The air in the Occult Research Club was thick with tension. The scent of ozone lingered after the battle—a silent reminder that their war was no longer a matter of future possibilities. It had begun.
Rias sat at the head of the table, arms crossed, crimson eyes staring into space. Her mind raced.
They'd repelled Amon, yes. But it cost them.
Kiba still twitched in his sleep. His dreams—if they could be called that—were fragmented now, laced with symbols and phrases in dead languages he didn't know.
Akeno was fine physically, but her spells had overloaded. She'd nearly fried the warding circle when Amon pushed through the mirror. Even now, her fingertips sparked with lingering static.
And Riser... he was still unconscious. Whatever Amon had done to his soul left the Phoenix heir barely stable. Rias had checked on him hours ago—his flames still flickered, but weakly. Without him, they wouldn't have pushed Amon out.
But none of that answered the question screaming in her mind:
What now?
Azazel broke the silence.
"We need allies," he said.
Rias turned her head slowly. "What kind?"
"The kind who have fought this sort of enemy before. I've already sent word to Michael."
There was a moment of quiet surprise.
Akeno furrowed her brow. "The angels?"
"Yes. Amon predates our current mythologies. He's not bound by the trifecta system of Devils, Angels, and Fallen. We'll need help from all sides. Especially from those who specialize in spiritual defense and soul structure."
Issei grumbled from the corner, arms folded. "Why not go straight to Sirzechs or Serafall?"
"They can't act openly without tipping the political balance," Rias said. "We're trying to avoid a faction war."
Azazel nodded. "Exactly. We don't need the chaos of the Underworld leadership accusing Heaven or the Grigori of harboring dark secrets. This has to be handled off the record."
Issei stood, the faint golden glow of Ddraig flickering in his eyes. "Fine. Then let's stop him before he finds another puppet."
Everyone turned to him.
There was determination in his voice now—sharper than before.
Azazel narrowed his eyes slightly, then chuckled.
"You're growing up."
—
Elsewhere—in a dimension lost between moments—Amon stood within a temple of memory.
It was not real. Not to most. But to him, it was more than tangible.
He walked beneath vaulted ceilings made of rewritten fates. The stained glass above depicted fallen gods, twisted by time, turned into myths. He studied one with a mild smile—Lucifer descending into a serpent—and touched it with a single gloved hand.
"Fascinating," he murmured.
Behind him, another form flickered into being. It was Riser—but broken. His image trembled, like a mirror trying to forget its own reflection.
"You fight harder than expected," Amon said, without turning.
The image snarled, flickering like a weak flame. "You will not… use me again…"
"I already did," Amon said. "And you served beautifully. But I require new prose."
With a flick of his fingers, he dispersed the mental echo.
Amon turned toward the center of the temple—where an altar hovered.
Upon it lay a book.
Leather-bound. No title. No spine.
It was blank.
But not for long.
"Who shall I write next?" Amon mused aloud. "The kind bishop girl? Or the swordsman, whose past scars hum like tuning forks?"
He reached out—
—and the book snapped shut on its own.
A single monocle hung in the air beside it, spinning slowly.
Amon frowned. "Oh, now you warn me?"
The monocle did not answer. It never did.
But he understood.
"Very well. Plan B."
He turned from the altar.
Time to visit the church ruins.
—
In the real world, the team gathered again—this time in the Kuoh forest, at the edge of the barrier perimeter Azazel had reinforced.
Rias, Issei, Akeno, and Kiba stood at the clearing. Azazel pointed at a diagram in the dirt.
"This is where the spiritual density is highest. If Amon tries to enter the world again, it'll likely be through this rift. We're setting up a triangulation trap—force him into a bottleneck and strike with a focused ritual that'll sever his spiritual tether."
"And if that fails?" Issei asked.
Azazel smiled. "We improvise."
Kiba looked up suddenly. "There's something here…"
His sword was already half-drawn when the world bent.
Like before, the air shuddered. Light twisted into shadow.
A portal opened. Not dramatic—more like a tear in the canvas of reality.
And from it stepped a figure.
But not Amon.
A girl.
Young, blond. In a church habit, with eyes glowing white.
Issei's heart nearly stopped. "Asia?"
Rias narrowed her eyes. "No… that's not her."
The girl opened her mouth.
Her voice echoed—not her own.
"Faith is a fine tool," the voice said. Amon's voice.
"But I've found fear to be a sharper knife."
The girl lifted her hands—and from her palms, dozens of silver crosses exploded outward, spinning like chakrams.
Akeno reacted instantly, intercepting most with a lightning shield. Kiba slashed three down. One grazed Rias's shoulder.
"He's possessing random civilians now?" Issei shouted.
"No," Azazel muttered grimly. "He's leaving impressions. Like a painter leaving brushstrokes across the minds of weak-willed believers."
The girl collapsed, unconscious.
From the portal, Amon stepped through—fully formed.
He was smiling.
"I see you've prepared quite the welcome."
Rias stepped forward, blood dripping from her shoulder. "We're not afraid of you."
"Good," Amon said. "Fear makes for poor conversation."
Then he attacked.
—
The forest erupted.
Rias launched a blast of Power of Destruction at point blank range—only for Amon to absorb it into his coat and redirect it toward Akeno.
Kiba vanished, slashing from behind, but Amon sidestepped, catching the sword between two fingers. "Still predictable," he muttered, then flicked the blade away, sending Kiba crashing into a tree.
Issei transformed—Boosted Gear flaring, wings unfurling.
"Welsh Dragon Balance Breaker!"
The crimson armor enveloped him, and he charged, fist glowing.
Amon met him with one hand, stopping the punch.
But this time, he winced.
"Ah," he murmured. "You've grown. A heartbeat louder. A fate… thicker."
Issei snarled, pushing harder.
From above, Akeno rained lightning.
From below, Rias unleashed destruction.
Amon laughed.
But it cracked, ever so slightly.
And then—
He stopped.
His form flickered.
Inside him, a fire raged.
Riser.
The Phoenix heir screamed from within, clawing at Amon's control.
"I… won't… let you…"
Amon staggered, his form splitting—two faces, two voices.
Issei punched again, this time landing clean across Amon's chest.
The ancient figure reeled—and the team pounced.
Blades, lightning, destruction, dragonfire—
And Amon vanished in a burst of violet light.
They were left alone. Breathing. Alive.
Azazel approached the spot. "He didn't flee. He fragmented."
Rias turned to him. "Is he dead?"
"No," Azazel said. "He's gone to regroup. But that hit… it hurt him."
Kiba stood slowly. "We made him bleed."
—
Far away, Amon sat alone in a shadowed realm.
He clutched his side, blood seeping from his glove.
His smile had faded.
"Fascinating," he whispered. "They adapt. They resist."
He reached up, straightened his monocle, and began to laugh softly.
"Good."
He stood, and shadows gathered once more.
"The next act begins."