Alma stood slowly, brushing off the debris from the building he'd been slammed into. Across the street stood his opponent—The General. Brown hair, a matching mustache, and deep, piercing blue eyes. He suddenly put on a wooden white mask.
Alma stared at The General
"Your next opponent… is me," the General said, voice muffled by the mask.
The problem versus the answer.
---
Alma flinched. That voice—the one that called his actions wrong, even evil—was louder than ever. He had never been a prideful person. This sensation was foreign. Alien. Egotism.
It was selfishness dressed as self-worth. If he was honest, Alma had never bragged about his achievements. Not really. Yes, he told his parents, but always with humility. No pride. No boasting. No smugness.
The voice reminded him of a passage from the Bible: "Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves."
That verse spoke of rejecting selfish ambition. Of stepping down from the imaginary pedestal. Of treating others as better than yourself.
But this voice clashed with what Alma now felt. A voice inside insisted:
I am better.
Everyone is beneath me.
I will do what I want—without consequence.
Yet… that voice wasn't his.
It wasn't him.
In this moment—filled with more rage and emotion than he'd ever known—another voice had emerged, opposite to his fury. Not an angel. Not a whisper from Heaven. It was his true voice—buried, but still there.
The hatred in his eyes faded. His glare softened. His body, once tense, relaxed.
Hope was born.
Alma dropped to his knees, pressing his hands together. He prayed. He begged God for forgiveness. Forgetting the enemy before him, forgetting everything—this mattered more.
Tears threatened to fall as he remembered the innocents who died. The last woman who offered him cookies.
The General raised a brow. Had Alma surrendered? Was he praying to be saved?
Before he could make sense of it, Alma stood.
There was hope now. The man across from him could still change. Still turn to the light. To Christ. Alma smiled—bitterly. The hypocrisy was obvious. A murderer trying to convert someone to the very God he betrayed?
It was almost laughable.
Alma knew convincing him wouldn't be easy. It would take patience. Care. Words that cut like blades, not just swords. Still, he had to try. He had to begin with confession. With truth.
It all felt rushed—this storm of emotions. But that was how it always was with him. His emotional swings were worse than anyone's. A chaos even the bipolar couldn't rival.
He stepped forward, hand outstretched.
"General, I—"
He was cut off.
The General slammed into the ground where Alma had just stood. He lunged with a punch. Alma dodged, weaving through the flurry.
"Listen!" Alma shouted, ducking under another swing.
The General raised his fist and brought it down hard. Alma leapt back just in time.
Trying to reason with someone determined to kill you… it wasn't going to work.
It would get him killed.
Alma lunged forward, striking The General's armor with his machete—but carefully. He avoided the head and vital points. Even if he had aimed for them, The General would have blocked it anyway. Alma darted in and out, running circles around his opponent, changing direction mid-step, leaping over him.
The General's leg came swinging toward Alma's ribs. He blocked with crossed arms, but the sheer force slammed his arms into his own sides. The impact sent him flying. He crashed through several buildings, coughing up blood.
Still, he stood—wiping the red from his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes burned with new resolve.
He was ready to fight.
---
November 19th, 1955 – 4:30 PM
Inanagi, Kojo, Nebeliel, and Epher stood in silence. Inanagi's Rice Puppets had vanished. Epher knelt where Graviel had died.
There was no body left to bury. No corpse to mourn. Only memory. Only absence.
It hit Epher the hardest.
Despite knowing him briefly, Graviel was like an older brother to her. When J.I.B.R.I.L. first took her in, she'd been treated as an outsider. No one respected her.
Until Graviel.
He teased her—sure—but never with cruelty. He helped her control her powers. Taught her how to live like a normal teenager, even if their lives were anything but normal.
She hated him for the destruction he caused… but she missed him more.
Her grief didn't have words.
Kojo stood apart from the group. Shocked. Graviel had died—even with Thronefield active. The technique used to erase everything hadn't been enough. Graviel had been strong enough to rival The General while in that state. His death felt truly impossible.
Kojo had no close ties, save for Nebeliel, but that didn't mean he didn't mourn. He did. In his own way.
Inanagi was silent, not out of sorrow, but because she couldn't resurrect him. Her power—raising the dead as Rice Puppets—required a body. Black rice would transform the corpse, interact with the soul, and bring it back.
But there was no body this time. And no time, either. Not when Alma still lived.
Nebeliel had known Graviel the longest. He'd been a jerk—but a good jerk. Their banter was constant. Rivalrous. But real.
J.I.B.R.I.L. never intervened. The rivalry pushed them to improve. Graviel had been rough, but his soul was kind.
