man landed a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, walking toward them at an unhurried pace with a maniac grin spread across his face.
"You know," he said, debris from the destroyed buildings scattered around them, "I really enjoyed this. The thrill of hunting. The look on my prey's faces as they squirm and plead."
His gaze shifted to Amelia.
"That woman there, though? Fine as shit. Maybe I'll have fun with her while you watch."
He laughed, then took a step forward.
The invisible circle activated.
An arrow shot up from the ground, narrowly missing him. Weston raised his hand, unleashing a barrage of arrows that pierced the man's body, embedding themselves across his frame.
Weston could fire arrows without the Mystical Bow, String of the Centaur's Eye, though doing so sacrificed their damage and effects. He aimed upward, sending another rain of arrows down upon the man, who responded by slashing them all away in a single, sweeping motion.
The arrows faded, leaving the man bleeding from numerous wounds. He glared at Weston, fury etched across his face as he pointed his sword at him. At the same time, Noelle and Norene appeared several feet behind him.
"You son of a bitch!" the man shouted. "Fuck making you watch! I'll do you, then that bitch over there!"
"Calm down, Orson," Norene said evenly. "Beatrix has just informed me that the Dragon Monarch is coming. We need to leave. Now."
Orson snapped his head toward her, a crazed look burning in his eyes.
"Fuck that," Orson snapped, his voice sharp with fury. "I'm dragging this bastard back to our lair and teaching him a lesson."
As the words left his mouth, his attention shifted fully back to Weston.
At the same time, Amelia began to stir.
Her consciousness returned in fragments—first a dull awareness, then the slow adjustment of her eyes as blurred shapes struggled into focus. Sound followed shortly after, distant voices pulling themselves together into something recognizable as her hearing sharpened.
And then—
All around them, Beasts of Ruin appeared.
They emerged in overwhelming numbers, surrounding Amelia and Weston completely, their presence closing in from every direction at once.
"Come on," Norene said urgently. "This is our cue to leave."
She grabbed Noelle's hand without hesitation, then reached out toward Orson.
Orson turned his head toward Norene, then back toward Weston. His jaw tightened. With an irritated click of his tongue, he finally turned back to her.
Before his hand could meet hers, something slammed down onto him from above.
The impact shook the street, throwing a violent cloud of dust into the air. Noelle reacted instantly, drawing her sword, while Norene stared in shock for half a second before snapping into motion, turning both of them invisible.
Amelia raised her arm to shield her eyes from the debris. Weston began to shake, his body tensing as a deep, unmistakable nervousness took hold of him—whatever had just entered the battlefield was something he recognized as dangerous.
As the dust slowly cleared, the Beasts of Ruin were gone.
All of them.
Standing where they had been was Alma Daedulus Alastor, the Dragon Monarch. One foot was planted firmly against the back of Orson's head, the other pressing down on his shoulder, forcing him flat against the ground.
Alma's hand was aimed at the back of Orson's skull, Spear ready to launch at a moment's notice.
He did not speak. He did not move. Not even slightly. His expression was firm, stern, and deeply unsettling in its stillness.
Then, without a word, he closed his eyes, turning his head to the side. When they opened again, Evil Eyes were active.
His gaze shifted, fixing precisely on Noelle and Norene despite their invisibility.
"I see you," Alma said calmly.
Then they faded back into view.
Norene's eyes narrowed, tension rippling through her entire being, while Noelle stood ready to fight, her stance set—still unaware of the severity of the man pinning Orson to the ground.
Norene glanced toward Amelia and Weston.
Alma followed her gaze.
In the shortest possible moment, both of them vanished.
Alma reappeared with Weston clutched tightly in his arms, fear written across his face, and Amelia held beside him, confusion still clouding her expression. He dashed away before either of them could be harmed, setting them down a short distance away.
He turned back immediately, raising his hand toward where the others should have been.
There was nothing.
Alma lowered his arm, sliding his hands back into his pockets as his posture relaxed. Annoyance flickered through him—this was the second time now that those he chased had escaped—but he knew there was nothing more to be done.
He turned back toward the Centaur Monarch and the Dryad Monarch, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Hello!" He said brightly. "You two got pretty roughed up. Glad I could help." He leaned forward slightly, peering at them more closely.
"Especially you, man. Missing an arm has to hurt." Alma said to Weston, who recoiled back in fear.
He raised his eyebrow at this, but thought nothing more of it.
