Alma continued walking, his boots crunching against the gravel roads of Wyoming. The sky stretched endlessly above him, pale and cloudless, as if nature itself had gone silent—watching, waiting. For the time being, he was done with the world. Not in some dramatic, world-weary sense, but in the simple way of labor and coin. The pursuit of jobs, of structure and paychecks and tightly scheduled lives—it meant nothing to him now.
This detachment wasn't born solely from Jiang's death, though it certainly contributed. No, Alma had chosen this path because something inside him demanded stillness. Reflection. To immerse himself in the untouched wilds of nature, because the world around him—this new Earth—was spinning with strange, unfathomable energy, and he hadn't yet caught his balance.
Despite having arrived only days ago, the disorientation never left him. Seventy-five years into the future and reborn into a world with a mystical hierarchy—Ministers, Monarchs, and Masters—Alma felt as though he had stepped not just through time, but into a myth. The rules were unfamiliar, yet rigidly ordained. He learned from Jiang that the Thirty-Six Masters would one day return, once animals—beasts touched by the supernatural—chose new humans to bond with.
And yet, unlike those random animal-bonded Monarchs, Ministers were different. Their selection was not left to chance, but to the ancient, eternal subjects of the universe—forces that watched from beyond and chose humans through three bloodlines: the Sierra Family of Mexico, the Sora Family of Japan, and the Uzochi Family of Africa. Jiang had passed on this secret like a flame flickering on his final breath, uncertain even as he spoke it. He had no idea which family matched which subject.
Becoming a Monarch... Alma still didn't know how he felt about that. Jiang encouraged it—but never made it a dying wish. It lingered in Alma's mind like a half-open door. On one hand, it might offer power, belonging, maybe even purpose. But on the other—it could just as easily be the key to his undoing. What if the creature that chose him saw his true self? What if it knew what he was, or rather, what he wasn't?
He wasn't from here. Not from this Earth. Could such a being even bond with someone like him?
---
Three days passed.
Alma had crossed Wyoming's border and now stood on the edge of Nebraska. The land was flatter here, less wild, less alive. North Carolina, his destination, was still nearly 1,500 miles away. Walking there would take a month, if not more. Abandoning the concept of money had seemed noble when he started. Now? It was beginning to feel like another foolish act of defiance.
He wandered into a small town named Henry, tucked away from time and progress. From a glance, it looked ordinary—quiet streets, worn buildings, a tired charm. But almost immediately, something felt... wrong. The air was heavy. Not with heat or dust, but with pressure. It pressed against his skin like a storm waiting to break, except there were no clouds. Just this... weight. A strange density that surrounded him from every angle, like the very atmosphere had been sealed off.
And then, there were the townspeople. Smiling. Not normal smiles—these were unnatural. Stretching far too wide. Teeth gleaming perfectly white. No saliva, no blinking, no twitching. Just flawless, frozen grins.
A chill rolled down Alma's spine. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong here.
He concentrated, and in an instant, Evil Eyes activated, illuminating the truth. His vision shifted. What he saw stole his breath. A dark dome hovered above the town—an invisible veil that encompassed the entire area. All around him, strange tendrils of shadow slithered through the air. They weren't physical, but emotional—anchored not in the body, but in the soul. They wrapped themselves around the townspeople like spiritual leashes, tugging at their very essence.
These tendrils originated from the top of the dome and looked like serpentine bones—long vertebrae, twisted and cracked, floating through the void. Within their folds shimmered faint stars, like constellations embedded in decay. It was grotesque and mesmerizing.
And they were pulling on him, too.
His ambition, his focus, even his will to leave the town—they were all being drained, like whispers siphoned from a dream. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was a numbness, a creeping apathy, like something external was rewriting his emotions. His very soul.
That's when he saw him.
Out of the corner of his eye—someone. Someone he recognized.
He turned sharply, eyes wide, heart skipping a beat. But whoever it was had vanished. It couldn't be...
