When a Filipino got Isekai'd with a twist!
Volume 2 " only I can summon those!"
Chapter 20: Deyviel Keith Martine!
The torches flickered along the moss-covered stone walls, their flames distorted in the damp air. Chains rattled faintly as Chris stirred, every movement dragging a fresh wave of pain across his bruised body. Blood had crusted along his jaw, and his arms hung limp, shackled above him.
The iron door groaned open.
Boots clicked against stone. A figure stepped into the light—tall, clad in black armor, a silver crest etched on his chestplate.
Chris raised his head weakly. One eye was swollen shut, but even with blurred vision, he knew that face.
Or rather… recognized the difference.
"Yingston," Chris rasped, a dry smile tugging at his cracked lips. "You look… different."
The knight stopped a few paces from him, saying nothing.
Chris coughed, blood speckling his chin. "No smug smirk this time? No talk of honor and obedience? Ahh… I get it now." His good eye narrowed. "You're the real one. The guy who got his ass handed to him by Kieth."
Yingston's eyes twitched, just for a second. The confusion wasn't dramatic—but it was real.
Chris saw it and gave a faint chuckle, the sound strained. "Thought so."
Still kneeling to match Chris's height, Yingston frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"The bastard who impersonated you," Chris said slowly, watching him. "He wore your face, your voice... but not your doubt. That guy was too perfect. Too smooth. You... you're rough around the edges. Real."
Yingston's expression darkened. "Who?"
Chris didn't answer immediately. He let silence settle, heavy and deliberate. "Doesn't matter now," he said finally. "You're late to your own story."
Yingston's stare hardened. "You could have run. You had the chance."
Chris gave a crooked grin, even though it pulled at fresh bruises. "Someone had to buy them time. Might as well be the guy without a girlfriend."
Yingston didn't react. He stepped closer, his voice lower. "Your execution's been set. Five days from now, you'll be brought before the people—branded as a traitor, a hero turned butcher. They'll say you killed innocents... and the champions of allied nations."
Chris blinked slowly. He didn't flinch. "So it's public now."
Yingston nodded once.
Chris's gaze burned through the haze of pain. "Then they've already won."
But as Yingston turned to go, Chris straightened, voice rough but clear.
"Hey."
Yingston paused, one foot already at the door.
"If you really want answers... find the man who wears no face. The one with many masks—he shifts forms, copies powers. A mirror with a pulse," Chris murmured. "He's not working alone. Something bigger's behind him. I think... the Demon Lord's pulling the strings."
Yingston didn't turn.
The knight stood there for a second, motionless. Then, without a word, he opened the heavy iron door and walked out. The metal clanged shut, echoing like a final note in a fading song.
Chris sagged back against the cold stone, eyes drifting to the torchlight.
"Now let's see if you're still a knight," he muttered to the darkness. "Or just another pawn."
---
Elvin Capital – Inner Sanctum, Hours Later
Yingston walked through the dim corridors of the palace keep, his armored steps echoing faintly through the narrow halls. Servants avoided his gaze. Guards saluted with wary eyes. The weight of command hadn't felt this heavy since the Eastern Skirmish—but this was worse.
He didn't like doubt. It crept like rust under his armor, corroding his judgment. But Chris's words refused to leave him.
"The man with no face... shifts forms... copies powers."
It sounded like madness. Or prophecy.
He reached his private quarters and bolted the door behind him. Only then did he unstrap his helmet and drop it onto the table with a dull thud. His face was drawn—too young for all this, too old to pretend it hadn't changed him.
He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a sealed scroll—classified reports. Unverified sightings. Rumors from the frontlines. There had been whispers of a shapeshifter in the mountains to the east. Witnesses claimed a masked man had impersonated a general, nearly costing them an entire outpost.
He had dismissed it at the time. Thought it was battlefield hysteria.
Now he wasn't so sure.
Yingston leaned over the table, knuckles white against the wood. "Who the hell are you?" he muttered, eyes scanning the notes.
The name kept coming up.
Nocten.
A mercenary? A ghost? A myth?
The reports weren't clear. Some said he could copy spells, others claimed he mimicked entire fighting styles. Always seen with a different face, always vanishing before anyone could catch him. And worse—no clear allegiance.
But what chilled Yingston most wasn't Nocten himself—it was the pattern. Every appearance preceded political unrest. Framed assassinations. War declarations.
Exactly like now.
He looked toward the window. The moon hung low over the Elvin capital, bathing the marble towers in silver.
If Chris was telling the truth... then the traitor wasn't the man in chains.
It was the man behind the curtain.
And time was running out.
Yingston reached for his sword and strapped it back on.
If there was a mask behind this war—he would tear it off himself.