Inanagi approached Epher and knelt beside her.
"Hey," she said softly. "We need to go."
Epher's fingers dug into the dirt, as if she could clutch what wasn't there. Her tears fell, soaking the ground.
Nebeliel placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn't speak. Words would fail her here. She had never been good with feelings—and this was too heavy for language.
Kojo walked up, hands in his pockets. On the surface, he looked unaffected. But when he looked at Epher, he rolled his eyes—not in contempt, but in jealousy.
No one would mourn him like this. No one would weep for him when he died.
Even his hollow heart felt that ache.
"Well," Kojo muttered, "we gonna let The General beat Alma to a pulp or are we joining in?"
"Are you serious?" Nebeliel snapped. "Alma whooped your ass."
Kojo scoffed. "And? He hit you like a baseball. Maybe even a hockey puck."
Nebeliel's eyes flared. "Oh yeah? How about I hit you like a hockey puck and see how far you fly?!"
"Enough!" Inanagi barked.
Instant silence.
"Kojo is right. We need to go help The General."
Nebeliel stared at her in disbelief.
"Did he hit you too hard in the head? Did you see what he did to us? He dodged every one of our attacks—with a fucking grin on his face! What are we supposed to do, sacrifice ourselves to help him?"
"Listen," Inanagi said firmly, "we're not risking our lives meaninglessly. We're just acting as distractions."
Nebeliel scoffed. "And how do you intend on doing that? The General and Alma are in a class of their own. They're too fast for us to keep up with. I couldn't even see The General when he took Alma."
"When you think the time is right for a surprise attack, take it. Do anything that doesn't get you killed immediately," Inanagi replied, summoning her flight Rice Puppet.
"Understood," Kojo said as the Puppet lifted him into the air.
Reluctantly, Nebeliel nodded. "Understood," she muttered flatly, beginning to rise.
---
Alma dodged another one of The General's attacks. His opponent's fist slammed into a concrete pillar of the parking garage—one of many he'd smashed trying to land a hit. So far, The General had used no Chemical, relying only on his already insane strength and speed.
Alma leapt back from another blow—a ground slam that ruptured the floor beneath and crushed a nearby car. If that had been a person, they'd have been dead on impact.
He needed to move this fight somewhere more open—like a forest. But dragging The General there would be difficult.
In a swift move, Alma tackled The General, sending them flying out of the parking structure and over a busy highway. They narrowly missed the traffic below before crashing onto a road beneath.
The General kicked Alma off and rose to his feet. Alma twisted midair and landed on his own. He lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of powerful, brutal punches to The General's torso—each strike generating shockwaves.
But The General only laughed—a deep, booming laugh—as if unfazed. Alma's eyes widened. His attacks had done nothing. No one—nothing—had withstood so many of his full-powered blows before. When his machete hadn't even scratched that armor, he'd suspected it wasn't ordinary.
The General suddenly swiped both arms outward, instantly ceasing Alma's assault as a massive gust of wind burst from the motion, shattering nearby windows and lifting cars into the air.
The General retaliated. Alma raised his arms just in time to block the blow, but the impact sent him flying down the street. He skidded across the asphalt and came to a stop on his feet—only to realize The General was gone. And worse, he couldn't even see his soul.
The ground beneath Alma exploded.
The General burst up from below, his massive frame rocketing out of the earth. Before Alma could activate Shield, a crushing uppercut slammed into his chin, launching him skyward—far above the city skyline.
At that moment, Inanagi, Epher, Kojo, and Nebeliel arrived—just in time to witness Alma being hurled into the sky.
The General leaped after him, matching his altitude. Then, impossibly, he accelerated—faster than a blur, circling Alma like a phantom. Alma met each blow with a counter, but he couldn't land a hit; The General was too fast, vanishing before Alma could react.
The cycle repeated for seconds—fast, brutal, and nearly invisible. The remaining J.I.B.R.I.L. members watched in awe. Even Kojo stood frozen, stunned.
Finally, Alma caught The General's wrist. He yanked him downward, aimed his hand at The General's face, and fired Spear.
The half invisible spear head shot The General down, crashing him into the ground and sending a plume of debris and dust skyward. Alma descended after, waiting until the last second to activate Shield and break his fall.
He noticed the others now—watching him from a distance.
After witnessing what had happened in the sky… what could they possibly do against Alma? Even being a distraction felt laughable.
Alma charged. His punch met a forcefield—and in return, The General struck him in the stomach with a gravity-infused punch that tripled his already monstrous strength.
Alma coughed blood, the wind knocked out of him. For a moment, he nearly blacked out.
