The shock in the hearts of the Heavenly Emperor Ye mirrored the reaction of the vast majority of spectators.
No one could have predicted it—
That peerless, transcendent Empress… had fallen so utterly to the Stag.
This was no battle of equals. In truth, the Empress had barely managed to fight back at all.
And in the wake of that shock came bewilderment, then despair.
People glanced at one another, each seeing the same lingering, inescapable terror reflected in the others' eyes.
"So… the Empress is dead? Containment has failed?"
"Damn it… do gods this terrifying truly exist in the cosmos?"
"This is hopeless. There's not even a shred of light left."
"If such an entity appeared in our universe, it would mean absolute annihilation."
Yet—
At that very moment—
The Stag on the screen turned its gaze toward a single direction.
The chat group fell deathly silent.
Because that direction… was unmistakably where Earth lay.
Within the valley.
An eerie stillness had taken hold of the gathered agents.
They were not mere spectators, not mere operatives—they hadn't witnessed the cataclysmic battle just fought in the depths of space.
But they could feel it.
The suffocating weight in the air.
The lingering scent of ammonia, a cruel reminder that the Stag's containment was far from over.
Among the crowd, Jinx—who had just watched the Empress's defeat—stood pale as a ghost.
Beside her, Dante's eyes burned with a mix of horror and disbelief.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat.
"It's here…"
The ammonia in the air thickened abruptly.
Then—
A deafening hum erupted from the ground, a seismic wave of sound crashing over them.
The Stag had returned.
No confusion. No rage.
Some gods…
Could only be appeased with blood.
As the crowd stared fixedly at the Stag, the Stag stared back.
It tilted its head, and the very world seemed to bend in reverence.
Some of the Eagle Nation's guards and security officers dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground in worship.
To meet those indescribable eyes was to feel one's soul freeze, thoughts stuttering to a halt.
This was the being that had felled the Empress.
This was the being that had annihilated an entire star system.
A heartbeat later—
The Stag parted its jaws, and the air trembled with that same, low hum.
Then—
"FIVE SECONDS TO FINAL COUNTDOWN!"
A rough, frenzied voice cut through the silence.
Heads whipped toward the source—where Dr. Clef stood atop the highest point, his three mismatched eyes (green, blue, and hazel) absorbing all light, all focus.
For a fleeting moment, that unnatural gaze snapped them out of their terror.
"Cassini."
Kamijou Touma adjusted his mask—the one marked "Fear"—with trembling hands.
"Perynarde."
Zhang Chulan's fingers turned bone-white around his oboe.
"Epimetheus."
Saitama rubbed the gift in his hands, lost in thought.
With every word Dr. Clef uttered, the color drained further from their faces.
"Cathier."
"Cairo."
"Omphalos."
"RITUAL COMMENCEMENT!"
"COUNTDOWN: 5…"
"4…"
"3…"
"2…"
"1!"
The instant "1" rang out, the valley exploded into a cacophony of sound.
The ritual…
Had finally begun.
Within the 60-person circle, six figures—each wearing masks representing different emotions, clad in ornate garb—performed a macabre pantomime.
In the 180-circle, participants exchanged bizarre trinkets while chanting incomprehensible phrases, scattering grain as they moved.
A D-class in the 240-circle, bound in wool and dosed with 60ml of olive oil, recited another alien verse. Around him, others swung stone mallets, smashing relentlessly against a rock.
To the spectators, the ritual had seemed nonsensical at first—but now, an uncanny tension gripped the heavens.
This was no dazzling performance.
It was dread made manifest.
Zhang Chulan stood in the 120-circle, tasked with "playing."
Their instruments—flutes, oboes, clarinets, horns, timpani, and bass drums—wailed out Holst's Opus 32, Fifth Movement.
Yet it was like no music any of them had ever heard.
No melody. No rhythm. Just fractured notes, intermittent dialogue, and jarring claps that disrupted more than they harmonized.
Less a symphony—more noise.
And yet…
Amidst this chaotic, grotesque spectacle…
The Stag stopped.
It was working?
It was actually working?!
Across the multiverse, voices screamed silently:
The omnipotent Supreme God—
The Stag, embodiment of cosmic law—
Was being held in thrall by this deranged mortal performance?!
Zhang Chulan, oblivious to their shock, kept his focus on the slate-gray hexagram beneath his feet. Every glimpse of it made his stomach lurch.
There were no spectators here.
Or rather—only one.
The Stag.
And never had he felt so seen.
He'd never touched a clarinet before today. Never stood on a stage this wrong.
Yet the moment he picked it up, the music flooded his mind like muscle memory.
Fear had given way to awe.
For the first time, reason flickered back to life.
"If this keeps up… maybe containment will succeed?"
But then—
He sensed it.
The oboist beside him had missed a beat.
Strange.
He'd never played an oboe. Had no idea how it worked.
But he knew.
Not by sound—
But because the world itself told him so.
A single mistake was normal.
Zhang Chulan forced himself to breathe.
Yet when fear takes hold, even the smallest error becomes a spark to the tinder of despair.
The D-class missed another note.
Then another.
Then botched a tremolo. A hand gesture.
Across the heavens, ten thousand hearts skipped a beat.
Someone's mind screamed:
It's over.
Without warning—
The "audience" in Zhang Chulan's mind swelled.
10,000 watchers.
And he knew—none of them were human.
That was why the bastard had missed the fifth cue.
Now the "audience" had grown to 100,000.
And they were no longer quiet.
They were…
Restless.
The spectators' breaths hitched.
The others noticed too. Side-eyed the trembling D-class.
This mistake was fatal.
The atmosphere plummeted. The chat group's dread thickened to suffocation.
Everyone realized—
The worst was coming.