November 19th, 1955.
Two and a half hours before the massacre.
The elevator gave a soft chime—pleasant, almost musical—and its heavy steel doors eased open, revealing a tightly packed cluster of superhumans standing shoulder to shoulder inside. Some were women, others men, but all stepped forward in eerie unison, like chess pieces gliding across a board none of them had designed.
Their uniforms were perfectly uniform—black boots polished to a mirror shine, white pants creased razor-straight, black leather belts cinched tight across their waists, and layered shirts: a white undershirt, clean and pure beneath the black overshirt that swallowed light rather than reflected it. Upon their left hand, they wore a white glove. On the right, a black one. Their masks were perhaps the most unsettling part—smooth, bone-white faces without eye holes, expressionless and blind. Or perhaps it was the thought that they didn't need to see.
They descended a short flight of steps into an expansive chamber, vast enough to swallow the echoes of their boots and still remain hungry for sound. The room was titanic—designed to hold over 130,000 people at maximum capacity—though only 5,000 would ever step foot here, destined for drills and combat training in preparation for a future they believed was righteous.
Time passed. The elevator chimed again. Then again. And again.
Over the next thirty minutes, more and more superhumans arrived, streaming into the colossal training hall until the air buzzed faintly with chatter and anticipation. It was structured, civil, yet laced with a kind of naive excitement that suggested none of them suspected what was to come.
Among them was a woman pushing three small carts loaded with boxes. Chocolate chip cookies—freshly baked, golden brown, their sugary scent cutting through the sterile vastness of the chamber. She walked carefully, each step deliberate as if the cookies were sacred offerings. Reaching the center of the room, she smiled beneath her mask and held one box up.
"I brought cookies!" she announced with playful cheer, her voice light and gentle, floating upward into the artificial heavens of the training dome.
There was laughter, soft and easy. Superhumans gathered in an orderly fashion around the carts, leaving personal space between one another—respectful, even when indulging in something as simple and human as a sweet snack.
Soon, all had arrived. Cookies had been distributed. Conversations bloomed like flowers. After a short reprieve, they paired off—one man, one woman—each duo preparing for mock combat, as they had been instructed. The General's orders had been clear: show Alma the light. Fight him, not to win, but to remind him of who he once was—of what he could still be.
An hour slipped by, the battles played out like dances—graceful, practiced, and intense. When the final round ended, they collapsed to the floor in shared exhaustion. Water bottles were emptied, sweat pooled at their feet, and masks were tilted back slightly to allow better airflow.
"I can't wait to go home today," a young woman said quietly to her partner, her voice tinged with sorrow. "My mother's not doing well. The doctors think it's soon."
"She's stronger than any of us," her partner replied, resting a hand on her shoulder with quiet certainty. "Whatever that sickness is, it doesn't stand a chance."
Nearby, another pair chuckled.
"My cat's gonna throw a tantrum if I don't get home in time," the man said, rolling his eyes. "He refuses to eat the dry food again. Little diva."
"You should let him starve a bit," his partner teased. "He'll break eventually. They all do."
Laughter, comfort, routine—ordinary things that made them feel safe.
The cookie woman sat alone for a moment, clutching her bag to her chest like a child hugging a stuffed animal during a thunderstorm. Her thoughts drifted. To the bruises she had hidden. To the nights she had fled her stepfather's hand. To the nights she stayed at a friend's house and lied about why. The organization had promised her power, money, safety—and she believed she would finally give her mother a new life. Far away from that man. Far from pain. But she never used her powers. Not against him. Not even once. Because deep down, she feared what using them in anger might make her become.
Then, fifteen minutes later, the elevator chimed again.
But something was wrong.
The sound was no longer pleasant. It rang too long, a sustained tone that clawed at the nerves. The doors opened, but instead of more trainees stepping out, the elevator lights flickered violently. Sparks spat from the ceiling. The machine groaned, then died. Silent. Frozen.
One boot stepped forward.
A single, deliberate step echoed like a thunderclap through the chamber. Every head turned.
From the darkened shaft emerged a lone figure, descending the steps with the unhurried grace of something ancient and inevitable.
It was Alma.
His presence struck the air like a curse. The light around him dimmed as if repelled by his being. A low hum began to build—not from machinery, but from within their chests. A fear too primal to name.
He should not have been here. No one knew how he found this place. No one could even ask. Their throats tightened as he drew closer. He was not running. He was not yelling. He was simply... walking. Slowly. Calmly.
And
There were no words of threat. No warnings. Just the slow walk itself, like something remembered from a nightmare too old to trace.
A woman—perhaps the first one to believe he could be saved—took a trembling step forward and reached out to him.
Her head separated from her shoulders a moment later.
The silence shattered.
Panic exploded.
Screams tore through the room as the superhumans scattered, rushing toward the elevator. But the machine remained dead, lifeless. Some tried to climb its walls, others pounded against the steel. A few attempted to scale the chamber itself, seeking any way out. Alma moved through them like a god of execution, his blade singing through flesh and bone with horrifying ease.
