The thick dark clouds parted as the Ackerman helicopter sliced through them, its blades churning the air like industrial blenders. The jet-black fuselage gleamed faintly under the sliver of moonlight that managed to pierce the overcast sky.

  Inside the cabin, the graveyard silence shattered when a mug of coffee slipped from Hina’s hand and smashed against the floor, dark liquid splashing across the metal grating.

  “What the…?” Hina exclaimed, voice cracking.

  Every head snapped toward her. She sat closest to the small mounted television displaying the live feed from Blackthorn Forest. Her eyes were wide, pupils shrunk to pinpricks, face caught between shock and outright disbelief.

  Ken reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and tucked it between his lips. He took a long drag and exhaled pale white smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling vents.

  “Van… lost,” Hina stuttered. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Her fingers twitched; nails dug into her thighs hard enough to leave marks, as though the pain might jolt her awake if this were a nightmare.

  “Looks like it,” Ken replied, tone flat and indifferent. He rolled his eyes away from the screen and scanned the stunned faces of the others.

  Code shook his head violently. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he protested.

  “But there’s the proof right in front of you,” Ken murmured, nodding once toward the television.

  All eyes returned to the screen.

  Van Ackerman’s body lay motionless on the rain-slicked ground; limbs slack, chest unmoving, eyes open and vacant. Raindrops rolled across his irises like tears he couldn't shed.

  “W-wait…” Ryūma exhaled shakily. He forced a hopeful smile. “What if we’re trapped in an illusion?” He snapped his fingers loudly, the sound sharp in the confined space.

  Code rested his chin on his palm and raised both brows. “You might be right,” he conceded with a slow nod. He stood abruptly and began rummaging around the cabin.

  “What’re you doing?” Hina asked.

  Code lifted a mug from the small fold-out table and peered underneath it. “Looking for any illusory circles,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “Uh… oh, yeah!” Hina and Ryūma said in perfect unison. Their eyes lit up with desperate hope. They leapt to their feet and joined the search, flipping cushions, checking seams in the upholstery, even tapping the walls.

  “Jeez.” Ken facepalmed and shook his head. “For heaven’s sake, Van’s been sealed. Accept the damn truth already!” he rasped.

  …

  The newly formed Blackthorn Plains lay in absolute hush. The air reeked of wet compost and rotting vegetation. The Vesta Barrier’s translucent surface caught the moon’s silver light and refracted it downward, illuminating the interior—a perfect void of unending darkness.

  “Sleep tight, Van Ackerman,” the cartoon Glock said in a sheepish, almost fond tone. “You truly were a pain in the ass.”

  The phone’s camera tilted downward toward Terror’s bisected corpse.

  “Now that the only real stumbling block to my plan has been removed, shall we continue… Terror?” the cartoon figure announced.

  “How sad… there was no way you could’ve survived a direct hit from Van Ackerman’s Last Touch,” he mumbled, a trace of genuine melancholy threading through the words.

  “However…” The phone tipped forward and landed gently on what remained of Terror’s legs. “…I’ll bring you back to life.”

  “You once told me your Rubik’s cube was all that was left of Havock after Zelazny Zoldrak killed him twelve years ago…”

  The white-and-black cube slid out of Terror’s shredded pocket and floated upward, pulsing with steady, mechanical click-clacks.

  “…but allow me to break it to you,” Glock continued quietly. “What you’ve been carrying this whole time is your brother Havock’s core.” A soft wind howled through the stillness.

  “It took quite a lot of risks, but I managed to retrieve his core before his body was completely destroyed.” The cartoon Glock leaned forward. “Tonight… I’m going to bind your brother’s soul to your body.”

  The cube hovered over Terror’s severed legs, then gradually descended until it rested across his thighs. It fractured into twenty-six smaller cubes that scattered like intelligent shrapnel. Each piece attached itself to a different point on his legs and sank inward with wet, sucking sounds.

  Glock stretched cartoon hands forward and intoned:

  “SOUL BIND.”

  White light discharged from the phone screen in sharp, effective rays. Each beam struck a cube and set it aglow.

  Terror’s legs twitched. Muscles spasmed and jerked upward before slamming back into the soil. Veins bulged grotesquely along his thighs; muscle mass ballooned, ripping what remained of his clothing. Dark, scaly lines thickened and spread across his entire body like spreading ink.