Still conscious, Alma used the rebound of the forcefield to hurl himself backward, landing with effort. He activated Shield to begin recovering.
That hit felt like it ruptured a few organs—but hopefully nothing fatal.
He tried summoning the Beast to heal him. Nothing. It didn't respond. Not while Shield was active.
His Soul Sense hadn't weakened—The General had simply moved faster than it could perceive.
A troubling realization.
He wasn't even close to The General's level—not in speed, not in strength.
The only real damage he'd done was with Spear. Even in its weakened form, it had done more than his full-power punches. But it still wasn't enough.
He had no idea how strong Spear was when it instantly killed Graviel, nor how much weaker it had to be to meaningfully harm but not kill The General.
But one thing was clear: even at a reduced output, Spear was stronger than any other weapon he had. And still… he didn't know how to use it...
Despite what had happened with Nebeliel two days ago, Alma's injuries hadn't improved.
They didn't vanish like his arm once had. No sudden, miraculous restoration.
There had to be limits to what Shield could restore—conditions it had to meet to give something back. Could it "heal" under only certain circumstances?
Alma thought back. What was the difference between then and now?
Chemicals.
Nebeliel had used her Chemical to erase his arm completely. But once he activated Shield, the arm returned.
So why were the General's attacks any different?
Sure, they were physical—brutally so—but that strength was infused with his Chemical. Maybe that was it. Maybe... it reached the soul. Alma's soul.
That had to be it. And the General had figured it out. Nebeliel must've told him what happened. He put the pieces together.
That file didn't say "peak intelligence" for nothing.
Shield ignored purely physical damage. If the General's attacks struck both body and soul, then Shield could respond—but not like before. This wasn't like regenerating a lost limb. This was deeper. More dangerous.
The Beast was still an option. But with the General's overwhelming speed, Alma doubted he could deactivate Shield and summon it fast enough. The damage might outpace the Beast's regeneration entirely.
Would Alma really risk his life... to save someone who meant him harm? Someone fully intent on killing him?
All it would take was one word.
One Spear.
Deactivate Shield. Fire. Done. Quick. Lethal. Easy.
---
The General stood outside the impenetrable rocky dome, waiting.
He likely already deduced Shield's limitations—how it only regenerated damage that affected the soul. But he also knew about the monster Alma could summon. The thing that healed injuries over time.
Time Alma didn't have.
Time the General wouldn't give him.
So he waited—for Alma's next move.
---
Alma was cornered.
He couldn't summon the Beast or release Spear while inside Shield.
To stop the General—to bring him away from this path of destruction and hatred, to turn him to Christ—he would have to defeat him first.
But even then, would it matter?
Would the General listen, even after defeat?
Would he turn to God, after all he had done?
Shield faded.
In that instant, the General launched forward.
"Spear," Alma said calmly.
The weapon fired straight into the General's chest, launching him through several buildings that collapsed on impact.
Alma summoned the Beast, its black, oil-slick body wrapping protectively around him. His wounds stopped bleeding. Internal damage began to repair.
He stayed focused, anticipating the General's return.
A katana slashed through the air toward his neck.
Alma caught the blade with his hand, slammed Kojo into the ground, then hurled him back toward Inanagi, Epher, and Nebeliel.
The General appeared behind him instantly.
Alma didn't block—he dodged. Blocking would put him right back where he was before. The General followed with another strike—missed. Then another—missed again.
Alma was dodging for his life. Every move precise. Desperate.
A hammer slammed into his ribs, sending him flying.
Inanagi's puppet. Alma gritted his teeth—not from pain, but from irritation.
He landed and immediately leapt again—just in time. The General crashed into the ground where he had stood. Alma hadn't reacted—he'd known. Stand still a second longer, and he'd be flattened like roadkill.
"Spear."
This time, the weapon struck the General with slightly increased power, sending him crashing into the earth once more. Alma grinned. If he kept the pressure up, he might actually weaken him.
Alma landed gently some distance away, scanning the dust cloud.
"No way you're knocked ou—"
A hand burst from the rubble, seizing his ankle.
The General emerged, his Chemical deactivated. His armor clattered with chunks of concrete.
He slammed Alma into the ground—again and again—nearly knocking him out.
Alma raised a shaky hand.
"Spear."
The blast severed the General's arm cleanly, slicing through armor and flesh. Blood gushed as the limb hit the ground.
Alma rolled and darted backward, gasping.
The General didn't flinch. He smiled.
He picked up his severed arm, and a green glow radiated from the socket. Roots burst from the wound, latching onto the limb. It pulled back into place, reconnecting, regenerating.