Alma ran. He forgot the town. The people. The dome. Everything. That figure—he—was more important. He chased the silhouette through narrow alleys and quiet streets, the memory of familiar clothing spurring him forward. That shirt. Those pants. That walk. It had to be him.
The alleys grew tighter, darker, and just when he thought he'd lost the trail—he stopped. Standing before him were the two people he missed more than anything in the world.
His parents.
They smiled at him, gentle and warm. Familiar. Safe.
Alma's knees almost gave out. His throat tightened, his breath shallow. "I've missed you two so much..." he whispered, tears brimming. "It's been... so hard without you."
He stepped closer, emotions overtaking all reason. They were here. Somehow. Against every law of nature. He reached toward his father's face, trembling.
But something was off.
Their lips never moved. The voices were real, but not spoken. And as Alma's fingers neared his father's cheek, a dark tentacle pierced straight through his father's torso—ghostly, silent—and coiled itself around Alma's arm.
His eyes widened in horror. His parents began to laugh, eerily. Other tentacles emerged from the air, wrapping around his torso, legs, neck—ensnaring him like a spider's web.
The illusion shattered.
The entire world around him melted—his parents, the alleyways, a few buildings—leaving behind only Alma and the abomination that had deceived him.
It emerged from the brick wall like ink seeping from a crack. Its body was coated in a viscous black ooze, its tentacles slithering around its crown like hair. Its face bore a pair of puffy, grotesque lips, formed into an "O" shape—silent, but radiating malice.
A Beast of Ruin.
Alma stared, breath caught in his throat.
"Such raw desires," the beast said, though its mouth never moved. Its voice echoed directly in his mind. "Strongest... in the world."
What did that mean?
Alma unsheathed his rusted machete with some trouble, then tore through the tentacles binding him. As he sliced, he could feel his desires being pulled, absorbed into the creature's mass. It groaned, frustrated.
Then it struck.
A massive tentacle slammed into Alma, launching him across the sky like a ragdoll. "WHAAAAA!!!" He yelled as he flew through the air, then crashed through the roof of the town's only church, splinters and dust flying in every direction. Groaning, Alma rose, brushing the shattered wood from his clothes. The creature was already coming for him.
Alma smirked. Half at his scream.
He picked up his machete and burst through the church doors. Another tentacle swung toward him—he slid beneath it and severed it in one clean cut. Again. And again. But no matter how many he destroyed, more took their place.
It was endless.
He reached for his shotgun on instinct, only to remember—he'd lost it during the battle with Graviel. His hand closed around nothing but air.
He gritted his teeth, darted into a nearby building, hoping to gain higher ground—but the Beast crushed it in a sweeping blow. It scanned the rubble for him, groaning in frustration.
Then it found him—or so it thought.
It snatched up a figure, only to discover it had captured the wrong person. Alma wasn't there.
He was behind it.
"This is payback!" Alma shouted, a smile on his face, slicing down its spine. The Beast screeched as black fluid sprayed from the gash.
And then—something happened.
A pulse. A shift in perception. It wasn't an illusion. Not exactly. It was deeper—born not from the First Circle, but from something entirely new. Something that felt like him.
Alma's right arm extended outward, as if moved by instinct.
"The False Temptation..." he spoke softly, voice low and clear.
And then—another hand gripped his own.
"Mirage."
Twelve voices echoed his own.
From behind him, a dozen versions of himself stepped forward—clones in form, spirit, and strength. They smiled as one.
The Beast of Ruin froze in terror.
How could one man become so many?
The Almas lunged forward together—silent, determined, and deadly.
For the first time since arriving on this Earth, Alma had felt a familiar emotion. A feeling. One that mimicked how Shield and Spear felt. This was not despair, but... desire... and Alma... had claimed it.