No one escaped. No one was spared. He did not tire. He did not stop.
In that moment, they all understood what had truly happened.
They had been lied to.
By the Organization.
By the Founder.
By the General.
Alma was never someone to be helped. He was not a fallen friend to be lifted up. He was the end. The reaper wearing a mask of man.
In just thirty minutes, five thousand superhumans—trained, gifted, and full of hope—fell before the cold fury of a single man.
And then there was one.
The cookie woman.
She knelt amidst the blood and broken bodies, her bag of cookies still clutched to her chest as she curled into herself, rocking slowly, whispering the same question over and over in a broken, childlike voice.
"Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?"
Alma approached.
She looked up, eyes wide and almond-shaped, glistening with tears and unspeakable fear. She reached out—not to fight, not to flee—but to offer the box of cookies with shaking hands, as though kindness might yet reach whatever was left of the man he once was.
He said nothing.
He raised his machete.
One swing.
The box split. Her chest opened like torn cloth. She fell, and the cookies crumbled across the ground—sweetness turned to ruin.
And then there were none. She was dead.
---
A bronze boot stepped onto the cracked asphalt of the church parking lot, its metallic sheen catching the dim light of the overcast sky. The building before them loomed in silence, worn down by time and neglect, yet still standing as if stubbornly clinging to its purpose. A sign rested just beside the entrance, its white paint chipped and weather-beaten. It read, "Witnesses of Archangel Gabriel."
Epher walked a few steps behind The General, her posture uncertain, eyes darting around the lot. "Do you think the plan worked?" she asked, her voice quiet but edged with anticipation.
The General gave a curt nod, his gaze fixed ahead. "Yes. Alma is far too perceptive not to have figured it out. He would have traced the clues. He's already here."
There was a pause before Epher spoke again, her tone shaded with concern. "And the superhumans… do you think any of them made it out alive?"
Graviel, walking nearby, answered before The General could. His voice was low and sharp. "Unlikely. It's like throwing a starving lion into a pen full of sheep. You tell me—who comes out on top?"
"It all depends on one thing," The General added, his eyes narrowing, "Whether or not Alma still clings to that blood-crazed mindset."
Epher blinked, confusion clear on her face. "What do you mean?"
Inanagi, trailing behind them with slow, measured steps, chimed in. "If Alma is calm—collected, in his normal state—then he's significantly more dangerous. Methodical. Harder to predict. We might lose a few people if we face him like that. But if he's still enraged, still lost in that frenzy… then he's easier to manipulate. Easier to trap."
"All of this," Graviel added, voice flat, "is a mind game."
Epher glanced down at her hands, nervously twiddling her fingers. The silence between them grew heavier, thicker, as they approached the church's doors.
Elinor broke the quiet with a sudden snarl of emotion. Her eyes were wild, lit with fury. "I want to kill him. After what he did to me—after humiliating me like that! He just walked away, didn't even check if I was still alive. That bastard."
"Careful, Elinor," Kojo warned, his voice devoid of warmth, eyes like stone. "You don't want to end up like Ilene."
Elinor scoffed and turned away, folding her arms.
"That's enough," The General said, stopping at the church doors. "You all know the plan. Stay focused."
He pushed the doors open. A musty draft escaped from within, carrying with it the scent of dust and something metallic—blood, perhaps. The church interior was chaos. Rows of pews had been overturned. The floorboards had been clawed up in places. Windows were shattered, and a cold breeze drifted through the gaps. Whatever peace had once lived here had long since fled.
The evidence was undeniable. Alma had come—and not quietly.
"He's here," they all thought at once, a single realization shared like a ripple through still water.
The General turned his gaze toward Graviel. "Collapse it."
Without hesitation, Graviel stepped forward and extended his arm. The air grew heavy, dense. A subtle vibration moved through the floor, and with a deep groan of shifting weight, the ground gave way beneath them.
Inanagi was already summoning one of her Rice Puppets—a grotesque blob-like creature with wings too small for flight, fluttering in a pathetic buzz. Epher created a rising stone platform beneath Kojo and Elinor, lifting them safely into the air. The General, with practiced ease, mimicked Graviel's ability and floated upward as the floor beneath them crumbled into darkness.
Beneath the church was a hollowed expanse, its emptiness stretching far beyond natural bounds. Below them stood Alma—still, silent, drenched in blood. All around him were the broken bodies of superhumans. Their plan had worked. The Nightmare had awakened.
"Alma Daedalus Alastor…" The General's voice rang out, heavy with cold certainty.
To his right hovered Inanagi, Graviel, and Nebeliel. To his left stood Epher's platform, holding Kojo and Elinor. The seven of them together—J.I.B.R.I.L.'s last agents.
"You will die on this day," The General declared, voice like steel.