Alma smirked.
Whose regeneration was better now?
"For someone you can barely track… you move well," the General said, the glow fading.
"Thanks," Alma replied, a dry edge to his voice. "Hard not to, when it's your life on the line."
He took a breath. Then, serious:
"We don't have to fight. Let this end. Let there be peace. Forget revenge. Let go of death. Be open... to forgiveness."
"As if you can say that," Inanagi interjected.
Alma turned to her.
"You're a monster," she said coldly. "More than your nickname suggests."
"I still don't know what that even means!" Alma shot back, exasperated. "Modern as in since the 1500s? Modern as in this year? Modern as in the future? Why act like my title's interchangeable? Why am I named that without a reason?"
He was genuinely confused. Earnest.
But no none answered.
"We don't expect you to understand. No matter how much we explain, it won't change what you become."
The General spoke solemnly, regaining Alma's attention.
But that tone—it was off. Fabricated. Only Alma could hear it.
The General didn't actually feel that way.
"I don't care about that right now. Please, find forgiveness."
The General responded not with words, but with action. He charged.
Alma ducked under the first blow, sidestepped the second, leapt over the third—
Then caught a kick to the chest that launched him through a building.
The Beast mended Alma's wounds quickly, but the damage wasn't just physical.
He was trying to reach the man behind the armor, trying to make him see the light.
But maybe the truth was worse.
Maybe he already had seen it—and chose darkness anyway.
The General emerged through the hole Alma had made and rushed him again.
Alma dodged what he could, but the man was getting faster—
faster than Soul Sense could keep up with.
He grabbed a desk and swung it like a club, aiming for Alma's head.
Alma rolled aside just in time, then countered—grabbing The General by the shoulders and driving his knee into his face, knocking him backward.
One thing stood out—his sheer size.
Six-foot ten, at least.
Was it the body armor? Or his real height? Alma didn't know.
Suddenly, a boulder crashed into the building, slamming into Alma and carrying him skyward.
He flew with it for a moment—until The General came crashing down, tackling him midair and driving him into the concrete below.
The Beast coiled around The General's arm, aiming to dissolve the armor.
But the man had reinforced it—steel, then hardened stone.
Layers on layers.
He was ready for that.
Then again, maybe Alma wasn't aiming for the flesh.
Alma launched Spear at his torso, sending him flying.
He sprinted after him, the ground cracking under each step.
The General met him halfway.
Their hands locked in a crushing deadlock—
The asphalt beneath them split, the earth shook beneath their feet.
"Let this end," Alma pleaded. "There are other ways."
But The General only pushed harder.
Alma knew how this would end. The General would overpower him, just like last time.
So before he could, Alma struck—knee to the face, lifting him slightly—
Then a double-legged kick to the chest sent him skidding down the street.
Alma drew his machete.
This time, he would break the armor.
This time, he would beat him until he listened.
He charged. The General stood, ready to counter.
Anticipating it, Alma shifted right and slashed.
---
"Alright, Nebeliel, do you understand the plan?" Inanagi asked.
She nodded.
"Good. Just earn Alma's trust. He's trying to be forgiving, so use that to your advantage."
"Understood," she said, then flew toward the battlefield.
"You really think this will work?" Kojo asked, raising a brow.
"Alma's not an idiot. He can read a slug's emotions just by looking at it. And he's in the middle of a life-or-death battle. His perception must be sharper than ever."
"Yes. I'm sure," Inanagi said. "He's a Christian—or trying to be one again. People like that are vulnerable to evil dressed as good intentions."
"So you're basing this on his religion? That's... idiotic," Kojo said, genuinely baffled.
"Some hold their faith closer than family. His earlier words—'I don't care'—say it all.
He no longer cares if he's seen as a monster. His only concern is saving The General—getting him to 'see the light.'"
Kojo sighed. "I hope you're right. Nebeliel's risking her life out there."
---
Alma was upon The General, that singular lstrike focused on the armor.
Then—suddenly—The General vanished mid-swing.
Alma's mind hesitated.
Where had he gone?
In that instant of confusion, Nebeliel phased from the ground exactly where The General once stood.
As she solidified—Alma's machete was already swinging.
Both their eyes widened.
Too late.
The blade sliced clean through her neck.
Her head hit the ground. Blood coated the rusted steel and spilled into the dust. Alma's eyes widened even further in complete horror, his blood ran cold. He shook. Sorry.
The General reappeared behind Alma, a wicked grin hidden beneath his helmet.
He kicked Alma hard in the back, sending him flying forward.
He crashed into a building.