They all encircled the Beast of Ruin, weaving around its massive limbs, dodging and ducking beneath its devastating strikes with practiced agility. At one point, the creature landed a blow on one of the Almas, whose body scattered like thick smoke swept away by a violent gust—an unmistakable indicator that this version of Alma was merely an illusion. Yet, instead of vanishing, the clone simply reformed, its smoky body reconstituting with ease, and continued to move as if nothing had happened.
Given the sheer speed and nimbleness with which each clone maneuvered—and the overwhelming number of them—the task of identifying the real Alma amidst the chaos became nearly impossible. Each clone was indistinguishable from the next. Worse yet, whenever one was struck down, it didn't fade or cease; it reformed and slipped seamlessly back into the fray. Every blow landed was rendered meaningless, and each attempt at destroying a clone failed, and it only deepened the confusion, further obscuring the true Alma's location in the swarm.
Taking advantage of the creature's momentary distraction, Alma launched himself high into the air, descending swiftly with killing intent. However, the Beast reacted quickly, spinning around and thrusting a grotesque tendril straight through his midsection. The impact looked fatal… until Alma's body once again dissolved into smoke.
A guttural growl of frustration rumbled from the Beast's throat. But its irritation turned to agony as a sharp pain suddenly tore across its back. Another clone had struck it in the back. The clone it had impaled had not merely vanished—it had reformed around the tentacle and used it as a direct conduit to assault the now distracted beast from behind.
The real Alma, meanwhile, stood atop a distant building, observing quietly. He analyzed the situation with intense focus. These clones weren't mere distractions—they were capable of inflicting real damage, and more remarkably, they thought just like him. Though it had required manipulating some complex metaphysical forces, Alma had succeeded in mirroring not only his physical form, but his exact mental processes and instincts in each clone. These weren't shallow puppets. They were, in every meaningful way, perfect copies.
He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. There was a reason he had chosen not to employ Spear in this battle, despite its devastating power. What he sought was experience—raw, firsthand combat data. There was something peculiar about his clones: whenever one of them suffered a fatal blow, that sensory and experiential data was transferred directly to his true consciousness. But rather than feeling the pain or trauma of death, Alma experienced something far more valuable—knowledge. Information. Insight.
With every simulated "death" a clone endured, Alma instantly absorbed the moments that led to it. He could analyze and revise his tactics in real time, adapting mid-battle with the clarity of someone who had already faced every possible outcome. It was almost surreal—bordering on euphoric. This ability extended beyond combat. In theory, he could exist in multiple places at once. One clone could freeze in the dead of a Siberian winter while another lounged under the Hawaiian sun. He could explore the quiet streets of Tokyo while enjoying a swim in Florida. The only requirement was for the clone to willingly perish—granting Alma access to everything it had seen, heard, and felt.
Back on the battlefield, the Beast of Ruin continued to thrash and rage, engaging the endless stream of clones. Yet no matter how many it struck down, distracted, or destroyed, nothing changed. There was no progress. No opening. No success. It could not identify a pattern, nor adjust to the overwhelming pressure of unkillable foes. And, if Alma were being honest, even he wasn't sure how one might defeat an ability like Mirage. Without Spear, a foe that regenerated endlessly, whose very destruction was meaningless, was effectively unbeatable.
Relying solely on intuition and instinct, it was clear—Spear was overwhelmingly more powerful. Could there possibly be another ability down the line that could rival it… or even surpass it?
He actually felt a twinge of pity for the creature—but only just. After all, this thing had imprisoned the people of this town inside some kind of mysterious black dome. The strangest part was that the dome was entirely invisible to the naked eye; only with soul perception could Alma detect it. And even then, the Beast concealed itself exceptionally well.
Another unsettling detail was the complete absence of law enforcement or military presence. While that at least meant fewer potential casualties, it was disturbing that no one—not a single government agency—had responded to the crisis. Alma found it hard to believe that something of this magnitude had gone unnoticed by a country as powerful and technologically advanced as the United States.