Alma stared up at them, his eyes filled still with hate, despite the voice in his head. His eyes narrowed, landing on Elinor, a flicker of incredulity crossed his face. All six of his enemies gathered again—and now, with The General among them. Alma wasn't sure how this would end. But as a smirk crept onto his face, pride shimmered behind his eyes. An even bigger emotion than hatred. His ego. He wouldn't run. Not from this.
It all came down to this. The final conflict. The Sanctum Arc versus the Nightmare of Modernity.
Alma's sclera darkened as his Evil Eyes activated, triple sixes spinning into place at the center of each eye. His grip tightened on the rusted machete in his hand, trembling with excitement that overpowered hatred. He was ready.
Kojo was the first to strike, appearing before Alma in an instant. Alma raised his blade, parrying the blow just in time. But before he could regain balance, a metal beam crashed into him, sending him flying backwards—through the wall, through dirt, through concrete. Alma bursted out, turnimg just in time to see the underground train station.
The civilians inside gasped as Alma burst into view. Graviel stepped through the hole in the wall, arm raised, already beginning to collapse the ceiling.
Alma fired his shotgun, forcing Graviel block with his forcefield. He couldn't let innocent people die here—not for him. His eyes locked on Graviel's, his anger rising—but not the blinding kind. The cold, cutting kind.
The ceiling above him cracked, then exploded.
From the opening came one of Inanagi's Rice Puppets—a tall, twisted creation with massive hammers for hands. It swung violently, each blow threatening to flatten the entire platform. Alma dodged, agile and precise, before grabbing onto one of its arms and using the momentum to hurl himself upward.
As he moved, another Rice Puppet hovered behind him—this one used for Inanagi's flight. It spat a stream of sizzling acid, and Alma had to twist midair to avoid being struck. The acidic vapor made him gag.
Then, a hand erupted from the floor, reaching for his ankle. Alma barely avoided it—just in time for Epher to send a barrage of stone spikes toward him.
He dodged some, blocked others with his machete. But then Graviel returned, slamming a vending machine into his back. Alma crashed to the ground, wind knocked out of him.
From the tunnel, he heard Kojo chanting. A trap. No doubt meant to pin him down for a final blow.
Before he could react, Elinor smashed into him like a freight train, sending him hurtling into the tunnel wall. She didn't let up. Before he could fall, she slammed into him again, dragging him against the concrete and deeper into the passage.
Alma gritted his teeth. He grabbed her arm, the one around his neck, and leveraged it to bring his knee up hard—straight into her upper spine. The strike stopped their momentum cold. Alma was thrown forward. Elinor hit the tracks.
He heard it: the rumble of an oncoming subway train. Panic flared. If either of them hit it, the consequences could be deadly. Not for them, but for the passengers on board.
Without hesitation, Alma seized Elinor by the throat and ran, vaulting off the walls of the tunnel in quick succession until they were back on the platform. He threw her across it, away from the tracks, just as the train roared past.
Alma exhaled, heart racing. He had to leave. This wasn't the battleground. Too many lives were at stake.
But as he moved toward the exit, Graviel and Inanagi appeared to block his path.
Graviel was wearing a mask now. So was Elinor. Alma's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right.
Suddenly, roots tore through the ground, launching him upward against his will.
"Shield," Alma commanded, and the rocky dome erupted around him.
Inanagi summoned a new Rice Puppet—tall, pale, skeletal. It had six arms, each tipped with wicked blades.
"Subject of Chemical 12-TZ: Wraithend," she announced coldly.
Next to her, Graviel raised his hand. The air around his index finger shimmered, warping with intense gravitational force.
"Graviton Lance: Collapse Shot!"
He aimed.
An almost imperceptible object surged toward Alma. Shaped like a teardrop, yet unnaturally elongated to nearly two meters in length, it cut through the air with silent precision. As it advanced, the space behind it began to ripple and distort, while the space ahead twisted, bent, and stretched unnaturally—as if reality itself recoiled in anticipation.
At the same moment, another object—a blur of momentum—raced toward Alma's Shield, its velocity bordering on the speed of light.
The impact was immediate and devastating.
Upon collision, it carved out a three-meter-wide area of compression, folding the very fabric of space around Alma's protective dome. And then—unexpectedly—it shattered.
The dome. Shattered.
Alma's eyes widened in disbelief. His greatest defense, thought to be unbreakable, had splintered like glass.
Something was wrong.
Before he could make sense of it, Inanagi's Rice Puppet—Wraithend—rushed him. Alma, still suspended in mid-air and caught off guard, twisted and dodged as best he could. The blade swipes came fast, relentless, missing him by inches as they both descended toward the ground.
With a sharp kick, Alma sent Wraithend flying, giving himself a moment to regroup. But just as quickly, the puppet appeared before him once again. Graviel had used a microscopic wormhole to relocate it instantly.
Only one question consumed Alma's thoughts: How?