Alma lay motionless on the floor, not bothering to get up. What he had just done…
A scream burst from his lungs—raw, tortured—not from his wounds, but from the weight of his own actions.
Memories surged back, overwhelming his mind like a flood breaking through a dam. Superhumans. All of them—killed by his hand. But this time, unlike before, he didn't just remember that they died. He remembered how.
Each death played over and over in his mind like a cursed loop. Every cry, every desperate plea for mercy echoed endlessly, gnawing at his sanity like a school of ravenous piranhas.
The word "murderer" seared into his brain, appearing in the blood-soaked memories—hanging in the air like rot. The people he had slaughtered spoke it in unison, their voices hollow, their eye sockets empty. Cold. Accusing.
Alma began to shake.
His fingers went numb. Sweat poured from his skin. He felt dizzy, sick. His heart pounded violently against his chest. He scrunched into a fetal position, gripping his head as if to crush the memories out of it.
At the end of the massacre stood Nebeliel. Her death replayed last—her soft, innocent gaze, her hopeful smile. That expression—the moment it was extinguished—tore into him deeper than any blade.
Then—
THUD.
The General landed beside him, casting a shadow over Alma's curled body. He stared down with mild confusion.
"Really?"
Without hesitation, the General grabbed Alma by the ankle and flung him upward. He blasted through several floors, crashing through the roof and soaring into the open sky. The General leapt after him—catching up mid-air—and slammed a kick into Alma's chest, launching him down toward an unfinished highway bridge.
Alma hit the ground hard and rolled to a stop. He made no effort to brace the impact.
The General landed across from him, near the edge of the broken bridge. Alma rose slowly. Tears fell from his eyes, dripping onto the cracked concrete. He didn't look up.
The General charged forward—but then Alma raised his head.
Their fists collided mid-swing, unleashing a shockwave that blasted them backward. Windows shattered. The bridge trembled.
They dashed again. Alma deflected The General's next strike and landed a powerful punch, chipping part of the armor and sending him skidding back.
The General retaliated—wild, fast, brutal—but Alma ducked, slipped past, dodged.
"Spear."
"Spear."
"Spear."
With each dodge, Alma summoned Spear and fired, targeting the armor's weak points. Chunks flew. The General stumbled.
Alma ended the volley with a devastating kick that hurled him dangerously close to the bridge's edge.
The General smiled.
That strength—this wasn't calculated. It wasn't training. It was rage. Not directed at the General… but at himself.
Alma hated himself.
And then they arrived—Inanagi, Kojo, and Epher—forming a semi-circle around Alma. The final four members of J.I.B.R.I.L.
But Alma didn't care. He no longer saw them as comrades, rivals, or even enemies. Just... ghosts, standing in front of the truth he couldn't escape. The memories clung to him like oil.
He said nothing. He hadn't made a sound since that scream.
Inside, Alma was a vortex of pain, fury, and guilt. He would live forever with the knowledge of what he'd done. Maybe... maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.
But as that thought crossed his mind, something shifted. Alma's awareness snapped back into sharp focus. His pain and hatred remained—but now, they were clear, not consuming.
Kojo moved first, vanishing and reappearing behind Alma.
Shield formed instinctively—but only half of it. A jagged dome surrounded only the part facing Kojo. Alma had left the rest exposed.
He didn't trust them. Not after what happened with Nebeliel.
Kojo leapt off the incomplete Shield—only for it to vanish immediately after. He clicked his tongue in frustration and circled Alma again, slashing.
Another half-Shield. Another block.
The General narrowed his eyes. Why was Shield only forming halfway? Was it weakening?
Inanagi acted next, summoning Wraithend and charging in tandem with Kojo. They attacked from opposite angles.
But this time—Shield fully formed, pristine and unbroken.
The General frowned. That answered his question: Shield wasn't weakening. Alma was choosing when and where it would appear.
"What are they doing?" Alma muttered aloud. "Have they forgotten Shield is impenetrable?"
He sounded calm—but confused.
The pair retreated, regrouping beside Epher and The General.
Shield faded again. Alma watched them in silence. It was a stalemate. He wasn't attacking. He wasn't fighting back. He wouldn't use Spear.
He was only defending.
"Kojo," Inanagi said, conjuring a swirling orb of black and violet energy. "Mind helping me with this?"
Kojo nodded, raising his katana.
"Black Womb Paralysis: Thorn of the Iron Snake."
A snake of spiraling white matter launched from her hand.
"Astral Light: Slash of the Setting Sun."
Kojo's blade ignited in a brilliant white-blue light. He slashed downward, releasing a radiant arc of destruction.