No, there had to be a deeper reason behind this eerie silence. Perhaps the small size of the town was a factor—but Alma's instincts told him otherwise. Something more sinister was at play.
The time for speculation had passed. It was now time for action. The Beast of Ruin stood directly between Alma and the answers he sought. Every clone extended an arm toward the creature, each hand aimed with deadly intent.
"Spear," they said in perfect unison.
But nothing happened.
Spear had not been released. The Beast of Ruin was not instantly killed. The creature remained unharmed. In that instant, Alma confirmed one of his suspicions: his clones, though perfect in form and mind, could not use any of his unique abilities. They were, in essence, skill-locked replicas. This made sense, considering the pattern he had observed with abilities like The Greatest and now The False. If other abilities followed this same convention, then perhaps Mirage could one day wield one of them—assuming they existed at all.
The real Alma raised his hand toward the Beast.
"Spear," he said softly.
In a flash of light, the true Spear burst forth and tore through the Beast's body, encountering no resistance as it passed. The creature let out a distorted howl before dissolving into nothingness. The dome surrounding the city fractured like glass, then shattered entirely, its shards vanishing before they could reach the ground.
As Mirage vanished, the townspeople stopped smiling. Their unnaturally wide grins faded, and many rubbed their jaws, which had gone numb from the unnatural tension. Alma deactivated Evil Eyes and approached a young woman nearby, likely in her mid-twenties. His voice was gentle, almost tender.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
The woman blinked, her heart fluttering at the sound of his voice. His tall stature and soft tone made her momentarily forget everything—her thoughts drifting between marriage and... less innocent thoughts. Before she could reply, a man in his late forties approached.
"Excuse me, young man," he said, catching Alma's attention.
The man wore a sleek black business suit with a green tie and buckleless black loafers. Alma smirked inwardly. If only the mayor knew that Alma was technically fifty-five years his senior.
"Hello, sir. I take it you're the mayor of this fine town?" Alma greeted, extending his hand with a friendly smile.
The mayor shook his hand with matching warmth. "I sure am. What brings you to Henry, Nebraska, of all places?"
Alma tilted his head slightly. "You don't remember what just happened?"
The mayor looked at him, puzzled. "Remember what?"
"Your city was just attacked by a Beast of Ruin," Alma said, as if pointing out something routine.
The mayor immediately shushed him, panic creeping into his expression. "Please, don't mention that to anyone."
Alma raised an eyebrow, gently moving the mayor's hands from his mouth. "Why not? Shouldn't you be alerting the police—or the President?"
The mayor sighed. "The U.S. Army can't even perceive Beasts of Ruin. And the President… he's too busy managing international affairs to deal with things like this personally. Normal humans can't fight these creatures. That's why there's been no help."
"Then who can?" Alma asked, growing more concerned.
"Masters," the mayor answered grimly. "But all of them were killed by the Beast Master. That bastard eliminated the only ones protecting cities like mine. And as for the Monarchs—who America does have access to—they're too arrogant to care about 'insignificant towns' like Henry."
Alma clenched his jaw. The comment about Jiang, his former mentor, rubbed him the wrong way, but he kept his emotions in check.
"Why doesn't America hold the Monarchs accountable? What's the point of their power if they won't use it to defend their people?" he asked.
The mayor chuckled bitterly. "America can't fight a Monarch. If the President tried, they'd both die. Even global superpowers wouldn't stand a chance. Monarchs are like shadow presidents—ruling from behind the curtain. Russia, China, India… all of them follow the same playbook. Unless their governments are wiped out, Monarchs remain above the law."
Alma stared at him, stunned. The arrogance of it all. What a colossal waste of power.
After a pause, Alma rubbed his temples, exhaustion creeping in. "Have any other cities been affected?"
"As far as I know—Torrington, Scottsbluff, and Lyman," the mayor replied.
"Torrington? I passed that place on my way here. How long ago did that happen?"
"Hmm… I'm not sure. Maybe about a week back? I tried contacting the government to request a Monarch, but no one came."