How had Shield broken?
It was supposed to be his ultimate defense. Was it now vulnerable to attacks that manipulated space? Was that its flaw? The question echoed through his mind, but the constant onslaught denied him time to dwell on it.
He drew his shotgun and fired. The blast tore Wraithend's head clean off, buying him a few precious seconds to think, maybe counterattack.
Then he heard a voice, faint yet unmistakable, calling out from within the tunnel.
"Astral Light."
Another voice followed.
"A Thousand Suns."
Alma raised his hand, aiming toward the tunnel, but before he could respond—
He was struck from behind. Wraithend again. The blow launched him forward.
Graviel appeared in front of him and landed a clean uppercut, sending Alma rocketing through the ceiling of the underground train station. He erupted onto the road above, his body crashing into a line of parked cars, their frames crunching under his weight and softening the impact—slightly.
From the smoking hole below, Kojo emerged.
His invisible cloak shimmered faintly, its pink-tinted ends flickering as they caught the sunlight. A mask obscured his face.
Without hesitation, Kojo sprinted toward Alma. Reacting quickly, Alma planted his hands and launched himself upward. Kojo followed, leaping after him.
"Spear," Alma muttered.
A near-invisible spear shot forth from his hand, aiming directly at Kojo.
But Kojo batted it aside.
Alma's eyes widened again. Another technique—neutralized. Another ultimate weapon—ineffective.
Kojo closed the distance fast, forcing Alma to grab his opponent's free hand and hurl him away, desperate to regain control.
What was happening?
Had his powers weakened? Or had his opponents simply surpassed him?
Alma landed, just barely avoiding Kojo's follow-up slash. They were fighting under broad daylight, and Alma began to question the recklessness of it all. No cars drove past. No pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks. But all around them, windows stared like eyes—anyone could be watching.
He ducked, dodged, weaving through Kojo's flurry of attacks. He didn't dare test Shield against him. Not after seeing Spear so easily brushed aside.
Kojo landed a solid kick, launching Alma high above the buildings. The two of them twirled in the sky like dancers caught in a violent rhythm. Alma's foot found Kojo's back, and the return strike sent Kojo plummeting through the roof of the station once again.
Alma descended, using Shield to cushion his fall. At least it still did that.
But doubts crept in.
He wanted to run. Wanted to know why—why his weapons felt like toys, why his defenses crumbled like paper. His greatest techniques felt like tossing plastic straws and shielding himself with tissue.
It was humiliating.
Yet despite it all—he smiled.
Seven against one. Most would have given up before it began. And given the scale of the assault, with the top agents of J.I.B.R.I.L. converging on a single teenager—it should have been hopeless.
But Alma had something most didn't. And if others did have it, theirs wasn't as colossal.
Ego.
Suffocating. Absolute. Not arrogance—belief. The unwavering conviction that he could win.
"I believe," he whispered to himself, "and so I will."
His Soul Sense sharpened as six of the seven agents emerged from the tunnel. The General was absent. That puzzled him. If the General knew Shield and Spear had weaknesses, why wasn't he attacking? Did he truly think the others alone could finish the job? Did he believe Alma wasn't worth his time?
That thought stung his pride more than any weapon.
Alma shot forward, grabbing Kojo by the face and leaping high. Graviel attempted another teleportation, but Alma's foot met his face, sending him flying. Nebeliel and Inanagi gave chase, while Epher and Elinor rode a rising platform of rock.
Without pause, Alma hurled Kojo into an unfinished building, reducing its structure to rubble. Dust and smoke billowed. Alma landed, using Shield once again, and gave chase.
Kojo was already back on his feet.
He swung his blade horizontally, forcing Alma to leap above the attack. Landing behind him, Alma dodged another slash, then struck Kojo's jaw with a brutal punch. The impact cracked the pavement and sent Kojo spiraling through reinforced concrete pipes, obliterating them.
Graviel blinked in behind Alma again. Another kick sent him away.
Alma would hurt them first. He'd take them apart, piece by piece.
Graviel retaliated, hurling rebar at him. Alma knocked each one aside and closed the distance, but this attack was only a bluff. Inanagi was closing in. Alma used Graviel's own forcefield to boost himself upward—straight toward her.
He landed on the Rice Puppet.
Inanagi gasped as Alma's machete came for her stomach.
But vines wrapped around his arm, stopping the blow. Alma aimed his shotgun at her, ready to fire—
—and was yanked backward.
Epher and Elinor waited. He aimed the gun at Elinor, but a thick wall of stone rose in front of her, absorbing every shot.
He freed his arm with the body of his shotgun, then landed on the rocky platform. No time to reload. He holstered the weapon and bolted around the wall. Epher launched spikes of jagged stone, but Alma evaded them all.
He tackled Elinor. They both tumbled off the platform.
"Elinor!" Epher cried out as he watched her fall.
Alma didn't hesitate.