  From the ragged stump at his waist, flesh and sinew erupted outward, blood bubbled and foamed, bone lengthened and knitted. Organs coalesced from nothing. Tendons wrapped bone; muscle layered over it; skin stretched taut to contain the reconstruction. A neck formed, then a head. Thick black hair cascaded across his face, and finally, a third oval eye opened in the center of his forehead.

  All three eyes snapped wide at once, as a whirlwind of anti-tenzen ripped upward in a violent spiral.

  Terror sat up instantly. He turned his head slowly, taking in his surroundings through unnaturally vivid trinocular vision.

  “Terror…” Glock called softly.

  Terror pivoted toward the phone, confusion carved deep into his features.

  “…or should I say: Terrock,” Glock added with a playful lilt.

  Terror stared at the cartoon face trapped inside the phone screen for a long, silent moment, unable to process it.

  Glock smirked. “Quite the surprise, huh? Wish I could get surprises like this once in a while,” he purred, tone tinged with mock pity.

  Terror said nothing. He turned quietly until his gaze fell on Van Ackerman’s motionless body.

  “Huh?!” Horror flashed across his face and he scrambled backward.

  “Oh, that?” Glock’s cartoon eyes flicked toward Van, then back to Terror. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, glinting with reassurance.

  “He’s been sealed.”

  …

  W.A.S. Surveillance Headquarters.

  “Van Ackerman… sealed?” “Glock’s tenzen signature just came back online.”

  “It’s not possible!” “What makes you think Glock Harbinger could actually defeat Van Ackerman?”

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  “But we all saw him collapse, and he hasn’t moved since.”

  “There’s no way…”

  Low, tremulous murmurs filled the room. Faces were etched with equal parts fear and disbelief. The mechanical hum of cooling fans and hard drives underscored the stunned quiet.

  “Van Ackerman… was sealed?” Arthur muttered calmly. He removed his glasses, produced a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and began polishing the lenses with slow strokes.

  He slid the glasses back on and his vision sharpened.

  “Everyone!” His voice cut cleanly through the murmurs.

  Heads turned to him.

  Arthur stepped forward. “Check the A.T.R. readings from the tenzometer!” he commanded. His tone was shaky but firm.

  The workers spun back to their stations and typed with frantic speed.

  ‘The only way to confirm whether Van Ackerman has truly been sealed is through this,’ Arthur thought.

  “A—A.T.R. is on an abrupt rise,” one officer announced. She stared at the rising curves and spiking graphs on her monitor; sweat rolled down her temple.

  “Tenzometer is sending an emergency warning!” another officer called out.

  Arthur strode to the first officer’s station. “What do you mean—” He stopped the moment he saw her screen.

  “Damn,” he mouthed. He swallowed hard. Red veins twisted in his pupils; his breath caught.

  “Oh no!” “What’s this?!” “We’re dead!” The workers’ cries overlapped as they stared at the same data.

  The screen read:

  TENZOMETER AMBIENT ENERGY READINGS

  LOCATION: ELDRID

  COORDINATE: LAT. 28°N, LONG. 56°W

  DEMONS ACTIVITIES CLASSIFICATION BY A.T.D (ANTI-TENZEN DENSITY) OR A.T.R (ANTI-TENZEN/TENZEN RATIO), WITH RANGES:

  0 to —20%: LOW-CLASS

  —21% to —40%: MID-CLASS

  —41% to —60%: UPPER-CLASS

  —61% to —80%: SPECIAL-CLASS

  —81% to —100%: SPECIAL-DISORDER

  LAST SCAN: 44 SECONDS AGO

  SCAN SPAN: AZURA, BLACKTHORN FOREST, HAZEN, KAIDA, SYLVA

  RECORDED SIGNATURE: —71.4%

  Below the numbers, a line graph showed a steep, almost vertical climb in A.T.R.

  REASON FOR PROGRESSION: SUDDEN FALL IN TENZEN DENSITY

  CONCLUSION: SPECIAL-CLASS THREAT DETECTED THROUGHOUT ELDRID ??

  Arthur stepped back, eyes never leaving the screen.