Alma's mind was racing. A puzzle was forming, but several pieces were still missing.
"Oh—before I forget—what's today's date?"
"August 13th, 2031."
Alma's eyes widened. "Sir… I hate to break it to you, but… a full year has passed."
The mayor's face went white with horror. "A WHOLE YEAR?!"
His voice echoed across the town. Residents turned toward him, confused.
"Uh—I mean," the mayor quickly covered, "I was just surprised this can of beans from the 2000s still has life left in it. Pay me no mind!"
The townspeople nodded and walked away, likely returning to their homes.
The mayor leaned in, whispering frantically. "Are you absolutely sure? One hundred percent? The truest man alive?"
"Enough!" Alma snapped, making the mayor stumble back.
"Sorry," he mumbled with a sheepish smile.
"I don't know what's going on… but it's not good," Alma said, eyes drifting toward the trees as the wind made their branches sway.
"I'm not sure if the Beasts of Ruin plaguing Torrington or the other cities are the same as this one. But if they are… then they've been trapped even longer than your people were."
The mayor squinted, confused. "What are you talking about? A Monarch saved us. Why are you claiming you did it?"
"Because I did. All by myself." A half-truth, but still technically accurate.
"No way. I don't believe it. Who even are you?"
That question made Alma pause. Who was he?
Before he could respond, a thunderous sound shook the air. Jets roared overhead, followed by a massive green helicopter descending into the center of town.
The doors opened, and out stepped the President of the United States—tall, composed, radiating authority—followed by a sharply dressed man in a black suit and blue tie.
The President approached with purpose. "Hello, my fellow Americans. I have arrived to deal with a Beast of Ruin. Have you seen one?"
The mayor was about to answer when Alma cut in. "Nope. We haven't seen anything. Right, Mr. Mayor?"
The mayor nodded. "Not a thing."
The President frowned. "Strange. I was certain I sensed something powerful here… but that presence suddenly vanished."
He turned away. "Well, I'm glad everyone here is safe. I must leave now—many citizens still need protection."
"Wait, Mr. President—there are a few other towns that—" Alma tried to interject.
But the suited man stepped forward. "We must depart, Mr. President. Searching for even one Beast across all of America is difficult. We shouldn't waste time chatting."
The President nodded. "You're right, Cordell. Let's go."
The two boarded the helicopter, which soon lifted off into the sky, following the jets.
Alma turned to the mayor. "Who was that guy?"
"Who?"
"That Cordell guy. Gave me a nasty glare. What a prick."
"That was Cordell Brodie. He's running for Vice President." The mayor said simply.
"Greaaaat," Alma muttered, sighing. "What a douchebag."
A short silence insued.
"Do you think he'll actually find them?" Alma asked quietly, breaking the short silence. "The President, I mean. Do you think he'll locate the other Beasts of Ruin?"
The mayor exhaled heavily, his breath carrying a weariness that hadn't quite left him. "To be completely honest... I'm not sure," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's a busy man as it is. Truthfully, I'm surprised he even made it out here at all."
"Yeah," Alma said, nodding slowly. "Maybe something slipped through the bureaucratic cracks, or perhaps this situation demanded his immediate attention more than we realize."
"That does seem like the most likely explanation," the mayor agreed, his voice trailing off.
There was a long pause between the two, one where the dust in the air seemed to settle and the morning sun crept higher over the damaged town. Finally, the mayor turned to Alma once more, a question weighing on his mind.
"May I ask you something?"
Alma tilted his head toward the older man, curious but calm. "Yeah, sure. Hit me."
"Why did you stop me from telling the President that you were the one who defeated the Beast of Ruin?" the mayor asked. "He could've given you a medal. Maybe even granted you some of the privileges Monarchs enjoy."