"This time, I'll make sure you die," he growled.
And with that, he slammed her into the ground.
They crashed through the earth, descending back into the train station. Alma pursued without pause.
He grabbed Elinor by the neck and dragged her across the tunnel wall, returning the favor for what she had done to him before.
His grin stretched ear to ear.
He was enjoying this.
At the next platform, Alma stopped. Then, without ceremony, he hurled her through the ceiling and into yet another building.
Elinor used the roots of nearby trees to anchor herself to the ceiling.
"Seed of Life. Twist and Mend. Grow from Life. Rise from Death," she chanted as vines coiled around her body.
Alma grinned maniacally up at her, making her flinch despite herself.
"Sacred Sprout," she whispered. "Bark Unbowed," she added, voice trembling but resolute.
Flowers bloomed along the vines, forming a radiant gown of living petals.
Alma let her finish the chant without interference. This wouldn't be a true fight unless they went all out.
"Photosynthesis."
The flowers erupted in a chain reaction, releasing a luminous green mist. Elinor had become immortal.
Alma's grin widened. Without hesitation, the entire top of the building disintegrated, bathing Elinor in sunlight.
The vines on her arms twisted and thickened, merging into a heavy-looking sword that dropped into her hand. Like her dress, it glowed with green mist and bloomed flowers.
She leapt from the rooftop, sword raised to strike. Alma brought up his machete, meeting her blade mid-air. The impact shattered the structure beneath them, causing the rest of the building to collapse.
Graviel, Inanagi, and Epher saw the ruin fall and immediately moved to intercept.
The collapse drove both Alma and Elinor underground. Roots burst from the soil, thrashing Alma through the dirt.
"Spear," he muttered.
A half-invisible projectile tore through the roots, clearing the space around him.
Elinor gasped. The moment Spear severed the roots, she lost her connection to them entirely.
She advanced more cautiously now. Despite her endless reservoir of plant life, rushing in blindly was no longer an option.
He weaved through each root hurled in his direction, Spear flashing in his hand to destroy even those that hadn't been aimed at him. Elinor felt something she hadn't in years—nervousness. Despite her immortality, a shiver ran through her. It felt like she could still die.
Alma raised his hand toward her, preparing to summon Spear once more—
—but before he could release it, a massive boulder slammed into him, lifting him from the dirt and hurling him onto the black tar road.
He rolled across the street, tumbling until he landed face-down. Another boulder tore through the air toward him.
"Spear," Alma muttered, and Spear shot forward, shattering the stone into dust.
A plan began to form in his mind.
Epher summoned rocky spikes from the ground, but Alma dashed straight at her. Elinor rose from beneath the soil, sunlight illuminating her figure as vines erupted to snare him—too slow.
Alma closed the distance between them.
In a single, fluid motion—her head flew from her shoulders.
"Elinor!!" Epher's scream shattered the air.
The ground cracked open beneath Alma, a trench a mile wide yawning to swallow him whole. The walls of earth slammed shut around him with cataclysmic force, leveling nearby buildings.
But Epher wasn't finished.
She twisted the trench walls into a massive sphere of stone, five city blocks in diameter, and hurled it across the horizon toward the mountains miles away.
The impact obliterated the peaks, sending shockwaves through the earth. Yet the sphere remained mostly intact, only fragments chipping from its form.
Epher was already there, her rage making a mockery of her usually timid demeanor. She hated Alma—for the superhumans he had killed, for the futures he had ruined.
Graviel, Inanagi, and Nebeliel flew to her. Nebeliel carried both Elinor and Kojo.
Then—faster than any of them could react—something pierced Epher's chest.
Their eyes widened in disbelief—even Kojo's.
From the center of the massive stone sphere, a tunnel had been carved, leading straight through its core. At the other end, Alma stood, arm raised, smile unwavering.
"Spear," he whispered.
The platform Epher stood on collapsed. The prison of stone that had held Alma crumbled with it.
He was free.
In a burst of speed, he dashed up the ruined mountain, leapt high—and reached for Graviel's face.
But Inanagi's Rice Puppet slammed him out of the air with a crushing hammer blow.
"Nebeliel! Take Elinor to Epher—she's the only one who can heal her!" Inanagi commanded, urgency thick in her voice.
Graviel floated in the air, shaken. Behind his mask, his face was twisted in horror. Alma had almost reached him. If not for Inanagi...
"Focus!" Inanagi snapped, appearing beside him. "We need you."
Graviel nodded, shaking off his daze.
Faster than her, he soared above the crater Alma had fallen into, keeping a few hundred feet of distance as precaution.
Below, within the mountain, Alma chuckled. There was something amusing to him—though what, none could tell.
"The Greatest Offense: Spear," he declared, aiming his hand at Graviel.
The Spear blazed upward, but Graviel's forcefield intercepted it. He blinked in shock—not just because it had been blocked, but because he couldn't control it. Couldn't reflect it back. And then—it vanished.