Both attacks streaked toward Alma.
"Did they not just see what happened?" Alma blinked. "What are they—"
He stopped. The attacks diverged suddenly—splitting off away from him.
A second later, his eyes widened.
Below, the city's busiest highway was jammed with honking cars and frustrated drivers.
Those drivers would never worry about being late again.
The Iron Snake pierced through steel and flesh. The Slash of the Setting Sun incinerated the rest. Hundreds died instantly.
All the people and vehicles were dissolved into ash.
Alma stood frozen, staring from afar as cars disintegrated—no screams, no resistance. Just silence.
He turned back toward the bridge, eyes burning with rage.
The General raised his arm across his chest.
"Final Step: Ending of All Trades."
He slashed forward.
A silent wave of destruction tore through the bridge. Alma raised Shield. It absorbed the invisible slash.
Shield faded.
Then—crash. In the distance behind him, Alma heard something collapse. He spun around.
Three office buildings, sliced clean through the middle, were falling. People inside screamed as they plummeted.
"I understand their plan now…" Alma muttered.
The bridge beneath him cracked. He spun, and punched through the concrete. He reached into the void beneath instinctively—and pulled.
What came out made him freeze.
A spinal cord. White grains of rice spilled from it instead of blood.
Then he saw her face.
Nebeliel.
A wide, twisted grin stretched across her features.
"A Rice Puppet!?" Alma gasped.
Her body moved, kicking toward him. He blocked it, dropping the head in shock.
She laughed—reattaching her spine with unnatural ease—and ran back to Inanagi's side.
"No way... you stole her body!?" Kojo shouted, staring at Inanagi, horror and fury twisting his expression.
Epher edged closer to The General, fear tightening her chest. Inanagi unsettled her.
"I did what I had to," Inanagi said, cold and calm. "Controlling her Chemical is far harder than the others."
Kojo gritted his teeth, his fury evident in every line of his posture.
"What... is this feeling?" Alma muttered. His fingers twitched. "Is this... dread?"
A pit opened in his stomach. His legs weakened. It reminded him of the first time his parents had ever yelled at him—when fear was new and raw.
"Alma Alastor. Fifteen years old. Brilliant intellect. He's already figured out our plan," Inanagi thought to herself. "He's frozen—paralyzed by the realization. You tried to save The General—save us. And look where that got you. Had you killed us instead, these lives might have been spared. This is your fault. You know that. And now, you hesitate, wondering if forgiveness still matters. If you keep hesitating, more lives will be lost." Checkmate."
"Alma Daedalus Alastor," The General thought to himself. "Fifteen. Probably the most intelligent person the world will ever know. And the smartest opponent I'll ever face."
He observed Alma, unmoving.
"He's already pieced it all together. But it doesn't matter. With this destruction, even if he kills us, the world will blame him. Our deaths—this chaos—will all be pinned on him. And that will always be his burden."
"Our original plan was simple—enrage you, blind you with hatred, make you easy to manipulate and kill. But when you showed mercy... we adapted. At least Inanagi and I did. Had you leaned into that rage—just for a second—we'd all be dead, and these people would still be alive. Your truth blinded you to reality."
"Now... Alma..." The General's voice rang in his head. "The ball is in your court."
---
November 19th, 1955. 5:15 PM.
Suddenly, Alma's left hand rose before his face, fingers arranged deliberately—index and middle extended, ring and pinky folded beneath his thumb. The sixes in his eyes began to spin rapidly, forming into a singular glowing red circle in each.
Silence fell.
The screams stopped.
The wind ceased.
The universe itself held its breath.
Above the final four members of J.I.B.R.I.L., two faded yellow rings shimmered into existence. Each of them stiffened as a heavy, inescapable dread sank into their bones.
"What is this...?" Inanagi whispered, her body trembling.
Stillness.
Then Alma spoke. His voice was stern. Hollow. Final.
"First Circle:" He paused. "Endless Labyrinth."
The red circles in his eyes pulsed, then rose above his head and fused into one.
Without warning, a rocky wall expanded behind him. A floor spread beneath his feet, a ceiling above. The stone matched the hues of Shield and Spear. A narrow tunnel extended toward the final four—blocking the bridge, halting the fall of collapsing buildings, eclipsing the sun itself.
It didn't travel. It didn't expand in time.
It simply... was.
The members of the Sanctum Arc were split, each encased in separate tunnels—each alone, isolated by a massive, shadowed entrance leading into further darkness.
They stood frozen. Shocked. Terrified.
Drowning in despair.
Within the caves, silence reigned. Not even a drip of water. No falling stones.Nothing.
