"Do you even have the slightest idea of what I did to you? Heck, do you even remember any of it?
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"None of that matters."
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"Alright, fine! I'll tell you everything since you're so clueless!" she cried out between gasps of hysterical laughter. "Since you're so desperate to be a saint, let me tell you what kind of monster I really am!"
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"I forgive you."
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"Why are you taking everything like it's no big deal for you?!"
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"...if you can forgive yourself for that, then I'm sure everyone else can do the same...Starting with me."
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"so let's end it here. It's time to move toward new routes, Trizha."
"Together."
"This conflict started with us, and now let's end it. By moving to new ROUTES."
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「At that time, it was game over for me. At least, in the best way possible. She didn't remember me at the time yet, despite accidentally, or by instinct, had she called out my name at that time in the aquarium.」
「My real name.」
「I guess I was hopeful that she would really remember me after that. I hoped she would. But because of the things that were happening to her, I guess she didn't have the time to think about me, confront me, or even remember.」
「All she did was push me away, thinking that she would, once again, hurt me. But I've had worse. She can keep pushing me all she wants, and I would still continue to pull her.」
「And did it. 」
「I saved her.」
「I bet she's now thinking of what to do next… to do something new. I saved her, after all. I will make sure to give her all the opportunities she needs since she kept rejecting them beforehand… At least, that's what I always thought about doing for her once I'm done with this mission of mine」
「If only she was still alive till now.」
The smoke hasn't cleared.
It clings to the rooftop like a mourning shroud, a thick, gray veil where the Symbol of Connection once stood before she was disintegrated into nothingness.
Within that everything, there was suddenly nothing; and within that nothing, only the bitter taste of ash remained.
On the rooftop, the battle had reached a stagnant, horrific plateau.
Only three fighters remained active in the wreckage.
One was Nomoro Ketatsuki. He was the demon of nine years ago, a creature of jagged scales and violet fire, fighting fiercely and only semi-consciously against the second combatant, Zackier Morkator.
The disparity between them was a chasm.
On one side stood the out-of-mind, broken, and demonic Nomoro; on the other, the logical monster, Zackier.
Their clash was not merely a fight; it was the final arbitration of the fate this story had left to give.
"Is that all you got? Hahahahaha!"
Zackier's laughter was a serrated blade.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent the Prophelity-conscious Nomoro hurtling through the air.
The boy's demonic form slammed into a reinforced concrete wall, the impact spider-webbing the stone.
He was at a staggering disadvantage, a puppet whose strings were being cut one by one.
"What? I thought you were the one wearing the costume!" Zackier shouted, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.
He moved like a dancer, evading the unpredictable, consecutive demonic swings of Nomoro's obsidian arm as if they were predictable.
He sidestepped a claw that could have leveled a building, spinning elegantly, flashily, his blade dancing in the moonlight.
He wasn't just fighting; he was playing.
He stabbed Nomoro—once, twice, five times—each thrust a precise puncture into the boy's shifting hide.
"You think you can defeat me just because you used a lousy transformation?" Zackier mocked.
He lunged forward, his Alterlity making him a blur of motion.
"A rage form? Really? Do you truly believe, on whatever God's name you hold dear, that I would suffer beneath your 'victory' just because you grew a few scales? Think again!"
Zackier pivoted on a dime, delivering a devastating roundhouse kick to Nomoro's neck.
The sound of vertebrae cracking echoed across the roof.
Nomoro let out a scream of pure, primal agony—a sound of frustration and rage that shook the very air.
He thrust his demon arm forward, a desperate, lunging strike aimed at Zackier's grinning face.
Zackier didn't even flinch.
He raised a hand, forming a miniature Emoplotion at the tip of his fingers.
Using only five stockpiled emotions, he released a 50% burst that repelled the massive demonic limb as if it were a toy.
"Every goddamn story has this one annoying cliché," Zackier mused, stepping over the rubble toward his fallen foe.
"The main character gets stronger through a transformation, and suddenly the villain gets defeated or overwhelmed by the power of feelings. You were expecting that kind of outcome, weren't you? Probably not in so many words, but in your heart? Yes! It all comes down to that pathetic thing you characters called hope."
He approached Nomoro menacingly, his grin widening until it looked like a tear in his face.
He toyed with his knife, the blood dripping from the steel in rhythmic beats.
Even without his full consciousness, the demon inside Nomoro could feel the truth.
"But don't be mistaken!" Zackier hissed, leaning down. "You have the soul of a human living inside the body of a demon. And I? I am the opposite. It's pretty ironic, isn't it? The only difference between us is our nature. And that is what will bring you to your loss. Heh, pretty corny, ain't it? But you should know, it's as real as reality."
The demon of nine years ago could only groan.
It backed away, its primal instincts screaming for a retreat that didn't exist.
It tried to heal, the black scales knitting together in a grotesque display of biological defiance.
Zackier watched the healing process with a look of pure fascination.
He scoffed, gesturing with his blade.
"You know, Prophelities always avoid the most normal things possible," Zackier explained, his tone conversational, almost academic.