Something was wrong. Spear had been... slower. Duller. And that arrogant gleam in Alma's eyes from before—gone.
But there was no time for doubt. He had to protect the others. He had to kill Alma.
Graviel raised his hand.
"Graviton Lance: Collapse Shot!" he intoned, loosing a translucent, teardrop-shaped projectile.
Alma didn't summon Shield as he had before.
He ran straight toward it—up the walls of the crater, smile widening.
His Soul Sense flared, granting a fleeting moment of clarity.
A plan took form as he reached for the Collapse Shot—
---
Meanwhile, Nebeliel laid Elinor gently beside Epher.
"As soon as you heal her, come back. We need everyone," Nebeliel urged. "This fight... it's a team effort. We have to weaken him."
Elinor nodded and turned to tend to Epher's wound. The hole in her chest was far worse than it had first appeared.
Epher had fallen behind the mountains, out of sight from Graviel and Inanagi.
Her heart was completely gone. Epher had mere seconds to live. Vines coiled around her chest, wrapping the void where her heart once beat.
Healing herself was second nature to Elinor. She could replicate every cell, every strand of DNA with such precision that she could regenerate from pure ash. But healing someone else? That required a level of delicacy even she found terrifying to admit.
The reason it came so easily to her was because the Chemical had already bonded to her body. It knew her. But applying it to Epher was different. If she rushed even slightly—or hesitated too long—the Chemical could react violently. It might mutate Epher into a grotesque, pulsing mass of flesh and pus... or worse. Their two Chemicals could reject one another completely and annihilate them both.
Sweat trickled down Elinor's forehead, slipping past her eyelids beneath the mask. The precision required to mimic and refill every one of Epher's cells, especially those that governed heart function, made brain surgery look like finger painting.
Then—there it was.
A pulse. A twitch. A breath.
Epher's heart began to regrow. Blood flowed. Her lungs expanded. Oxygen surged to her brain.
With a violent gasp, her once lifeless eyes burst open.
Elinor exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and hugged her best friend tightly. "You're back," she whispered, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "I'm so happy you're back."
Still groggy, Epher weakly returned the embrace. "What… what happened?" she asked, eyes scanning her surroundings in a daze. Then it hit her. The memories came flooding in.
"Elinor… you died. I-I thought you were..."
Elinor grinned behind her mask. "Roots grew from my body and reattached my head," she said casually, confusing Epher even more.
She blinked. "I thought you were gone…"
"Girl, I'm immortal. But I appreciate the concern." Elinor chuckled softly, releasing the hug and standing.
She extended a hand. Epher took it.
"We still have a mission," Elinor said, eyes narrowing as she looked toward the looming mountain.
Cracking her neck, Epher gave a sharp nod. "Understood. Let's finish this. Together."
From the roots of the earth, and through the earth itself, they both sensed Alma. They darted underground, digging at incredible speed.
Elinor surfaced first. She rose from the tunnel right in front of Alma—and froze when she saw his smirk. Why was he smiling?
Before she could react, a blast of energy tore through her. She turned her head just in time to see Graviel's Collapse Shot make contact.
Epher emerged from behind Alma, her eyes widening in horror as she watched.
The three-meter-radius compressed around Elinor, warping, twisting, and rupturing her body into a collapsing mass.
Graviel's breath caught in his throat. Inanagi arrived just in time to peer into the hole. Nebeliel stood behind her, carrying Kojo. They all watched, stunned, as Alma grinned... and Epher stared in mute disbelief.
"Elinor…!" they all thought in unison.
"What the hell, Graviel?!" Inanagi snapped, but her voice died as she turned to him—completely still. Frozen.
She pieced it together fast.
Alma's laughter erupted—sharp, manic, uncontainable. It worked. His plan worked. He could have dealt with Elinor himself, but watching their shock—knowing Graviel had just killed his own ally—filled Alma with something close to euphoria.
He turned, grabbed Epher's wrist, and flung her out of the hole toward the others.
Inanagi caught her, setting her gently on her Rice Puppet. Alma climbed out behind them.
Elinor could survive incineration, but erasure? That was different. That was final.
Alma stared down the group. The wind tousled his hair and cloak, silent but electric.
His next target...
Kojo.
In a blink, Alma lunged, snatching Kojo before anyone could react. The force launched Inanagi backward, sending her and the Puppet spiraling toward the city.
Kojo struck at Alma mid-air. Alma dodged with terrifying precision. As they hovered above a building, Alma sliced through the Puppet's hand—sending both of them plummeting.
They punched and parried mid-fall, blades flashing.
They crashed through the roof, floor after floor giving way until they slammed into the ground floor in an explosion of concrete and smoke. Civilians screamed and scattered in chaos.
Kojo was the first to break through the haze, sent flying into the street. He collided with a car, flipping it over on impact.