And nothing would ever come.
Then—The sound of running. Rapid, sharp steps echoed through the Endless Labyrinth. The noise drew near, from every direction at once. Paralyzed by dread, they couldn't move.
Alma ran along the side of the tunnel, eyes wide, unblinking. His focus was absolute.
He saw their souls. Their very existence had never been clearer.
His palm struck Kojo, slamming into his body and ripping his soul free, smashing it into the stone floor. Kojo's body vanished—his soul now a prisoner, lost within the infinite expanse.
In the First Circle, the line between body and soul vanished. All that remained was the self, stripped and bare.
Alma's own despair, watching Sanctum Arc destroy and kill with impunity, had created this.
True Despair.
By feeling the heaviest despair in himself, it manifested the gravest punishment.
Alma rushed toward another soul.
Another victim.
Each was an infinite distance apart. Even with movement, escape was impossible.
The First Circle was a perfect prison.
Unlike the others, Alma's soul remained with his body. To reach them, he had to move at impossible, infinite speeds—draining, agonizing. He could do this only because his soul and body were temporarily aligned—imperfectly, but enough.
Epher's soul was ripped from her body next. Innocent though she may have been, Alma was beyond mercy now. In this state, he showed none. No one would escape.
The dread that consumed them—their punishment—was separation from God.
They had spoken of Him. Claimed to act under His name. But they were distant. Faith without works was dead—and so were they.
The Circle functioned by proximity to God.
To know Him, not just of Him.
Anything less was not enough to escape.
Time did not move during the Circle's activation. Nor did it pass afterward.
Alma merged the tunnels of the last two—The General and Inanagi.
He reached down and grasped the top of The General's head.
"For your false claims of faith... for the atrocities committed 'under God'... your punishment is set. Wander these infinite tunnels for all eternity, with only your loneliness as company."
He tore the soul from The General's body. The body vanished.
Inanagi wept, begged. Her voice cracked with fear.
Alma did not waver.
With a harsh motion, he slapped her soul from her body, sealing her fate.
The First Circle collapsed, Its judgment delivered.
The road was empty.
No bodies.
The fallen buildings had crushed others, the air filled with silent wreckage.
The sun began to set.
Somewhere amid the debris, a boy knelt.
Alma.
The loneliest boy of the current time period was on his knees, panting. Sweat clung to his neck and arms, dripping from his hair. His mouth hung open, breath ragged.
But he wasn't exhausted. Not physically.
He panted because of what he had just done.
Not from regret.
Not from satisfaction.
Just being.
And thus ended the lives of the first victims of true despair.
Of the First Circle: Endless Labyrinth.
---
The battle between the Sanctum Arc and The Nightmare left that section of the city in complete ruin.
A total of 3,275 people, the ones who fell from those office buildings—had died. The city destroyed by Graviel—densely constructed and teeming with life—saw the deaths of over 20,000. There were no survivors. No possible chances of life.
The U.S. government became involved, fearing an attack from foreign powers. Yet no one truly understood what had occurred that day—nor the impact it would have on the future of the world.
Reconstruction on the three collapsed office buildings was set to begin on November 24th, once the debris had been cleared. But that other city... there was nothing left to rebuild. Every building, subway station, park, hospital, grocery store—everything—was simply gone. Erased. The only trace of its existence was a massive scorch mark burned into the Earth.
---
November 19th, 1955. 5:26 PM.
The sun was beginning to set. For some, it marked the end of the workday. For others, it was the start of the dreaded night shift.
Inside a dim office, a man in a tailored business suit who wore a red tie sat behind a dark brown wooden desk. A black, handleless cup sat to his left, holding a few black pens and a couple of blue ones. Beside it was an unused brass lamp with a green shade and a dangling pull chain—faux gold, nothing more.
To his right sat a yellow folder stamped with a red "CONFIDENTIAL" label.
Golden sunlight streamed through the window behind him, just above a low cabinet. He leaned back in his black leather chair, then reached down and opened a drawer, pulling out a small stack of loose white papers.
He laid the papers flat on the desk, locked the drawer—just as he did every evening—and gently tapped the stack to align the pages. Then, he slid them into the folder, stood up, and pushed his chair into the desk before heading toward the double doors with polished yellow knobs.
He reached for the handles.
The lamp flicked on.
He flinched, turning quickly toward the light—and froze.
Sitting calmly in a large armchair in the corner of the room was a man he had not expected to see again.
"You're alive...?"
Alma sat relaxed, left hand gripping his right wrist between his legs, ankles crossed.
