The Mirror Shatters
The mirror sanctum no longer shimmered. It pulsed.
At the heart of it stood Amon, arms folded behind his back, staring into the freshly formed thirteenth reflection.
The image within was... incomplete. Not a person. Not yet.
A silhouette. A presence. A question given form.
Behind him, Rias approached, her steps neither hurried nor hesitant. The crimson in her hair had now faded completely into snow-white, while her once warm eyes flickered like dying stars—bright, and cold, and ancient.
"You reached it," she murmured.
Amon smiled, his monocle catching light from nowhere.
"Not reached. Revealed. This final echo was always here. Waiting. Watching."
She gazed into the glass and gasped. "That's—"
"Yes," Amon cut in gently. "The observer. The one outside the story."
Rias staggered. "The reader?"
"Exactly. Every game needs a final player."
And as he touched the mirror, it no longer rippled.
It devoured light.
Azazel's Gambit
Azazel hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.
He paced around a circle of chalk and blood, ancient glyphs carved in dragon bone glowing faintly around him.
Across the chamber stood Wong, arms crossed, skeptical but ready.
"So your plan is... what? Use a fragment of narrative entropy to reassert canon?"
Azazel wiped sweat from his brow.
"Not canon—consistency. There's a difference. If I can align the Neith residue with a bounded reality anchor, I can momentarily pause Amon's distortions."
Wong raised an eyebrow. "You're going to hit a multidimensional trickster god with a… pause button?"
"Not pause. Just make him listen."
He snapped his fingers. The circle flared.
From the center rose a small, golden sphere.
A voice echoed out—high, female, calm.
"Hello, Azazel. This is Metatron. Request acknowledged. Emergency thread insertion approved. Causal order will stabilize for three minutes. Begin counter-insight."
The spell clicked.
Azazel vanished.
The Meeting – Azazel and Amon
Azazel found himself in a blank white void.
No ceiling. No floor. Just... whiteness.
Amon stood there already, arms folded, smiling like he had expected this.
"You always were the sharpest, Azazel."
The fallen angel said nothing. He tossed the golden sphere toward Amon. It hovered between them, humming.
"You're unraveling this world. You know that, right?"
Amon twirled the monocle in his fingers. "Of course. That's the point."
"Why?"
Amon stepped closer.
"Because this is a lie. All of it. A play. A stage. The same motions, again and again. Rias acts noble. Issei acts perverse. Devils pretend to have redemption arcs. I just… took off the mask."
"What happens when you tear off everyone else's mask?"
Amon leaned in. His voice was a whisper.
"Then we get to see what they really are."
The sphere crackled.
Azazel raised his hand. "You could destroy them."
"They were never real. Not until I made them see it."
For a moment, silence.
Then Azazel sighed.
"You're not even trying to win anymore. You're trying to make them feel it."
"They have to. Or else none of it means anything."
Time began to fracture. A golden shimmer swept through the void.
"Goodbye, Azazel," Amon said, smiling. "Next time, bring more gods."
Meanwhile – Issei and the Hollow
Issei had stopped trusting reflections.
But this time, the distortion wasn't in a mirror. It came from his shadow.
Late at night, in the old part of the school, he saw it twitch when he didn't move. He froze. Ddraig's voice whispered low.
{He's leaking through the cracks. Protect your soul.}
But it was too late.
The shadow rose.
It took his shape.
"Why do you think they chose you, Issei?"
"Because I fight for my friends!"
The doppelgänger laughed.
"No. You were chosen because you're simple. Easy to predict. Easy to mold."
Issei raised his fists. The Boosted Gear flashed crimson.
"I'm not like you."
"You're becoming me."
They charged.
Fists collided.
But neither drew blood.
Because the moment of contact—
—reversed.
Time snapped back two seconds. Then again. Then again.
"What is this?!"
{He's turned your battle into a looped possibility. You're stuck in a combat reflection!}
"How do I break it?"
{Do something unexpected. Something that doesn't fit the loop.}
Issei hesitated.
Then he screamed—and hugged the doppelgänger.
The clone paused.
"What…?"
Issei whispered, "I forgive you."
The loop shattered.
And the reflection wept.
The Divine Watcher Acts
High above, the god in disguise felt the ripple.
The thirteenth echo was now fully awake.
He looked at the stars—they no longer moved as they should. Constellations rewrote themselves mid-night. Time crawled like honey across a dying page.
"He's turning the narrative into a sandbox," the god whispered.
He opened his palm again.
The silver needle floated above it.
"Last chance."
And he plunged it into the ground of Kuoh itself.
Reality jerked.
And a single line of divine script appeared across every mystical text in the world:
THE THREAD UNWINDING HAS A NAME.
AND THE NAME IS AMON.
Rias Confronts Herself
Back in the mirror sanctum, Rias stood alone.
Amon had left again, traveling between broken causality strands, tugging at memories like puppet strings.
She stared into the thirteenth reflection—now her own face, but wrong. Shimmering. Transparent.
It smiled.
"You're just a role. A symbol of desire and nobility stitched together by teenage fantasy."
"I'm more than that."
"Are you? Or are you just a reward at the end of a perverted path?"
She clenched her fists. "That's not all I am."
"Then prove it."
The reflection shattered.
And from the shards stepped a version of her with wings twice the size, and eyes like flame.
The True Devil Queen of the Gremory Line.
They fought.
And only one emerged.
Amon's Final Piece
Amon walked along the rooftops of Kuoh Academy, balancing on the edge like a child.
Below, people wept. Laughed. Fought. Fell in love.
He watched the chaos as though it were theater.
Then, he pulled from his coat a tiny glass orb—the size of a marble.
Inside it was a single line of narrative. Still untouched.
"Always save one lie," he mused. "You never know when you'll need to believe in something."
He pocketed the orb.
And the sky split open.