---
Elsewhere – On the Edge of the Borderlands
The campfire crackled low, barely enough to keep the cold at bay. Josh sat hunched beside it, his shirt discarded and arm freshly stitched. Cane sat across from him, sharpening his blade in silence. Vismond paced, tense, eyes scanning the tree line like a cornered animal.
"They're still looking," Vismond muttered. "Saw patrols from two nations. Both had orders to shoot on sight."
"We expected this," Cane said, voice calm but hard. "The question is how long before they catch up."
Josh tossed a stick into the fire. "Chris bought us five days. We're not wasting them hiding."
Cane looked up. "Then what do you suggest?"
Josh reached into his pack and unrolled an old map—creases torn, some ink faded from blood and rain. He tapped the eastern ridge, near the break in the mountains.
"There's someone we can find. Lyra's last letter said her grandfather kept a sealed archive under the old temple ruins. It's supposed to have records of forbidden magic, faces that should never exist."
Vismond frowned. "You think this masked shapeshifter might be in there?"
"I think if there's even a chance he's real, that archive might be the only way to prove Chris's innocence... and stop this war."
Cane stood, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "Then we better move at dawn."
Josh nodded, eyes hard. "And if that bastard shows up again, this time... we kill him."
---
Elvin Capital – Royal Stables, Just Before Dawn
The fog draped the palace grounds like a second skin, silent and heavy. Lyra moved with purpose, her cloak pulled tight around her, heart racing as she cinched the saddle straps.
"Mochi," she whispered.
From behind a pile of hay, the feline beast emerged—small by behemoth standards, but still powerful. Her silvery fur shimmered in the half-light, tiny horns twitching as she padded forward. Her golden eyes met Lyra's, and she let out a soft, warbling chirp.
Lyra knelt and stroked behind her ears. "Still with me, huh?"
Mochi nudged her, tail flicking. But before Lyra could mount, a voice cut through the quiet:
"You're going through with it."
Lyra froze, spinning around. "Anastasia?!"
The palace headmaid stepped from the shadows, her cloak damp with mist. Her presence here—at this hour, in this place—sent a chill down Lyra's spine. "W-What are you doing here?"
"Stopping you before you ride into a trap," Anastasia said, voice low and tight. She pulled a sealed scroll from her satchel and handed it to Lyra. "From Serena. She's alive. But she's not safe."
Lyra's fingers shook as she broke the seal. Her eyes raced across the page—then back again. Her throat tightened.
"The Chameleon..." she whispered. "He's been orchestrating everything. Chris's arrest... the border skirmishes... even the riots."
Anastasia nodded. "And Serena knows. She's the only one with proof—and they're hunting her."
Lyra's shoulders tensed. Her plans crumbled in an instant.
"I was going to ride to save Chris," she muttered, "but if Serena's in danger, and she has what we need to expose the Chameleon..."
"She must survive," Anastasia said firmly. "Without her, we can't clear the heroes' names. The alliance falls apart, and the demon army wins without ever drawing a blade."
Lyra stared at the message, then slowly folded it. "And Kieth?"
Anastasia's expression shifted. "He's alive. That much we know. The Church says the goddess returned him to his world."
"But you don't believe that."
"No," Anastasia said. "Neither does Serena. Something doesn't add up... but it's not the time to chase ghosts. Not yet."
Before Lyra could speak, the stable doors creaked open.
King Eldrin entered, his presence quiet but commanding. He wore simple robes, a sword at his hip. No crown. No guards. Just him.
"Grandfather..." Lyra murmured, startled.
"I've read the message," he said. "And I agree with Anastasia. We don't have time to chase Kieth's shadow. Not until Serena is safe."
"She's heading toward the Frostmere Ruins," Anastasia added. "She believes that's where the Chameleon plans to strike next—or reveal himself."
Eldrin stepped closer. "If the Chameleon succeeds, the war begins on his terms. And if Serena falls, we lose the only thread tying this all together."
Lyra looked to Mochi, who had climbed onto the saddle and curled up behind it, tail twitching with tension.
"I'll go to her," Lyra said, resolve hardening. "We keep her alive. Then we clear the others. Then... we bring Kieth back."
Eldrin placed a hand on her shoulder. "There will be no mercy from what's coming."
"Good," Lyra said. "I'm done showing mercy."
She turned to Anastasia. "Tell Serena I'm coming. Tell her to hold on."
Then she mounted, gave Mochi a quick pat, and kicked off—horse and behemoth vanishing into the mist, toward the storm waiting on the horizon.
Ripper, and the twisted mad scientist, based on Josef Mengele from WWII history.
---meanwhile at the demon lord's domain.
