The newly erected saint statue in the cathedral's courtyard was a masterpiece of absurdity. Carved in meticulous detail, it depicted Satoru mid-tumble, robes tangled around his ankles, a marble soup stain immortalized on his sleeve. He stared at it, deadpan. "They even got the parsley," he muttered, flicking the statue's toe. Behind him, his shadow stretched unnaturally long, its edges jagged like fractured glass. "Admit it," crooned a voice only he could hear. Mirror-Satoru leaned against the cathedral wall, translucent and smug, sipping spectral wine from a goblet that dripped shadows. "You're flattered by the attention." Satoru didn't bother turning. "Go haunt someone else." The reflection smirked. "But where's the fun in that?" A passing priest froze, eyes darting between Satoru and the empty wall. "Y-Your Holiness… why are you talking to the—" "Stress," Satoru interrupted, straight-faced. "Sainthood's exhausting."
Beneath the city, the Blood Serpent Cult's lair echoed with the sound of splintering crates and hissed arguments. Two factions faced off over a pile of cabbages—37, to be exact, as decreed by Faction A's "divine vision." Their leader, a wiry man with a snake tattoo coiled around his throat, brandished a dagger at Faction B's spokesman. "The Shadow God demands precision! Thirty-seven cabbages, no more, no less!" Faction B's leader, a woman with eyes like smoldering coals, slammed her fist on the altar. "Heresy! The true doctrine calls for thirty-eight!" A cabbage soared. A punch landed. Chaos erupted—until the air grew cold, and Mirror-Satoru materialized atop the bloodstained altar, legs crossed and grinning. "How about… no cabbages?" The cultists froze mid-brawl. Then, like puppets severed from strings, they scrambled to obey, trampling sacred vegetables underfoot in their haste to appease the shadowy specter.
Aboveground, Lumina paced the cathedral archives, her boots crunching over ancient parchment. Sybil hovered over a crumbling scroll, her finger tracing lines of text that curdled her blood. "This… this can't be real." Garrik leaned over her shoulder, squinting. "'World Creation for Dummies'? Is this a joke?" Lumina's grip tightened on her sword. The scroll's first page read: Step 1: Big boom. Step 2: Add dragons. Step 3: ??? Profit. –S. A crude doodle depicted a stick-figure god punting the sun into the sky. Sybil flipped the parchment, revealing a footnote: "P.S. Heroes are overrated. –S." Garrik barked a laugh. "Coincidence?" A cold draft swept through the chamber, flipping the scroll to expose another margin note: "P.P.S. If you're reading this, stop. Seriously. –S." Lumina's knuckles whitened. "We need to find him. Now."
Satoru, meanwhile, stood trapped at the pulpit, High Priest Roland beaming up at him like a proud parent. "Bless us with your wisdom, Holy One!" The crowd held its breath. Satoru scanned the sea of eager faces. What's the least holy thing I can say? "Uh… Don't eat yellow snow." A collective gasp rippled through the congregation. Quills scratched fervently as scribes translated his nonsense into dogma: "A metaphor for spiritual purity!" Behind him, Mirror-Satoru rolled his eyes. "Weak," he mouthed, materializing in the stained glass's reflection. A toddler near the front pointed. "Why's your shadow making faces?" Satoru didn't miss a beat. "Sunlight allergy. Very tragic." The crowd murmured in sympathy, oblivious to the shadow flipping them off.
That night, as the fractured moon cast jagged light over the city, Mirror-Satoru peeled himself from the cathedral wall, flesh solidifying into something disturbingly real. He flexed his fingers, savoring the weight of existence. "You've had your fun," he whispered to the sleeping saint. "Now… my turn." A snap of his fingers cracked the sky. The moon splintered, its shards glinting like teeth in the void. Somewhere, deep in the abyss, the real Demon Lord Malgoroth stirred, his 3,000-year-old rage redirected at the faint sound of laughter echoing through the cosmos.