  ‘This confirms it,’ he thought. ‘Van Ackerman really has been sealed. His absence has already begun to destabilize the balance. In no time, the whole of Eldrid will become an automatic spawn location for demons.’

  “Even if Harbinger doesn’t breach Vesta,” he said quietly, “we’re still done for.”

  …

  Blackthorn Plains.

  “Hmm. The whole of Eldrid should already be aware by now,” Glock stated from the phone’s tiny speaker. “Now, whatchu doing next?” he asked Terror.

  Terror straightened and cracked his knuckles. “I suddenly feel a strange power coursing through me,” he muttered. His three eyes narrowed with deadly focus.

  “Keke. Looks like it’s working,” Glock chuckled. “However, the assimilation process is still ongoing, so you might not want to engage in combat just yet,” he added seriously.

  Terror lowered his hand and glanced ahead. His gaze locked onto Sir Zoldrak’s body floating a short distance away.

  “We haven’t even achieved our main goal yet,” Glock continued. “That is, breaching the Blackthorn seal—the Vesta Barrier.”

  “Carrying out the soul bind on myself consumed an enormous amount of tenzen. I had to rely on the reserves from those Hourbearers we killed in Azura.”

  [Reference from Chapter 18.9: Midsummer Festival]

  “So… you’re saying?” Terror asked.

  “I’m out of tenzen,” Glock deadpanned. “Without tenzen, performing the ritual is delusional. After all, what lies behind Vesta aren’t your usual demons.”

  “What do you mean?” Terror demanded.

  “Think of it: the Blackthorn seal was erected over six hundred years ago, confining most of the low-class demons within Eldrid at the time,” Glock replied. “There’s no plausible way those original demons are still alive today.”

  “Huh?!” Terror exclaimed. He whirled toward the barrier. “What about me and Aghnis?”

  Glock shook his head. “You’re misunderstanding. I never said they died. And did you forget you’re an upper-class demon?” He raised a cartoon brow.

  “It’s called evolution,” Glock’s voice echoed softly. “Just as humans and every other life form evolve, so do demons. But demonic evolution is driven by survival of the fittest, not natural selection.

  Meaning a demon will not hesitate to cannibalize another to survive.”

  Terror’s three eyes gradually widened.

  “One demon eats another. Then another. And another. The sequence continues, and with each act the demon grows more powerful.”

  A short silence passed.

  “So you’re saying I was once a low-class demon?” Terror finally asked.

  “Who knows?” Glock replied lightly. “What matters now isn’t answers. We’ve gotten as many of those as we need.”

  “Arrgh," Terror sighed. "What you're saying is that we should go into hiding for now, huh?” he asked.

  “Yep!” Glock nodded. “Until I’ve recovered my strength and gathered enough followers to use as sacrifices.

  Don’t worry about what happens in Eldrid. Since Van Ackerman’s absence has already shattered the balance, demons will start spawning infinitely. And luckily, we’ve acquired the key. It’s a win-win either way.”

  Terror stood motionless, reluctance plain in his rigid posture. ‘I’ve always lived for this: for avenging my brother,’ he thought, fist clenching. ‘But Glock already did that…’

  The memory surfaced.

  “Why do you fight?” Glock had once asked him.

  Terror snapped back to the present and spun toward the phone.

  “Gimme a hand, will ya?” Glock said.

  Terror reached down, picked up the phone, then turned toward Sir Zoldrak’s floating body.

  “Thinking of it… where did the real Aghnis run off to?” Glock muttered, voice wobbling from the movement. “He’s such a good boy,” he added with a smile.

  The two approached Sir Zoldrak. Terror lunged forward and seized the general’s wrist. The instant his fingers made contact, veins bulged across his forearm and rage surged through him like wildfire.

  “Huh?” Glock’s gaze flicked toward him.

  Terror exhaled sharply, forced himself to calm, and tightened his grip on the wrist.

  He took a step forward, but halted when a loud mechanical clatter suddenly cut through the night.

  “What?” Terror exclaimed. He looked up and sighted two helicopters hovering overhead.

  “Eh? Wasn’t it just one?” Glock blurted in surprise.

  “You’re asking me?” Terror replied dryly. A powerful downdraft whipped sand into his face from behind. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and turned.

