The world was silent to most, but to those attuned to the unnatural, the air shimmered with the residue of power. Across the dimensions, in hidden spaces where logic frayed and reality folded in on itself, whispers of Amon's latest moves began to take shape. Though his attack had failed and his presence exposed, the game was far from over. In truth, it had only just begun.
Amon stood alone at the precipice of the broken dimension, the ruined tower beneath his feet whispering of ages lost to chaos. The lightning above no longer startled him. It moved as if directed by his breath, dancing across the sky with unnatural rhythm. His avatars had long since departed, scattered across the realms to execute the next phase. There was no longer any need for discussion. He had shared everything—his defeat, his intentions, and most importantly, his goal.
Godhood.
It was no longer just a vision—it was a horizon coming into view. And though the world believed him to be licking his wounds, in truth, Amon was watching it all, every trembling step taken by those who thought they had turned the tide.
---
Back in the Grigori base, Azazel convened with Rias, her peerage, and a few other key figures. The wounds from the previous battle had begun to heal, but the scars—physical and emotional—still throbbed beneath the surface.
"He hasn't struck again," Akeno noted, arms crossed. Her usual playful tone was gone.
"He's not reckless," Azazel said, pulling up a digital projection of dimensional fluctuations. "This isn't just about chaos. He calculates his every step."
Rias narrowed her eyes. "Then what's next? He exposed himself. Let us know he exists. Told us what he wanted. Why would he do that unless it served his larger plan?"
Kiba nodded solemnly. "He wants us to prepare. So we grow stronger. And in growing stronger, we may unknowingly walk into another trap."
"Exactly," Azazel replied. "He knew you'd say that. He wants to shape your choices, even when you think they're yours."
Issei clenched his fists. "I hate this. It's like he's ten steps ahead. No matter what we do, it feels like we're just reacting."
"We are," Rias admitted. "But that doesn't mean we stop. If we become afraid to act, he's already won."
Azazel sighed and looked at the group. "Then let me propose a dangerous idea. We go on the offensive. Not with brute force—but with something he might not expect. We learn. We investigate his past. We trace his steps. Every whisper of his avatars' movements. Every timeline he may have tampered with."
Xenovia, who had remained silent, finally spoke. "You want to fight knowledge with knowledge."
"Exactly," Azazel said. "Amon's biggest weapon is that he sees from a higher vantage point. If we can climb to that height, we may at least see the same battlefield."
---
Elsewhere, in a forgotten chapel buried beneath Tokyo, a hooded figure opened a tome inscribed in runes not seen in centuries. It was one of Amon's relics—left behind by design. The figure was a magician, curious and arrogant, believing he could harness the power within.
He began to chant.
The shadows in the room responded.
And far away, Amon smiled.
"Curiosity," he whispered. "The finest bait."
The ritual backfired moments later. The magician screamed as tendrils of void wrapped around him, not to kill—but to reshape. Amon didn't need fanatics. He needed instruments. Vessels to carry whispers into every corner of the world.
---
Back in Kuoh Academy, life tried to return to normal. But the students who had witnessed the chaos, who had heard the name of Amon, couldn't forget.
Rumors spread.
Whispers grew.
"Amon was like a ghost. You don't see him, but you feel his eyes on you."
"They say he once tricked a god into giving up his throne."
"He's not a devil. Not an angel. Not even a dragon. He's something else."
The fear wasn't loud, but it was ever-present.
Rias walked the hallways, maintaining a calm appearance. But every creak, every flickering light, every strange shadow made her wary. She could feel that this was intentional. Amon didn't want them just to fight him. He wanted them to dread him. To question themselves. Their powers. Their bonds.
A psychological war.
And worst of all—it was working.
---
In the shattered dimension, Amon continued his manipulation. No longer needing direct meetings, he spoke to his avatars across realities, guiding them through sensation, through instincts. Each carried a fragment of his will, twisting faith, destiny, and magic in subtle but irreparable ways.
One avatar whispered into a rising politician's dreams, driving him toward a campaign of fear and division.
Another stirred ancient evil beneath the sea, once sealed by angels.
Yet another stood in a cathedral and told a crying priest that his god had abandoned him.
All of it choreographed.
All of it serving the same goal: corrosion. Not of structures, but of hope.
Amon knew well that the divine fell not by the sword, but by the slow rot of belief.
And he was patient.
---
Issei trained harder than ever. Ddraig encouraged him, though the dragon's voice held caution.
"Power isn't enough, partner. Amon doesn't play fair."
"Then we cheat right back," Issei replied, fire in his eyes. "We surprise him."
He wasn't alone. Koneko meditated with new discipline. Gasper delved into darker areas of his power, vowing not to be a liability. Rias studied magical theory, diving into tomes she'd once ignored as too obscure. Akeno reached out to her mother's clan for hidden techniques. Kiba trained with Valper's surviving notebooks, seeking any edge.
They were all growing.
And Amon saw it.
"Good," he murmured, watching through the shattered veil. "Let them evolve. Gods are born of struggle. And when they believe themselves strongest, I shall take it all."
---
A meeting between the three factions—angels, devils, and fallen—was arranged in the neutral city of Tartarus. The atmosphere was heavy. Everyone knew why they were there.
To speak of Amon.
Michael, calm and radiant, addressed the room.
"He was created among us," he admitted. "But he defied the very laws of Heaven. He seeks godhood not to save—but to rule."
Sirzechs nodded. "He can no longer be ignored. His influence grows in places we once believed sacred."
Azazel crossed his arms. "Then let's work together. Not just in politics—but in action. Research, reconnaissance, and when the time comes—elimination."
But deep inside, even these powerful beings wondered if they were already dancing to Amon's rhythm.
---
And Amon?
He stood before a pool of time itself, watching fractured timelines flicker like glass shards. In one, he was slain by Issei. In another, he ruled all three factions. In another still, he simply vanished.
He smiled.
"So many endings," he whispered. "But only one truth."
He stepped forward, merging his essence with the pool, weaving through timelines, guiding one step here, one lie there.
Not omnipotent.
Not yet.
But ascending.
And the world trembled not because he had returned—but because he had never truly left.
Author's Note:
Hey guys! If you're enjoying the story, toss a Power Stone my way—it really helps keep me motivated to write more. Thanks for reading!