It was chaos everywhere on Hanma Mountain. The circle had broken, the ground drowned in blood and shadow. Executioners rose endlessly, and despair gnawed at every heart.
Then came the final betrayal.
Okamoto staggered forward, coughing blood as a dagger pierced his back. He looked down in disbelief at the black poison already spreading through his veins.
Behind him, Kozuki sneered. "Heh… that's one less fool to worry about."
Without hesitation, Kozuki threw Okamoto aside and sprinted toward Lex, waving the poisoned blade like a trophy.
"Lex! I already killed him! Now give me what you promised—grant me immortality with the Elixir of Life!"
But before Kozuki could even reach him, another figure rushed from the opposite side—Hoshikawa, her eyes gleaming with desperation.
"Wait, honey! Remember our promise? We were going to leave this place together and live happily, just the two of us!"
Takahashi laughed, though his voice was heavy with exhaustion. "How surprising… betrayed again. But honestly… I'm not even surprised. Isn't that right, Minato?"
From the shadows, Minato rose. Slowly, deliberately. He dusted his coat, his lone eye burning beneath the crimson moon.
Lex turned, lips curling. "So you weren't dead after all. How very typical of you, Minato Himemiya."
Minato smirked. "More surprising is how you didn't notice. I always suspected you two were fucking."
Lex ignored the jab. "Why exactly do you want to save Sinclair?"
Minato's voice sharpened. "None of your damn business. So… how about we wrap this up?"
But Lex lifted a hand. "Not yet. Let me get rid of the nuisances."
In an instant, two scythes flashed. There was no warning, no time to scream. The blades carved through flesh and bone as if slicing paper.
Hoshikawa's eyes widened as her head toppled forward, lips still half-formed in her plea.
Kozuki never even realized his treachery was worthless; his head rolled before he hit the ground.
Lex didn't even glance at their corpses. "Now then… shall we begin?"
The grim reapers kept pouring in, endless, merciless. One by one, the Hanma heads fell—Yamashiro, Takahashi, Narberal—each cut down while shielding the younger generation.
Belita staggered, blood dripping down her arm, but still she planted herself before Bruce.
"Bruce! Stay behind me. Get yourself together—you mustn't die here!"
But it was all for nothing. Every sacrifice, every desperate strike… mocked in an instant.
From the darkness, the Executioner appeared—his scythe gleaming under the crimson moon.
Bruce turned, too slow. A single swing.
His head flew.
There was no pain, only the crushing weight of despair as his vision rolled across the ground. The last thing his tear-filled eyes saw… were Sinclair's. Hers mirrored his—broken, drowning in grief.
And when his head touched the arena floor, the mountain trembled.
Chains erupted from the earth—black, glowing, unyielding. Judgement Chains.
Lex fell to his knees, both arms lost in his clash with Minato, his eyes wide. "Finally… it appeared."
At the heart of it all stood Sinclair.
In that single spot, she died thousands of deaths—executioners tearing her apart again and again—yet each time her body regenerated, only to be slaughtered anew. Her silk-white hair bled into crimson. Her eyes, once soft, burned with despair so raw it could drown the world.
Her scream split the heavens.
Until—
Beep… Beep… Beep…
[System Notice: Fragment Judgement Chains successfully integrated into User. Commencing revival process.]
Bruce's vision went black.
But when he opened his eyes again, he wasn't dead.
The world around him was void—pitch black, endless, and silent. Yet somehow, he was visible. A throne rose beneath him, jagged and cruel, its edges curling upward like fangs from the abyss. Strange stigma patterns glowed across his skin, pulsing as if alive.
But no matter how he strained, he couldn't see his own face.
Still, the way he sat, the posture—the unshakable charisma and confidence radiating from his body—terrified him.
Bruce's lips trembled.
"Are… are you the devil?"
From the shadows, a smile formed.
"Unfortunately for you, we are that which even the devil fears."
The voice reverberated across the void, heavy, commanding, inescapable.
"We are not a devil, Bruce. We are your constellation. And you are currently in our space because your body is undergoing convulsion."
Bruce blinked. "Convulsion…?"
The voice explained patiently, almost mockingly:
"A convulsion is a clash of souls inside an anomaly's body. The host and the constellation wrestle for dominance. It occurs most often when an anomaly already carries a constellation—an old soul bound to them since birth."
Bruce's breath caught. "Then… you—"
"Yes. We are the other soul within you. A constellation."