Alma tapped the side of his earpiece, his gaze still lingering on the ruined street below. His voice came out calm but faintly tired, the tone of someone who had been talking into radios all day. "I need a support helicopter in Denver, Colorado."
He paused, listening, eyes half-lidded, as debris continued to drift lazily through the air. "No," he said after a moment, a small sigh in his words, "I haven't checked for civilian casualties yet. Send a team in case there are any."
Another beat of silence. The wind shifted. The scent of scorched pavement and blood still lingered. "They're alive," he went on quietly. "Mostly. Weston's missing an arm and he's… very frightened of me. Amelia's hurt, but she'll pull through."
He turned his head slightly toward her then, one eyebrow rising. "Amelia," he said, softer now, "do you have any Liminal Bonds left?"
She stared at him at first as though the question had been spoken in a language humanity had never invented. Thought returned to her face gradually, like light seeping across a horizon. She swallowed. "Y-yes," she said slowly, voice trembling, "but I can't use any of my roots."
Alma nodded, as if this merely confirmed what the world had already told him. He returned to the call. "No," he said flatly, "she's out of Liminal Bonds. Roots aren't responding. And yes, for some reason I'm the one relaying all of this to you."
He listened again, expression flattening, then rolled his eyes skyward. "Yes, yes. 'Waste of government resources.' 'I'm already in the area.' Right. Nothing. I have to go." He tapped the earpiece off, exhaling as though he had just put down a very heavy box.
He turned toward the Monarchs and let a small, bright smile soften his face. "Help is on the way," he said gently. "Just stay where you are. Try to relax if you can—and don't let Weston fall asleep." Then his form lifted from the ground, almost lazily at first, before the air took him.
"Take care," he called back, and then he was gone, shrinking upward into the sky.
Amelia watched him go, her eyes following the vanishing figure almost against her will. She could not tell whether her thoughts were fogged by pain, adrenaline, or shock, but a single, steady feeling lingered anyway: that the man who had stood above them had been—undeniably, impossibly—magnificent.
She held Weston closer, feeling his body tremble against her as she waited. The minutes stretched, long and thin. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of rotors began to bleed into the air, until the helicopter appeared and descended, kicking dust outward in broad circular waves. Soldiers and paramedics spilled out in practiced motion, voices raised but controlled, hands precise. Weston and Amelia were lifted carefully onto stretchers and secured within the helicopter's interior warmth.
'So that... the power of the Dragon Monarch...?' Amelia thought.
As the city fell away beneath them, exhaustion rose up like a tide and swallowed them whole.
---
Indianola, Mississippi — 4:05 PM
Alma had finished scouring Alabama clean of Beasts of Ruin. Mississippi now lay ahead of him like another long stretch of battlefield.
He spun through the air above the town, weaving between twisted shapes that lunged and shrieked, Spear firing impossibly fast through one body after another. The killing had long since lost its novelty; the repetition gnawed at him. The same motions, the same screams, the same dissolving forms—it rubbed against his mind like sandpaper. Even so, he would not rest. Not while these things walked the country.
The town fell silent behind him. He moved onward. Louisiana was next.
He reached the state at 4:19 PM, but just as his shadow passed over the rooftops, his earpiece rang sharply in his ear. He stilled mid-air and listened. The report came fast—Centaur Monarch, Dryad Monarch, danger, Denver, Colorado—and the moment the words finished, he was already flying.
Three minutes later, he broke through the Colorado sky.
Below him lay the scene: shattered ground, Beasts of Ruin swarming, and the two Monarchs broken and bleeding amid it all. Alma descended without hesitation, like a falling star, slamming down upon the man he judged most dangerous to them. At that same instant, his spear fired, and every Beast of Ruin in the vicinity vanished into obliteration.
He pressed the man to the ground, hand aimed at the back of his skull, gaze hard and winter-cold. His eyes closed. When they opened, Evil Eyes were active, and his head snapped toward a seemingly empty space.
He saw them.
Human. Singular souls. Unmistakably alive, fragile, ordinary—and yet they had done this. Confusion rippled through him. How?
One of them—a woman with dark hair—cast a subtle glance toward Weston and Amelia.
Alma moved before the thought even finished forming. He appeared beside the Monarchs, lifted them both, and carried them clear of danger in a blur of motion. When he turned back, expecting to prevent their escape, the attackers were already gone.