"Unless it's part of the original theme, the power has to be weird. Like your way of healing. Your Prophelity gives you the power of the devil, but a 'devil' is too common a concept for the watchers. So, your healing has its own specialty."
He pointed his knife at a random piece of rubble several feet away.
The stone was suddenly riddled with deep, jagged stab marks—the exact wounds Zackier had just inflicted on Nomoro.
"Look at that rubble! For being called the Symbol of Loneliness, your healing is quite selfish. It transfers your damage to something else so you can stay... alone. It's a nifty trick. It's no wonder Margaret's arm healed so fast while you gained a broken one! You just stockpiled her pain and gave it to something else later. What a cowardly way to avoid your responsibilities!"
Nomoro began to pant heavily.
Beneath the mask, a single eye flickered with a spark of true awareness.
His consciousness was waking up, but it was fractured, drowning in the darkness.
"If only she was still alive... if only..."
He backed away, his feet dragging through the ash.
He was exhausted.
He felt the cold air of the abyss behind him—the edge of the rooftop.
He was losing his grip on the world.
"If only she was here... maybe I could have helped her find a new path. I wish I could have. But she's gone now. Her body has joined the dust of the clouds."
He stared at the lingering smoke behind Zackier.
In his mind, she was still there, a ghost in the gray.
"I saved her from herself, but I couldn't save her from the world. I'm still so weak. This man... he is stronger than the demon inside me. He was right. I was expecting a miracle. I wanted my revenge, and I took it for granted."
He lifted his head, his breathing slowing into a rhythmic, defeated wheeze.
He looked at Zackier one last time.
"I am uncontrollable... but those who can control the situation will always win. There is nothing left. I… I give up–"
"–I haven't... given up yet!!!"
A second shout.
The shout that was the opposite from the first..
…didn't come from Nomoro.
It came from the heart of the smoke—a voice that carried an impossible, overwhelming shockwave.
It wasn't just sound; it was an Influential Call.
A surge of pressure radiated outward, carrying such immense weight that the entire universe seemed to stop.
Exactly. The entire universe.
Everything froze.
Down below, on the streets of the city, the crowds stared up at the roof as if they had felt a god descend.
On the rooftop, the two fighters were paralyzed.
Zackier Morkator, for the first time in the fight, looked truly terrified.
Sweat broke out across his forehead.
His skin turned a sickly, pale white, and his fingers trembled so violently he nearly dropped his knife.
"That can't be..." Zackier whispered, his voice cracking. "That was an Influential Call. The reminder... that 'they' are here! Only five people in the entire universe can project that much influence. What is one of them doing here?!"
A single footstep emerged from the smoke.
It was a soft sound, yet it carried the weight of a mountain.
What emerged next was a dress—broken, torn, yet still intact.
Then came the glint of an iron pipe.
And then… blonde hair.
A beautiful face that was never used to its full potential.
And pinkish-purple eyes that shows one's recklessness.
The person that stepped out of the ash… was no other rhan…
Trizha Frantzes.
Her body was completely unharmed, her skin glowing with an aura that defied logic.
She turned her gaze toward the battlefield, and the air itself seemed to bow before her.
"Damn it!" Zackier hissed, his panic reaching a fever pitch. "I hate these clichés! I fear them when they actually work!"
He didn't wait for her to speak.
He didn't wait for her to move.
He lunged, his arm snapping out with the speed of a viper.
He pointed his finger at Trizha's face, forming a complete, high-yield Emoplotion at the tip.
"When it becomes successful, the only outcome is my loss here. I gotta stop that from happening, and my solution for that is to make the early kill!"
Without a shred of hesitation, he fired.
The Emoplotion detonated directly against Trizha's forehead.
The explosion was blinding, a roar of energy that should have vaporized her entire head.
Zackier exhaled, a sharp, ragged sound of relief.
It was a cakewalk.
A piece of cake.
But as the light faded, Trizha's body didn't fall.
It simply dissolved into thin air.
"What?! She disappeared?!"
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Trizha: 2
Fate: 0
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She reappeared instantly, emerging from the smoke directly behind Zackier.
"Behind!!!" his instincts screamed.
Zackier reacted with the speed of a cornered animal.
He formed a second-variable miniature Emoplotion at the back of his heel.
The implosion launched his leg upward in a devastating, bone-snapping arc, a kick intended to slice Trizha's neck in half.
She didn't move.
She didn't flinch.
But she caught his heel in the palm of her hand.
Effortlessly.
The impact should have sent her flying; instead, she didn't even budge.
She gripped his leg with such localized, terrifying strength that his shin bone began to audibly crack and splinter under her fingers.
"Where did she get this strength?!" Zackier panicked, gritting his teeth as he tried to yank his leg free.
It was like trying to pull a mountain.
He looked into her face, and his heart nearly stopped.
As the wind whipped her hair across her cheeks, he saw her eyes.
Her irises had barely vanished, leaving only a void of white and a little of what the irises left, and thick veins pulsed with intense focus around her temples.
Zackier's skin went even paler.
He realized the gravity of the mistake he had made.
"It was these very moments I feared most," he thought, his mind racing.
"The moments when the girl in distress... becomes the distress herself."