The chamber pulsed like a living heart—black stone walls wet with shadow, lined with crimson runes that glowed like veins beneath the skin of the world. The ceiling vanished into darkness above. At the center sat a massive throne, carved from obsidian and bone.
Upon it lounged Xandros, the Demon Lord—six eyes glowing faintly beneath a war crown of fused metal and horn. His fingers tapped lazily against the skull-armrest as his generals knelt before him.
"Rise," his voice slithered. "Speak."
Frank Abigneil, known to the world as The Chameleon, stood tall. No one could truly say what he looked like. Even now, he wore a borrowed face—a noble general long presumed dead.
"My lord," Frank began with a practiced bow, "our plan is flowing smoothly. The kingdom is splintering just as you wished. I've sewn discord between the humans, scattered the summoned heroes, and discredited their leaders."
He stepped forward with a slow, fluid grace. "I've taken care of all those who tried to interfere. The capital is on the edge of collapse. All that remains is the final push."
Xandros's lips curled—not a smile, but something crueler. "Excellent."
To Frank's left, Ted the Butcher let out a low grunt of laughter, his cleaver resting across his shoulder like a toy. His apron was stained with something fresh. Next to him, Jack the Ripper twitched with restrained glee, his pale hands caressing a thin, gleaming blade that pulsed with arcane energy.
Then the final figure stepped forward: Dr. Weiss Engel, the man once known in the old world as Josef Mengele—reborn in this realm as something far worse. His white coat was pristine, save for a splash of red across one pocket.
"My lord," Engel said, bowing stiffly, "the latest chimeras are ready for field testing. Hybrid breeds—angel blood fused with demon bone and elven nerve clusters. No moral restraints. No pain responses. Just hunger and obedience."
He reached into his coat and produced a sealed vial, filled with black fluid that shimmered like oil and flame.
"This," he said, voice almost reverent, "is from the relic we recovered. A fragment of the Demon God himself. A thumb bone, still warm with divine rot. I've extracted its essence—'The Black Ether.' It responds only to rage, and I've already begun infusing it into the alpha specimens."
Frank raised an eyebrow. "You're moving fast, Doctor."
Engel's grin was inhuman. "We don't need time. We need terror."
Xandros nodded, slow and satisfied. "Good. Let the world bleed confusion and fear. Let them look inward, clawing each other apart. When the Chameleon strikes again... no one will know who to trust. And when the chimeras march... no one will be left to fight."
His six eyes flared open. "Begin the final phase."
The champions bowed.
"Yes, my lord."
As they turned to leave, Frank paused only for a moment, his smile thin behind borrowed lips.
"All roads," he murmured, "lead to Frostmere."
And with that, the darkness swallowed them whole.
Moment later after chameleon team walk out the chamber.
The vast chamber grew still again. The shadows slithered back into their corners. Xandros remained seated, unmoving, his clawed fingers resting atop the skull-armrest.
Then he exhaled—slowly.
"I know you're there."
The air rippled. A soft, chiming hum filled the space. Light bled in—cold, silver, and far too clean for a place like this. It pooled at the far end of the hall and began to take shape.
A woman stepped forward—cloaked in light and robes of celestial white. Her face was hidden behind a delicate silver mask. Long hair floated like mist. She wore no crown, yet carried the presence of divinity.
Goddess Lycana.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet, almost weary.
"You summoned me."
Xandros didn't rise. He leaned forward, talons tapping the skull under his palm.
"You're late."
"I came as soon as I could."
His laugh was a low, rumbling growl. "Still pretending you have a choice."
She said nothing.
He stood, towering. "You bought your little reprieve. The ceasefire, the delay… the boy's life. All bought with your promise."
Lycana reached inside her robes. Her fingers lingered for a moment—then withdrew a small, dark object. Wrapped in chains of celestial silver, pulsing faintly with ancient power.
The Key.
She held it out with both hands. Her voice was a whisper.
"I kept my word."
Xandros stepped forward, six glowing eyes fixed on it. He took the key with one clawed hand, studying it with fascination—and hunger.
"The seal of the Thumb," he murmured. "Finally."
He turned slightly, lifting it toward the nearest brazier. The flames reacted, flaring green, shadows writhing like serpents.
"And no trickery?" he added, without looking at her.
"You'd know if there was," Lycana replied quietly.
He glanced back. "And you still think this will delay the inevitable? That you can outmaneuver me in the end?"
"I think," she said slowly, "there are still paths you don't see."
Xandros bared his jagged teeth in a crooked grin.
"One month. When the pact breaks… this world ends. You've bought time—but not peace."
She nodded once.
"I know."
He turned away and returned to his throne, the key now clutched like a sacred relic. Shadows rose again to embrace him.
Lycana lingered, silent. The key was gone. The war clock ticking again.