"That's rrright," Alma sang, smiling faintly. "Hello... 'Simon.' But that's not your real name, is it? How does... Finley Cullen sound? The Founder."
Simon, the fake name he gave Alma, had been exposed. His face tightened. "How...?"
"When you sent the Sanctum Arc after me, their plan was to provoke me. To make me lose control—easier to kill that way." Alma's grin widened. "When that failed, they tried to frame me for the destruction. For the deaths."
Finley stepped back, unease creeping into his bones. Alma wasn't just alive—he was calm. Joyful, even. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
He should hate me. Why is he smiling?
"He's lost it," Finley thought.
"How did you find me?" he asked aloud, masking his fear with forced confidence.
"That earpiece you gave the General," Alma said. "I tracked its signal. No matter how well-shielded this place is, you can mask a signal, but you can't erase it."
Finley cursed internally. He should have used something untraceable.
"For so long, I wondered who you were... why you did this to me... how I would kill you." Alma's tone shifted suddenly—cold, flat. "But now? I don't care. This isn't revenge. This is necessity."
Finley narrowed his eyes. "All I see... is the Sanctum Arc's failure standing before me. And I'm the one who will fix that mistake."
He drew a small metal piece that snapped out into a full staff.
Alma stood slowly, his back to Finley, staring at the smooth beige wall. He ran his fingers across it, almost searching.
"Can you...?" he whispered. "Really, can you?"
He pressed his face close, nose gliding across the surface. Then, without warning, his head snapped backward, locking eyes with Finley.
"THEN BRING IT ON!!"
Finley lunged, swinging the staff at Alma's head. Alma ducked. Another swing—downward this time—but Alma vaulted up, twisting, and landed on the ceiling.
"The Greatest Offense: Spear."
A half-invisible spear formed on top of Alma's index and middle fingers. He released it toward Finley.
Finley blocked with his staff—but Spear sliced clean through it, splitting the weapon and slamming him backward through wall after wall, finally crashing into a dimly lit lab.
Finley's body slammed into a metal table, knocking over a small container. A chemical spilled, altering the room's gravity—everything began floating.
He looked up through the broken walls. Alma still stood, impossibly, on the ceiling. Lights flickered in the distance.
A bitter smile crept across Finley's face. "I always knew you were a monster."
No response.
That was Spear, he realized. The weapon the General spoke of. Able to erase both body and soul. Alma also had Shield, the greatest defense—able to block any attack. Combining The Greatest Defense, and The Greatest Offense, they made him invincible.
Finley hesitated.
"I should run. Should I try to reason with him? He's giving me a chance here. Instead of instantly killing me with Spear, he's allowing me a decision."
He looked again. Alma was closer. Now walking sideways along the wall.
Something was wrong.
The lights flickered. Alma was even closer—now walking upright on the floor.
Something's wrong.
Alma appeared once more—this time on the ceiling again, his hands in his pockets, just past the jagged hole in the wall.
I should run.
"No..." Finley muttered, forcing strength into his voice. "You die here."
He drew a long chain with a blade on the end and hurled it at Alma.
Alma sidestepped effortlessly. No emotion. No hesitation.
Finley whipped the chain around, forcing Alma off the ceiling. Time slowed, as everything came to a pause. This however, was only for Alma. A moment of tranquility amongst the chaos.
"I'm sorry. Father. Mother. Everyone. I don't hate them anymore. I don't hate the ones who killed you. I don't care about the truth. I don't want closure. I just... feel nothing."
Alma floated, his back pressing gently against Finley's, midair. He raised a hand to his chest and extended his index finger.
"'Misery and agony challenged me. I alone escaped unscathed.'"
He drifted away from Finley, still airborne.
"I gave you an ultimatum. But you're just like the General in that aspect. We could've talked. I might've changed you. But none of that matters now. You chose this path. Let me end it."
He aimed at Finley.
"By focusing on my soul, I extract the tiniest fragment and mold it into a weapon.
Creating... The Greatest Offense: Spear."
He released his thumb, and with it, Spear shot outward.
"I should have run."
Spear struck him—and unmade him. Body. Soul. Erased in an instant.
It tore through the wall behind, continuing through multiple buildings until Alma stopped it with a flick of thought.
Alma stood before the hole he had carved into the wall, his gaze heavy with the weight of finality. Doubt lingered at the edges of his thoughts—but beneath it, a cold certainty settled in his chest.
"It didn't have to end like this. Maybe I could've saved you. Maybe I should've tried."
He paused, the silence around him thick and unforgiving.
"But somehow I know… that this was the only way."
He stepped back, eyes unblinking.
"Goodbye. Forever."