Alma followed calmly, stepping out of the building. All eyes turned to him in terror.
Kojo stood, groaning. His enchanted cloak felt useless. Alma wasn't the same. His hatred had twisted into something darker—colder.
---
High above, The General stood atop a nearby building, watching.
He raised a hand to his earpiece.
"It seems Alma's hatred runs deeper than we expected."
"That won't be a problem for the seven of you... will it?" came a raspy, aged voice.
The General scoffed. "No. Just some Christian he turned out to be."
A dry chuckle followed. "You should be a comedian."
Then the voice hardened. "Make sure he dies."
Static.
The General tapped the earpiece, noticing a slight hesitance in his voice. Pusning it aside, he spoke, "No more holding back. All six of you—go all out."
A quiet voice crackled in. "Sir… Elinor is confirmed dead."
The General's eyes widened. "Dead? How?!"
Before he could finish, a spear of metal screamed through the air—narrowly missing his head.
Alma had hurled it toward the General, making it clear he was aware of his presence.
Epher, Graviel, Inanagi, and Nebeliel all closed in on him. Graviel hesitated, unwilling to fire another Collapse Shot—what had happened to Elinor haunted him.
Nebeliel lunged forward, trying to make contact, but Alma leapt back—only to find Kojo already behind him, katana slicing toward his side. Alma thrust his hand toward the blade.
"Spear," he commanded.
A spearhead burst forth, deflecting the katana with a sharp clang.
Kojo's eyes widened beneath his mask.
Alma's smirk deepened. He was enjoying this—the thrill of battle feeding his rising confidence in his physical prowess.
Alma landed softly, the five surrounding him in a tight circular formation. He smirked.
"Come," he said, unfazed.
Kojo lunged first, slicing downward mid-air. Alma sidestepped with ease.
Inanagi summoned Wraithend—the Rice Puppet surged forward, blades raised. Alma met the charge head-on, clashing with its six arms. He tracked each strike, impossibly fast, countering every blow.
From beneath, Nebeliel phased up through the ground, grasping for his leg. Alma hopped back effortlessly, casting a cold glance down at her.
"You can't fool this dog with the same tricks," he muttered.
Above him, Epher summoned a boulder of solid rock, raising it high. Alma looked up with disdain as it dropped toward him.
The boulder slammed down, but Alma remained untouched, encased in Shield. Epher manipulated the mass in the air, but Alma stood, unshaken.
"The Greatest Offense: Spear," he declared—but nothing came. No light. No weapon.
Shield had prevented it.
The barrier dissolved, and Kojo closed in. His blade flashed toward Alma, but he weaved through the strikes. Soul Sense guided him, tracking Kojo's movement—quicker than before. Not vastly, but enough to notice.
Their weapons clashed and were knocked away. In the blink of an eye, they were locked in hand-to-hand combat, moving too fast for the others to follow. Alma caught a kick and hurled Kojo into a nearby bank. Glass shattered as his body tore through the receptionist desk.
Before Kojo could rise, Alma was there. He drove his fist into Kojo's gut, forcing him out of his cloaked phase, then punched again—launching him through the vault and into a neighboring building.
Without pause, Alma turned and dashed outside. He met Nebeliel mid-stride, slamming a fist into her stomach and sending her flying through multiple structures.
"Graviton Attract: Gravemass!"
Graviel raised his hand. A small black disc shimmered into existence—rimmed with white light, its center a singularity of condensed mass. Roughly the size of a palm, he hurled it like a discus.
As it spun, it began to consume. Streetlights, debris, concrete, entire sections of the street—ripped into its orbit. Graviel had calibrated it to ignore Kojo, Nebeliel, Inanagi, and Epher.
Alma leapt to avoid it, but the Gravemass began pulling in his shotgun. He gritted his teeth and let go. He couldn't afford to be dragged in with it.
This was no ordinary technique. Graviel's gravity-based attacks—like the Collapse Shot—could pierce through Shield. Alma had to be careful.
Graviel narrowed his eyes, puzzled. Why hadn't Alma activated Shield again? Did he think it unnecessary? If so, perhaps Shield could've resisted Gravemass too.
"Decrease in Mass, Grow in Height."
Graviel's voice rang out, and Alma's head snapped toward him, eyes widening.
He had to run—now.
But Inanagi's hammer puppet smashed Alma forward—straight toward Graviel.
The disc's gravitational pull waned as it shrunk in destructive power, then locked onto Alma, pinning him in place.
"Distort Reality, Reveal Fantasy."
A black ring ignited in the sky, enclosing the city in its bounds.
"Point of Focus, Absolute Singularity!"
Darkness swallowed the world. The void consumed all.
"Thronefield: Mass of Final Measure: White Abyss."
A brilliant explosion shattered the darkness. The city disintegrated in a blinding flash. And from that destruction… stars were born. Galaxies unfurled across the void that seemingly stretched on for eternity.