Alma's expression hardened slightly, not from anger, but from certainty. "And it's for those exact reasons that I didn't want him to know," he said, his tone low but firm. "Just to clarify—I'm not a Monarch. But if I were to accept their perks or even appear to be on the same level as them, then the public would start associating me with that same elitist reputation. That stigma. They'd look at me and think of power-hungry tyrants, not someone who helped them."
He paused, then added, "I refuse to be categorized like that. I don't want my name spoken in fear or disgust. I don't want to become a symbol of control. I want to remain... me."
The mayor nodded slowly, but Alma wasn't finished.
"And there's something else," Alma continued, his gaze drifting toward the sky, where the President's helicopter had disappeared minutes before. "That Cordell guy. He unnerved me. There's something off about him. If I had told the President the truth, then by proxy, Cordell would have known as well. And he strikes me as the kind of man who hides more than he shows. A manipulator. Someone pretending to be smaller than what he truly is."
The mayor let the words hang between them before speaking again. "Well, in any case… thank you. Thank you for saving my town, Mr...?"
"Alma Daedalus Alastor," Alma answered clearly.
The mayor smiled and extended his hand. "Creighton Gilbert. Thank you kindly, Mr. Alastor. I'm truly grateful you were here. From the bottom of my heart."
Alma took the offered hand and shook it with a firm grip and a faint, sheepish smile. "You're welcome. Really. It was no trouble at all."
Their hands separated, and the mayor took a moment to look around his broken town. The church's roof had collapsed. Pavement had split and lifted in jagged places. Several buildings were badly damaged, if not destroyed outright. He let out a deep, exhausted sigh.
"Well," he muttered with reluctant acceptance, straightening his posture. "Looks like I've got a few months of rebuilding ahead of me."
He turned back to Alma one last time. "It was an honor meeting you. I mean it. I can't thank you enough."
Alma's smile lingered, humble and quiet. "Don't mention it, sir."
With a final nod, the mayor turned and walked away in silence, leaving Alma alone in the middle of the battered town.
For a moment, Alma stood still, letting the wind drift through the ruined streets. It was still early in the morning. Too early, in fact, for everything he had already seen. He pondered his next move.
Torrington. Scottsbluff. Lyman.
Or... North Carolina, the journey he'd originally planned to continue.
His eyes dropped to the cracked ground beneath his feet. It would be so easy to walk away now. To pretend that this was a one-time event. That someone else—someone more equipped—would step in and fix things from here. That the President, the military, the nation itself, would eventually do what needed to be done. That he could simply move on.
But as those thoughts formed in his mind, Alma felt a weight in his chest. A sourness in his gut. A nausea in his spirit.
Could he really abandon the people who still needed him? Could he cast aside the pleas of the helpless, the imprisoned, the forgotten, just to chase his own ambition? Would he willingly close his ears to the cries of those trapped in the same darkness he had just saved this town from?
No.
It wasn't in his nature. Not to abandon. Not to ignore. And certainly not to become the kind of person he despised.
But neither was the answer simple.
Charging from one town to the next wasn't just exhausting—it was dangerous. And not in the physical sense. Alma didn't trust Cordell. Not one bit. There was something deeply wrong about that man. Something subtle and hidden. Alma suspected that Cordell had agents—secret eyes and ears working under him—spread throughout towns under siege by the Beasts of Ruin.
It would be typical of someone like that. A puppet master hiding behind smiles and polished words. And if Alma showed up in one of those towns, and one of Cordell's people saw him, they'd report back immediately. And what followed would be... unpredictable. Maybe even catastrophic.
Still, waiting around wasn't an option either.
The people trapped in those other towns didn't need help eventually. They needed help now. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Now.
And Alma knew what that meant.
He inhaled slowly, exhaled sharply, and made his decision.
He would move forward. Not as a Monarch. Not as a soldier. Not as a political piece.
But as Alma Alastor.
The man who refused to walk away when it truly mattered.
The man who would face the shadows, no matter how many eyes were watching.
The man who could not, and would not, turn his back.