The shadows stirred, coiling around the throne until wings of darkness unfurled behind Bruce's silhouette.
"We are known only by title: Monarch of the Malevolent Darkness."
The void rumbled with its words.
"Monarchs are rulers of worlds, beings who stand at the absolute peak. Wherever they exist, they reign as the strongest. Monarchs do not die. They pass on as constellations… watching, waiting, guiding anomalies like you."
Bruce's heart pounded. His family's faces flashed before his eyes, their last screams echoing. "Then… help me. I want to save my family."
The Monarch chuckled darkly.
"Straight to business, I see. Very well… we can save your family."
Bruce's head snapped up, hope sparking. "You can?"
"But…" The voice turned sharp. "You don't expect us to do it for free, do you?"
Bruce gritted his teeth. "What are you thinking?"
"For every time we lend you our power, we will take one of your emotions. You will have one week to figure out which emotion we have taken. If you fail to name it… we will take control of your body for 24 hours. And we will only 'help' you in our own way."
Bruce's voice cracked. "Aren't those conditions too much?"
The Monarch's smile widened.
"You didn't think salvation was free, did you? Besides… we will not revive everyone. Only those we deem useful."
The abyss shivered. The throne groaned. Bruce staggered.
"What are you talking about?!"
"Nothing to concern yourself with… for now. The convulsion period is nearly over. But don't worry, Bruce. The Anomaly System will keep you in contact with us."
The voice faded, but its laughter lingered.
The Monarch of the Malevolent Darkness had spoken.
---
Back in the present…
Bruce's veins glowed gold, cracks spreading across his body as if he were breaking apart from within. His eyes blazed—this time, it wasn't just a phrase.
He lost all sense, moving only on instinct, but even in madness he fought with one purpose: to protect Sinclair, the last person still alive.
Her silk-white eyelids fluttered open, revealing her crimson eyes. Through blurred vision, she saw Bruce tearing through Grim Reapers, his golden glow slicing shadows apart. She staggered upright, but what she saw horrified her beyond words—Bruce's body cracking, his movements frenzied, his aura monstrous.
It was like watching someone become less than human—and more than human—at the same time.
The Executioners kept coming, their endless scythes crashing, yet Bruce destroyed them all, piece by piece, until the mountain itself trembled.
---
The Nature of Time
In the Monarch's space, time flowed differently. One hour equaled an entire day in the real world. Bruce had spent seven hours inside—seven days outside. His convulsion lasted a full week.
During that time, the Night of Death raged for three days without pause. Lex, who barely escaped the initial massacre, crawled back on the fifth day, desperate to seize the Judgment Chains. But Bruce—still locked in his convulsion state—beat him within an inch of his life, forcing him to flee half-dead.
Minato awoke on the fifth day.
Narberal opened her eyes on the sixth.
Bruce did not awaken until the seventh day.
---
The Ritual of Despair
On the third night, Sinclair—half-conscious—saw it happen.
Bruce stood in the ruins, bleeding, broken, yet he raised his hands as golden cracks lit his body like divine tattoos. He chanted words he himself didn't fully understand, words whispered to him in the void.
And corpses… moved.
First twitches. Then gasps. Then screams. One by one, the fallen began to rise, staggering back to life, breath returning to their broken lungs.
Sinclair could only weep as she watched the miracle unfold. To her, it was Bruce's doing—a terrifying ritual of despair and salvation.
She didn't know the truth.
She didn't see the Monarch's hand guiding it.
---
The Aftermath
When Bruce finally opened his eyes, it was in a hospital bed. Bandaged, trembling, weak. Sinclair sat beside him, her own body wrapped in gauze.
Her hands shook as she slapped him across the face.
"Do you have any idea what you did?!" she screamed, tears spilling. "Do you know how many died on that mountain?! How many I had to watch—watch—get torn apart again and again?!"
Then, before he could answer, she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.
"But… you brought them back. You… you saved them, Bruce."
Bruce froze, guilt tightening in his chest. He knew the truth. The Monarch had revived them, not him. But Sinclair's tearful eyes looked at him as though he were both monster and savior.
"The Hanma Mountain is gone," she whispered. "The clans are shattered. The mansion was destroyed. Only its auto-repair system is working now. And everyone knows… you're different. They saw what you did."
Bruce said nothing.
He couldn't tell her the truth—that the power wasn't his. That the Monarch was watching. That salvation came at a cost.
He simply held her as she trembled.
And in his silence, the weight of the Monarch's bargain pressed heavier than ever.