Graviel had recreated a Big Bang—birthing a new universe within the ring.
This was his Thronefield. His domain. And within it, he was untouchable. A god in orbit.
But even as the galaxies bloomed, Shield surrounded Alma. He had summoned it the moment before the final chant.
And once again—it held.
The blast battered against it, but not a single fracture formed. Not a chip. Alma stood untouched.
For a moment, all Alma could think about was this:
In every moment of mortal danger… Shield had never failed.
Had he doubted it before? Had he underestimated Spear and Shield because of the overwhelming might of others? Maybe. But not now. Not anymore.
Only those Graviel had spared—Kojo, Epher, Inanagi, Nebeliel, and The General—remained alive. It was as if they, too, had been inside Shield.
Their eyes, even Graviel's, were wide with disbelief.
"How?" they thought in unison.
This was no longer just a vengeful teenager. This was something else. Had the Devil already taken control? Were they facing something beyond evil? Or was Shield just that strong? But then how did it shatter against Collapse Shot? It was so much weaker than Thronefield.
Shield vanished. Alma exhaled. There was still oxygen inside the ring—a relief. He didn't know if Shield could restore air the same way it restored his arm, and he didn't want to find out.
He turned, locking eyes with Graviel.
"The one I need to watch most… is you."
From afar, The General observed, his thoughts racing. He had anticipated Shield would be powerful—but this? This wasn't defense. This was divine.
Graviel's final technique, Thronefield: Mass of Final Measure: White Abyss, was designed to annihilate everything within a 500-square-mile radius—the size of the ring. It mimicked the theorized explosion that birthed the universe.
And it was final because once it ended—so would Graviel.
Even Elinor, had she still lived, couldn't bring him back.
It was like being touched by Nebeliel when she phased.
Like Graviel's Collapse Shot.
There would be nothing left to restore.
The General processed every outcome, every variable. Then realization struck:
They couldn't win.
So they'd do something worse.
---
Alma fired Spear at Graviel.
Graviel merely waved his hand—and the rocky projectile vanished into another galaxy.
Within this ring, Graviel needed no wormholes. With a mere thought, he could open a rift within this space and transport objects. It worked on everything. But did that include Alma? Was he considered an object?
Graviel appeared behind him, attempting to teleport him away—but Alma formed Shield just in time to block the attempt. There was a clear difference between Graviel before Thronefield and after.
First, his wormholes could only affect inanimate objects. That time he, Epher, and Nebeliel had tried to kill Alma inside a massive wormhole—Graviel must've prepared a chant beforehand. Or maybe that hand sign had enabled it.
Either way, he couldn't teleport living constructs.
Second, Alma could still track Graviel's teleportation. Even if it was instantaneous, his Soul Sense allowed him to follow. Of course, Alma couldn't move at the speed of light—nor instantly. But he could see Graviel's soul shift move his body followed. By reading the soul's intent, Alma could accurately predict exactly where Graviel would appear and position himself in advance. To the outside observer, it looked as though he was keeping pace with instant teleportation.
For now, Alma stayed inside Shield. He didn't know whether Graviel had endless stamina within this domain—but eventually, he would find out.
Kojo, Inanagi, Epher, and Nebeliel stood at a distance, watching as Graviel unleashed his full fury against the dome. He warped spacetime, fired multiple maximum-powered Collapse Shots, and used every high-level technique at his disposal.
And yet, none of them left even a scratch on Shield.
Just as Graviel prepared to launch another Collapse Shot, the dome vanished. Alma blurred forward with inhuman speed, appearing behind Graviel in an instant.
He raised his arm and took aim.
"The Greatest Offense: Spear!" Alma shouted, releasing Spear.
The space in front of Graviel twisted and bent, opening a rift in spacetime to absorb it—but Spear phased straight through. Their eyes all widened, even The General's.
Spear struck Graviel's forcefield, which he had strengthened far beyond its limit.
An unstoppable force had just met an immovable object.
The collision cracked the very fabric of space, sending massive shockwaves across the battlefield. Graviel screamed, bracing against the attack.
And for a moment, it seemed like he could stop it.
But Alma believed.
He believed Spear could break through.
He believed Spear could kill him.
And with that belief—its power surged.
Spear tore through the forcefield with a loud, shattering boom, knocking the five back. It screeched with a haunting yell, terrifying all present, as it pierced Graviel's chest.
Everyone froze.
Time froze.
Alma smiled.
The opposite of despair… was hope.
Belief.
The white void vanished. The massive ring encircling what remained of the city faded.
Graviel was dead.
But the moment his body could collapse, The General appeared beside Alma.
He grabbed Alma by the head, soared into the air, and hurled him across the sky—slamming him into another city. Concrete shattered. Buildings buckled. A storm of debris rose from the crater.
Alma stood up slowly, facing The General from across the street.
They locked eyes.
"Your next opponent… is me," The General said.
The answer…
Versus the problem.