Screams tore through the night—men, women, and children alike—echoing against the backdrop of thick smoke and the coppery stench of blood. The air trembled with panic.
"It's the devil—this is the end!"
"His army isn't falling… they keep growing by the second!"
"Ares has fallen!"
"That's impossible! How many gods has he already slain? At this rate, he'll wipe out the entire pantheon before sunrise!"
No one could understand it. How could a mere elf wield such overwhelming power? No, match was too soft a word. His strength dwarfed that of the gods themselves.
Through the battlefield, a figure walked—his form cloaked in shadows, long black hair flowing behind him like tendrils of night. Each step crunched bones beneath his feet, and the sky above darkened with an unnatural eclipse. Five massive giants, sculpted from pure darkness and glowing with a deep crimson light, knelt before him in reverence.
The heavens rumbled. A crack of blue lightning split the sky, slamming into the ground with divine fury. From its core emerged a man clad in radiant armor, his presence godly.
"Malakar Mourneye," he thundered, his voice echoing like judgment itself. "You have committed unforgivable sins. This… is where you fall."
A soldier gasped, "It's Zeus!"
Another cried, "We're saved!"
Cheers erupted.
But they died almost instantly.
Silence choked the field. The soldiers' celebration turned to horror as their eyes settled on the unthinkable.
The battlefield was scorched and unrecognizable. Zeus lay in the dirt, bloodied and defeated, his abdomen torn open. One trembling hand clutched his side, while the other covered his right eye, blood leaking through his fingers as he clenched his teeth in agony.
And there stood Malakar above him—calm, composed, terrifying. In his left hand, he held an eyeball, fresh and dripping.
"Scared?" Malakar's voice was low mocking.
Zeus didn't answer. He refused to look up.
"Look into my eyes… and remember this face for eternity."
Slowly, Zeus lifted his gaze.
His breath caught.
Malakar's sclera were pitch black. His irises pulsed with crimson runes—ancient, moving, alive.
Far from the chaos, a boy in pajamas watched silently. Darkness began falling from the sky like rain, swallowing Zeus and the surviving soldiers. It surged toward the boy like a wave—
"Stop!" he shouted, jolting awake soaked in sweat, chest heaving.
They landed in the middle of a Yakuza standoff.
One of the leaders spoke calmly. "Let's settle this without violence. We can compensate each other fairly. Agreed?"
The opposing leader nodded and extended a hand.
But as the two drew close, one of them suddenly pulled a gun and fired.
The shot rang out—
—and Yuta, caught in the wrong place, froze.
Without thinking, Akira lunged in front of him.
The bullet tore into his chest.
Blood burst from his mouth as he collapsed to the ground.
The Yakuza leader screamed, "Who brought a gun?!"
Chaos erupted. Everyone scattered, leaving only Yuta and Akira behind.
Yuta knelt beside him, trying to stop the bleeding, voice trembling as he screamed for help.
At the hospital, doctors did everything they could—
but it wasn't enough.
Akira was declared dead.
The news shattered his parents.
That night, as the clock struck midnight, shadows spilled from Akira's mouth.
They coalesced into a humanoid figure, standing silently over his lifeless body.
It placed a hand over Akira's chest—
and with a crimson glow, something ancient and powerful surged into him.
Akira jolted upright, gasping.
He was alone. The room was still.
"What… happened?" he whispered.
Images flashed: the gun, the pain, the fall.
He winced and clutched his chest. Pulling up his shirt, he saw the scar.
"It wasn't a dream," he muttered, heart pounding.
The room was cold. Sterile. A single flickering light bulb hung overhead, casting dim light over the iron table Akira lay on.
"Where… am I?" he whispered, his voice dry as he blinked at the ceiling.
He slowly sat up, eyes scanning the silent room. Across from him: a sink beneath a cracked mirror. He ripped off the heart monitor pads clinging to his chest. His bare foot touched the icy floor, and as he stood, his legs gave out—he stumbled but caught himself on the table.
"Ugh… My head's spinning…"
He staggered to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. But something stopped him cold.
His reflection hadn't followed his movements.
Instead, it stared at him—expressionless, eyes hollow, as if peering into his soul. Akira blinked and stood up straight. The reflection mirrored him again, as if nothing had happened. He stared, confused.
Then—CLANG. A loud metallic sound rang out.
Akira spun around to see two pathologists frozen in the doorway, gloved and masked. Even behind their surgical gear, fear twisted their faces.
"Th-this is impossible," one stammered.
The other fell backward in shock.
Akira raised his hands. "Wait—what's going on? I—"
But before he could finish, they turned and bolted, screaming down the corridor.
"Hey! Wait!"
Two officers burst into the room seconds later, guns drawn.
"Don't move!"
Akira froze, hands still raised. "I'm not moving—please don't shoot!"
Behind him, the mirror flickered. His reflection's left side was now completely consumed by darkness.
Elsewhere in the hospital…
Akira's parents rushed into the reception.
"Is it true?!" his mother cried, breathless.
"Ma'am?" the nurse asked nervously.
"Our son—Akira Seguru. We were told he's alive," his father said quickly.
The nurse checked her screen. "Room 105."
They dashed down the hallway.
When they entered the room, doctors were surrounding Akira, monitoring, running tests. Akira sat on the bed, looking dazed.
"Mom? Dad?"
They rushed forward, hugging him tight.
"You're choking me…" he wheezed, tapping their arms.
They pulled back, tears in their eyes.
"I couldn't accept it. They said you were gone," his mother sobbed.
"I'm fine… really," Akira smiled weakly.
His dad tugged his ear. "Of course we worry. That's our job."
A doctor stepped in. "Please, let him rest. We're still observing him closely."
"I understand," his father said. Akira's stomach growled.
"Should I grab you some food?" his dad offered.
"He needs real food," his mom snapped. "I'll cook."
"Either works," Akira chuckled nervously.
"We'll be back soon. Take care, baby," his mom said, waving as they left.
Later that week…
> "It's been days. Doctors, reporters—they stopped coming. The media dropped my story. Yuta hasn't visited once. Everyone's acting like nothing happened. My parents say I just had the flu. But I remember dying. I remember the bullet. The morgue. The reflection."
Then, the voice returned.
> "Leave the hospital. Now. You are in danger."
It started as a whisper—but grew louder, more urgent. Akira stepped into the hallway. Empty. Every room vacant.
He walked forward slowly. A doctor stood at the far end, facing away.
"Hello?" Akira called.
No response.
Then—growling.
In a blink, the doctor was nose-to-nose with him, now fully visible.
Its skin was dry, blackened, veined with purple. A twisted, zombie-like face.
Akira stumbled backward—just as the creature slashed. The floor cracked where he'd just been.
He ran, but the creature was too fast. For every two steps he took, it was already ahead of him.
He tripped and fell.
The creature raised a clawed arm.
Then—CRASH!
A fire arrow burst through the window, engulfing the creature in flame. Heat blasted the room.
Akira shielded his face—but in an instant, someone had pulled him away. A hand gripped his shirt.
The figure wore a black silk jumpsuit. Hair aflame. Eyes and mouth blazing with fire.
"Y-you're on fire," Akira stammered.
The creature shrieked and began to rise from the ashes.
"Tch. That didn't kill you?" the man muttered. He raised one hand.
> "Wayūidō."
A flaming ring formed in his palm. With a flick, he hurled it—slicing the creature in half.
"Yeah. That'll do."
The flames vanished from his body. Akira just stared.
"You were… on fire," Akira repeated.
"Ah, right. You."
The man stepped forward.
"You're coming with me."
Before Akira could speak, a sharp pain hit his neck.
Black.