The trembling in the D-Class's hands was unmistakable.
Slumped on the ground, exhaustion gave way to pain.
And when he read the next lines, he nearly laughed aloud:
"First off, I'm not one of you. You trained agents died in pairs, and now you expect me to pull this off alone?"
The chatroom audience winced in agreement.
No one could fault his logic.
He had every reason to refuse this "mission":
He was alone, with pitiful supplies.
A D-Class—no loyalty to the Foundation.
No happy ending in his life story, no reason to die a hero.
The only thing left was to put a bullet in his temple and end it.
Yet—
After the bitter chuckle, he fell silent.
One hand clutched the report—Agent Barclay's suicide note.
The other absently traced its edges, lost in thought.
A whisper escaped him:
"Foundation Agent Barclay."
"Wrote this, then killed himself..."
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing.
The chatroom held its breath.
No one expects anything from a D-Class.
But—
What if?
On-screen, his eyelids fluttered. Countless thoughts raced behind them.
Then—he opened his eyes.
Reread the report by dim light (risky, but necessary).
The audience's gaze dropped to the final line:
[I'll leave this in the living room. Hope you find it. Then I'll make sure they don't use my heart to breed another monster.]
[Good luck. Morituri te salutant.]
"I'll try."
Calm. Resolved.
A reply to Barclay—or himself.
Humanity's quiet brilliance flared, leaving the multiverse speechless.
Stunned silence.
Then—
A smile. Slight. Bitter.
Maybe mocking fate for delivering this note to him.
Or maybe—
D-14134 had just accepted the mission.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Gunfire echoed through the warped halls.
Muzzle flashes blinded the screen.
"FUCK! Forgot the prayer again!" Jinx snarled as demons tanked her minigun barrage.
Dante's Devil Trigger flared. "Move!"
His twin serrated blades carved through the horde—
Limbs flew. Bodies split.
But the severed parts twitched, shadows stitching them back together.
"Ugh, these things are disgusting!" one blade complained.
"Dante, can't you find real demons to fight?" whined the other.
"Shut up!" Dante barked, retreating. "Which way?!"
"How should I know where that guy hid?!" Jinx snapped.
They were searching for D-14134.
(Futile? Probably. But they had to try.)
Then—
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the corridor.
Jinx grinned. "THAT way!"
The Nest – Core Chamber
Gunfire. Relentless.
D-14134's final stand.
Unlike past battles—tense, frantic—now only cold focus remained.
Five monsters left.
Two reasons:
This "nest" had half the usual numbers.
He'd brought every silver bullet. No holding back.
The dead space now roared with:
Gunfire.
Shattering debris.
Snarls.
And—laughter.
Bullets and sparks painted the air like celebratory fireworks.
"CHEERS!"
He blew a demon's skull apart, then grabbed the bottle at his hip—
Lab-grade ethanol, stolen from a storage room.
A swing. A splash.
The alcohol hung in the air like a translucent ribbon.
Then—
A dropped candle.
WHOOSH.
Flames erupted, lighting the room like daylight.
The remaining monsters dissolved, unraveling into nothing.
Minutes later, the fire died.
Only a charred heart remained.
D-14134 collapsed onto the wooden floor, spent.
No euphoria. Just... emptiness.
"That's it?"
He almost laughed. "Idiot. Want more? Another 300 rounds?"
Staggering up, he paced.
Days of survival-focused rage—now gone.
What next?
His steps quickened. Arms swung wildly.
A creeping dread filled him.
A dread that—
Spread across the multiverse.