  Glock kept staring at the second chopper. The first helicopter’s spotlight swept across its side, revealing the insignia on it; the Ackerman crest. The door slid open and Hina leapt out.

  “What?!” Glock’s cartoon eyes widened.

  Inside the Ackerman helicopter, Ryūma raised a single finger toward the first chopper, where the worm-headed cameraman still stood motionless.

  “Fire Sorcery…” he muttered, warm air hissing from the corner of his lips.

  Rows of glistening fireballs materialized in a perfect grid around him.

  “FIREBALL BARRAGE!!”

  The orbs launched forward like tracer rounds from a Gatling gun, punching clean holes through the cameraman and pilot, as they toppled to the ground. The remaining fireballs struck the fuselage. The entire machine erupted in a single ear-shattering boom. A destructive tide of flame and superheated wind roared outward, rocking Ryūma backward into the cabin as his own chopper banked sharply.

  On the ground, Terror spun toward the source of the wind and froze.

  The voice that followed was low, menacing, and almost divine.

  It said just one word: “DISINTEGRATE.”

  Van Ackerman still lay on the ground, eyes lifeless. But one arm was outstretched, palm forward.

  “What the—” Terror gasped. 'Don't tell me his sheer willpower was able to override soul bind?!'

  The atomization effect raced outward faster than thought. But he soon realized; it wasn’t aimed at him.

  It was aimed at the key—Sir Zelazny Zoldrak’s body.

  Terror released his grip instantly. The phone slipped free and tumbled toward the soil.

  Time seemed to stretch.

  Terror thrust his left palm forward, and whispered: “Push.”

  A repulsive shockwave blasted outward, cutting marks through the earth and meeting with Van’s effect at blinding speed.

  But just before impact, a declaration rang from above:

  “Resonance,” Ken said.

  A single violet crescent materialized in the clouds. It birthed two more identical arcs. One became two, two became four, four became eight, doubling in perfect geometric progression with terrifying speed until the night sky was filled with hundreds of shimmering violet blades.

  The column descended.

  The air screamed, as fractured space sparked along the edges of the slashes; moonlight itself bent and warped around the falling lattice.

  The technique sliced Terror’s push apart like paper and Van’s atomization effect burst forward unimpeded.

  “Hah!” Terror’s chest heaved. In fury he thrust his palm toward Van’s body once more, but a cloak of absolute darkness dropped into his vision.

  Hina balanced lightly on his outstretched arm, dark tenzen bleeding from her skin like ink in water. She swung both hands apart; moonlight slid off the edges of her drawn katana.

  The she twisted her wrist and drove the blade downward.

  "Dark Severance!”

  A wave of pure darkness burned across Terror’s skin before the steel even touched him. Then, in one clean, merciless arc, Hina severed his arm at the elbow.

  ‘Shit! I’m even weaker than before?!’ Terror thought, staring at the smoking stump.

  Van’s disintegration effect blitzed past, rippling over Glock’s container in a tide of erasure.

  “Fuck!” Glock hissed. He opened his cartoon mouth to chant, but—

  “PULVERIZE!!”

  Code materialized from nowhere and drove a single devastating punch into the phone. The impact shattered the earth in a cataclysmic crater; fragments of plastic and glass sprayed outward.

  ‘The hell?! Where did he come from? I didn’t even sense him!’ Glock’s final thought screamed as the phone disintegrated into useless shards.

  Van’s attack connected with Sir Zoldrak’s chest.

  The body vanished in a spray of absolute nothing. No blood, no ash, no trace.

  “Ahh!” Glock gasped through the dying speaker.

  Code rose from the crater, blood dripping from split knuckles onto the ruined phone.

  He spun and locked eyes with Terror. 'Who's that?' he thought, but recollection hit, and he immediately recognized him.

  “Terror!!” he roared, charging forward and stomping on Glock's phone.

  “He… hehehehe!” Glock’s voice crackled from the wreckage. “Hehehehe… hehehehe… hahahahahaha!”

  The laughter turned manic and unhinged.

  “I refuse… I refuse to accept this… I refuse this!!” he roared.

  Then, with one final, desperate cry before the last fragments of the phone went dark:

  “TERRROOOORRRR!!!”

  *************************************

  TO BE CONTINUED...