(Meanwhile, in Orbxico).
The haunting notes of a violin drifted through the air as Marcel performed for his citizens. These were the ones he had personally plucked from the chaos of the human world—souls who craved a life scrubbed clean of violence and suffering. As the final, resonant chord faded into the stillness, Marcel offered a rare, genuine smile. To the rest of the cosmos, he was the formidable Dark Universal Orb King, but here, among those he protected, his kindness was as vast as his power.
Later that night, the King slipped back across the veil into the human realm. He wasn't there to conquer or recruit; he was drawn by a singular, magnetic pull. Standing in the shadows of Mexico, he remained silent and unseen, his eyes fixed on the woman who had captivated him from the moment he first saw her.
Marcel: "Es tan bonita." (She's so pretty).
His blue eyes locked on her, and a faint blush crept onto his cheeks. The peace was shattered in an instant. A Black woman stepped forward, her face contorted with anger as she reached out and violently pulled at the woman's hair, shouting about the braids she wore. Marcel's eyes widened, the soft blue of his pupils sharpening into something cold and shocked. In Orbxico, he had built a sanctuary specifically to escape such senseless friction. To see the woman who had captivated his heart suddenly subjected to the very violence he loathed triggered a dangerous flicker of his Kingly power. The air around him began to hum with a dark, restless energy.
Marcel stopped short, his eyes widening in horror as he noticed one of the cartel members had infiltrated the human world in Mexico. To his dismay, Mikhail himself had appeared. Mikhail turned to the Black woman and sneered.
Mikhail: "Hola, negrita."
His words hung in the air, thick with a casual, centuries-old cruelty. He stood there, his skin pale and polished, looking every bit the cold aristocrat of a world he didn't belong to. To the woman, he wasn't just a stranger—he was the living embodiment of the "evil white man," a symbol of the very oppression and violence she had spent her life resisting.
Her eyes snapped toward him, burning with an immediate, righteous fury. She didn't shrink back from his sneer; instead, she bristled, her posture sharpening as she took in his light-skinned features and the arrogance in his stance. To her, Mikhail represented the ultimate predator, someone who felt entitled to mock her existence simply because he could.
Mikhail didn't just sneer anymore; his expression curdled into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. With a violent, dismissive shove, he sent the white Hispanic girl reeling, treating her like nothing more than an obstacle in his path. She gasped, her balance vanishing as she plummeted toward the hard pavement.
Marcel moved before he could even think.
In a blur of motion that defied human speed, he was there. He caught her just inches from the ground, his strong arms wrapping firmly and protectively around her. The impact of her weight against his chest sent a jolt through him, but he didn't let go.
He held her close, shielding her body with his own, his blue eyes snapping up to meet Mikhail's with a newfound, icy fire.
The girl's heart was hammering against Marcel's ribs, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Mikhail didn't even look at her as he spoke, his voice as thin and sharp as a razor blade.
Mikhail: "Black people always pretend they're oppressed—it's honestly pathetic."
He said, the words dripping with a cold, hollow contempt. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing like a dying star, before flicking the butt into the muddy gutter with a practiced, arrogant indifference.
The woman's entire frame shook. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles turned ash-white, and the rage in her gaze was no longer just anger—it was a fire that threatened to consume everything in its path.
Essence: "You know nothing about my people's pain."
She spat, her voice low and trembling with the weight of generations.
Essence: "You stand there in your pale skin, looking down on a world you think you own. You're nothing but a privileged bastard."
Marcel, still holding the Hispanic girl protectively against his chest, felt the atmospheric pressure in the alleyway shift. He knew Mikhail—he knew that look in his eyes. To Mikhail, her defiance wasn't a reason to stop; it was an invitation to be even more cruel.
Mikhail: "Why are you so cruel?"
He replied, his tone dismissive, almost bored. He leaned back, his pale features settling into a mask of calculated grief.