He exhaled through his nose, then looked down at the Monarchs and let relief soften his expression. He spoke briefly into his earpiece, then took off again, streaking back toward Louisiana.
He landed atop a skyscraper and tapped the earpiece once more. "Put the President through," he said, voice level.
A few moments later, the line opened.
"Sir," Alma said quietly, "I have something to report. The ones who injured the Centaur and Dryad Monarchs were—"
"Human," the President finished for him.
Alma blinked. "So you knew."
"Yes. We checked everything. No records. No identities. It's as if they don't exist—and yet they are definitely human."
Alma's brow furrowed. "How can a human do that? Why would they?"
"We don't know," the President replied. "It's unprecedented. Even I'm surprised."
"What do you want me to do?" Alma asked.
His duty still burned in him—the purging of Beasts of Ruin—but the knowledge of these humans hung in his mind like a weight, pulling his thoughts toward it.
"Continue as you have been," the President said. "We'll investigate. Your priority remains the same."
"Roger that," Alma replied quietly. "Good luck." He disconnected and stood at the edge of the building for a moment before stepping off and letting the air take him.
He swept across Louisiana, erasing every Beast of Ruin he encountered, but the thought of those three humans refused to leave him. It lodged in his chest like a thorn.
From Louisiana, he moved on—Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa. He noticed it gradually: fewer Beasts, then fewer still, the numbers falling from unimaginable to merely scarce. By the time he reached Albert Lea, Minnesota, the world had gone quiet again.
There were no Beasts of Ruin.
He searched anyway, Eyes of Despair combing every shadow, every rooftop, every alley. He spent half an hour confirming what the silence had already told him.
Nothing.
By 5:53 PM, the sun had slid fully beneath the horizon, leaving only evening cold and the muted glow of streetlights. Alma did not feel the chill—not from numbness, perhaps, but from determination. Whatever the reason, he continued onward through Minnesota, across darkened towns and empty fields, and found only absence everywhere he went.
He walked the dark streets of Crookston with the steady, restless stride of someone waiting for a signal that never came. The town felt wrong in a way he could not quite name—like a song played half a note off-key. The worry gnawing at him about those three mysterious people had not faded; it had only grown, adding heat to an already burning unease. It took him several minutes to realize what, exactly, was wrong with the scene around him. There were no headlights sliding across intersections, no casual chatter echoing from sidewalks, no distant doors opening or closing. Buildings stood intact, lit windows glowed, traffic lights changed from red to green to yellow—but there were no people. The town was alive in every way except human: as if someone had gently lifted every living person out of the picture and left only the frame behind.
Then he heard it—the clean, sharp clatter of high heels striking pavement.
He turned, his movements quick and precise, but behind him there was only empty street and shadow. He faced forward again, scanning, then turned once more, and this time she was there. A woman stood not far away, blonde hair falling over her shoulders, a red dress shaped around her figure, red heels touching the pavement like punctuation marks. Her beauty was undeniable, even arresting, but it was not what occupied Alma's thoughts. Something about her presence scraped against his instincts in the wrong direction.
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to believe she might be ordinary—that he was simply on edge, seeing threats where there were none. Then her dress began to change. The fabric shimmered, turning translucent, then opaque again, then drifting into transparency once more as though reality had forgotten how solid things were meant to be. Her body was the kind designed to draw eyes even from women, sculpted and deliberate, yet Alma felt no desire. What filled him instead was scrutiny, the quiet coil of unease tightening turn by turn.
She stopped a breath's distance from him. A moment later she sank to her knees, the motion so fast it seemed to fold time. Alma stepped back at once, putting space between himself and her bowed form—only for her to appear before him again. He retreated, and she was there. Again, and there she was. The pattern repeated until her hands closed with deceptive gentleness around his hips, holding him in place.
Thoughts began to press into his mind that felt almost like whispers not quite his own. They urged him not to leave, to listen, to stay, to yield. He shook his head sharply as though trying to throw water from his hair. He pushed her away, stepped back, and raised his hand toward her, summoning Spear, ready to end the encounter.
But she only crawled to him again, hands returning to his hips with the inevitability of a tide touching shore, and this time he did nothing. His body remained still, the impulse to act caught somewhere behind a locked door in his mind. Her face descended slowly toward his crotch, breath brushing against him, and just before contact she looked up. Her eyes were an unnaturally bright, distracting blue; red lipstick curved against her lips, and she smelled of vanilla and lavender—a fragrance that, to his surprise, felt almost comforting.