She faded without a word—light retreating from darkness like a last breath.
And in the silence, Xandros whispered:
"One month… and then, even the gods will beg."
---
Celestial Veil – Somewhere Between Worlds
Lycana emerged into silence.
Gone was the stench of ash and sulfur. Here, only stillness remained—white skies without sun, clouds that moved without wind. A place unanchored, unseen by mortals. Between realms, between breaths.
She stood on a narrow platform of light, her bare feet brushing its surface like mist on water. The silver mask no longer hid her face. She removed it slowly, revealing tired eyes that had once burned with purpose. Now they carried only the weight of compromise.
Her hands trembled.
The key was gone.
She had handed it to a monster.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she had to.
Lycana sank to her knees. Light swirled around her like a cradle, but it offered no comfort.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Not to Xandros. Not to the other gods.
To the boy.
To Kieth.
She had watched him fight, not just with strength—but with kindness. He had shifted something in this world, in people, in fates she once believed fixed. And for that, Xandros had wanted him dead.
She could still remember that moment—Xandros's claw above Kieth's heart, the world holding its breath.
"One drop of your divine blood," he said, "or the boy dies now."
She had chosen. She gave him the pact. The delay. And now—the key.
But in return, she made a plan of her own.
Lycana rose. Her hands folded in a silent prayer, not to herself, but to those who would carry the burden she could not.
"If the Heroes fail…" she whispered, her eyes lifting to the stars beyond the veil, "…then I must find new ones."
With a wave of her hand, dozens of mirrors bloomed around her—each reflecting a different world, a different timeline, different lives. Some were already shattered. Others… still untouched.
She stepped toward one. In its glass, a warrior slept on a battlefield. In another, a witch buried her own name. In a third, a broken king threw away his crown.
All of them forgotten. Castaways. Damaged.
But fighters.
Not champions. Not chosen. Just survivors.
Lycana's voice was steel now. Not loud—but no longer soft.
"Gather them. One by one. If my children cannot save the world… then let the world save itself."
And with that, she vanished—into the mirrors, into the lives she would touch like a whisper.
The goddess who gave a monster the key…
Now betting everything on those the world had left behind.
Meanwhile at the Ancient Age – Base of the Demon God's Mountain
The storm above churned with soundless fury. Lightning licked the sky, but no thunder followed. Only silence.
Kieth stood alongside the legends: Lycana. Dern. Cique. Antares. They were minutes from the final climb.
Then, from the mist ahead, a figure emerged.
A man in a black robe. Hood drawn low. His face lost to shadow.
No footsteps. No breath. No warmth.
He lifted a hand.
And the world paused.
"Deyviel Kieth Martine."
Kieth turned sharply.
"Your duty here is done."
The words hit like a hammer to the chest.
But before Kieth could even respond—
—a chime echoed in his mind.
Blue light flashed across his vision. Then:
> SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Congratulations!
You have completed the Hidden Quest:
[The Thousand Years Pact – Questline Complete]
Quest Summary:
Long ago, you made a choice beyond time.
When you were summoned, the balance of the world bent to allow your presence across timelines.
A hidden agreement was forged—unknown even to you—with the Gatekeeper of Eternal Moments.
Assist the Heroes of the Ancient Age.
Fight beside them until the final march against the Demon God.
Earn their trust. Share their burden.
Survive until the doorstep of the Throne of Decay.
Objective Complete.
Final Decision Required: – Accept the Gatekeeper's Offer
– Return to your original timeline
REWARDS IF ACCEPTED:
• System Core Reactivation
• Return of Support AI [Codename: LEXA]
• Skill Tree Unlocked
• World Anchor Removed – Dimensional Stability Restored
• One (1) Gundam Complete Shard granted
→ Allows instant summoning of a full Gundam unit of your choice
→ Available Units: RX-78-2, Barbatos Lupus Rex, Freedom, Exia, and more
Warning:
Rejecting this offer will forfeit all rewards.
Your system will remain suppressed in this timeline.
Dimensional connection will be sealed.
Choose Wisely.
The glowing text faded—leaving only silence in its place.
Kieth's heart pounded. For the first time in what felt like eternity… the system was back. If only for a moment.
He could feel the hum of its presence. The edge of familiar power. LEXA's voice almost echoed, muted… but reaching.
But he also felt the weight of it.
If he accepted—he could go home. Fully armed. Fully awakened. With the Gundam of his choice.
He could protect them.
Serena. Lyra. Aki. All of them.
But if he left—
This timeline would lose him.
And the Demon God might rise incomplete—but he would still rise.
The robed man spoke again.
"Make your choice, Kieth."
"Go back and face the full weight of war. Or stay, and give your friends a fighting chance."
---
TO BE CONTINUED