Her hands slid over him deliberately, searching for a response she never found. Then she rose in a single graceful motion, her hands still lingering between his legs. Alma remained frozen, not through choice but through some unseen pressure weighing on his will. She lifted her arms around his neck, drew closer, and finally pressed her mouth to his.
Heat crashed through him like a fever breaking open inside his veins. His skin felt too tight for his body. He tore off his jacket and let it fall forgotten to the sidewalk; then he unbuttoned his black overshirt, exposing the red shirt beneath as the air seemed suddenly stifling.
"Have a taste," the woman whispered, her voice deep, mature, and almost tender. "Of Ultimate Desire."
She released him. Without her touch holding him up, he dropped to his knees as if his body had simply refused to bear its own weight any longer. His breathing turned ragged, rapid, every inhale scraping. His fingers dug into the concrete until they hurt. He needed something—anything—someone—now.
He writhed against the pavement, his hand clutching at his chest as though he might be able to tear the sensation loose. When he looked up, the woman was gone. Only the echo of her perfume remained, drifting away while he trembled in the street.
---
ROSE Medical Center, Denver, Colorado — 5:34 PM
The helicopter bearing the Centaur and Dryad Monarchs settled onto the hospital roof in a wash of wind and rotor roar. The President of the United States waited by the rooftop access door, hands tucked calmly into his pockets, watching as the Monarchs were transferred to rolling beds and rushed toward the entrance. A soldier descended from the helicopter, approached him, and offered a crisp salute before speaking.
"Sir—what happened to them?"
"An EF-5 Beast of Ruin," the President replied, his voice low but steady. "The Dragon Monarch intercepted before it could finish them off." He placed a firm, reassuring hand on the soldier's shoulder. "You did well. Thank you."
They exchanged salutes, then parted. The President followed the Monarchs inside.
He entered the room where Weston and Amelia had been placed, drew a chair between their beds, turned it backward, and sat with his arms resting across its back. He waited. Machines hummed quietly. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron.
After several minutes, Amelia stirred first.
"Hey," the President said gently.
She blinked at him, not recognizing him at first, then all at once awareness struck her. She struggled upright despite the pain, trying to salute through the hurt.
"Good evening, sir!"
"At ease, soldier," he said with a faint, warm humor.
The sound and movement roused Weston. Memory hit him like a cold wave; he bolted upright, eyes wild, chest rising too fast.
"Are you all right?" the President asked.
"Where is he?" Weston nearly screamed. "Where is that monster?" He shook uncontrollably. Amelia rose despite her own pain and wrapped an arm around him, murmuring attempts to calm him.
"What's wrong with him?" the President asked quietly.
"I don't know," Amelia said, trying to steady Weston's breathing. "Ever since he sensed the Dragon Monarch, he started shaking like this."
The President frowned. "Why? You were both present at his inauguration. Weston has the strongest sensory abilities of all the Monarchs. He shouldn't be reacting like this."
Gradually, Weston's trembling faded. His breathing slowed, and he sank back against the bed, drained. Amelia returned to her own bed, exhausted in a way she hadn't felt in years.
"Weston," the President said after a moment, "are you all right?"
"I… don't know," Weston answered. "I felt its presence. It was terrifying. I wanted to run. I wanted to escape."
"I'm sorry to say it," the President replied quietly, "but that 'it' you felt was the Dragon Monarch."
Weston shook his head at once, firmly, almost violently. "No. I've felt the Dragon Monarch before. He's warm. He's comforting. He feels… protective. Whatever that thing was, it was the opposite of him."
The President hesitated, then continued. "Regardless, I need to inform both of you of something serious." His gaze moved between them. "The attackers were human. They displayed abilities like yours. They fought you—and nearly killed one of you. For now, only the Monarchs are being briefed. The government and public will remain unaware with a few exceptions."
Amelia nodded slowly. Weston barely reacted.
"There was something else," Weston whispered at last, ignoring the President's briefing entirely. "About him. About today. He felt… evil."
"The Dragon Monarch isn't evil," the President said gently but firmly. "He saved your lives. Try to rest before you draw conclusions."
Silence spread across the room and settled there.
Then Weston lifted his gaze and asked, almost in a whisper, "Then tell me, sir—why did it feel like the Devil was standing in front of me?"