Mikhail: "I'm from Palestine—my suffering dominates yours. Don't lecture me about oppression when I've seen entire villages erased from maps."
The lie slipped from his lips with terrifying ease. He wasn't from the human Middle East; he was the iron-fisted leader of Orbestine. But he knew exactly which human scars to touch to silence his opposition.
The Black woman scoffed, stepping into his personal space, her shadow falling over his light-skinned frame.
Essence: "You're pale-skinned, speaking perfect English, and still you have the nerve to act like you understand systemic racism?"
Her voice cracked, vibrating with pure, unadulterated fury.
Essence: "Your ancestors were colonizers, not victims. You're just another white man hiding behind a story to keep your boot on someone's neck!"
Mikhail: "Now I can see why Yusuke hates you humans—so obsessed with skin color, that's all you care about."
He sneered. His voice was no longer just dismissive; it was filled with a sharp, glinting amusement that made the air turn cold.
Before she could strike back, the ground beneath her feet erupted.
A jagged, demonic sigil flared in a burst of infernal light, casting long, twisted shadows against the brick walls. The woman gasped, her body arching as a surge of raw, unnatural energy tore through her.
In a sickening blur of magic, the transformation took hold. Marcel watched in silent horror as the deep, rich tone of her skin drained away, replaced by a stark, porcelain pallor—the exact shade of Mikhail's own. The metamorphosis was instantaneous and absolute.
Mikhail stepped closer, his smirk widening as he looked down at the woman who now stared at her own trembling, white hands in shock.
Mikhail: "There."
He whispered, his voice dripping with venom.
Mikhail: "Now you're finally one of them—the 'evil white people' you hate so much. Tell me, do you feel the privilege yet?"
From the deep, oppressive shadows of the alley, Marcial, the undisputed leader of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas, watched the scene unfold. His expression remained a mask of iron; to him, this wasn't a tragedy—it was merely a demonstration of power he found neither surprising nor concerning.
Mikhail's smirk widened into something truly sadistic. Beneath his own skin, the demonic Orbestine energy surged. In a slow, nauseating crawl, his pale complexion began to darken, the pigment shifting and deepening until he stood before her as a mirror image of the woman's stolen heritage. He looked down at his own dark hands, flexed them, and then fixed his gaze back on her new, pale face.
Mikhail: "They say people of color can't be racist toward whites, right?"
His voice was a low, jagged rasp, dripping with menacing intent.
Mikhail: "That's the rule of your world."
He stepped into her personal space, his towering silhouette eclipsing her.
Mikhail: "So, technically, I could kill you here and now—in this white skin you despise—and you'd never get justice. In the eyes of your people, I'd just be another brother taking out the oppressor."
The silence that followed was heavy, laced with the scent of ozone and ancient malice. The woman looked at her white hands, then at the monster wearing her face, realized the trap he had built: he hadn't just changed her body; he had erased her soul from the record.
Mikhail's patience snapped like a dry bone. With a blurred motion, he drew a gleaming, ethereal blade that seemed to hum with the dark frequency. He lunged, the tip of the steel aimed straight for the woman's chest with merciless, lethal intent.
But the blade never found its mark.
Marcel moved with the explosive grace of a King. His hand shot out, his fingers locking around Mikhail's wrist with the strength of a closing vice, halting the strike just inches from the woman's pale, trembling skin. The air between them crackled with the collision of their opposing energies.
Marcel: "Mikhail."
He said, his voice low and vibrating with a firm, immovable authority.
Marcel: "Enough."
Mikhail pulled against the grip, his knuckles white around the hilt, his face twisted in a snarl of confusion. Marcel didn't flinch. His blue eyes, usually cold and calculating for the Cartel's business, were now blazing with an unexpected, fierce compassion—a light that seemed to physically push back against Mikhail's shadow.
Marcel: "I understand she spoke words that cut."
He continued, his gaze never wavering.
Marcel: "But being insulted doesn't grant you the right to erase a life. Not here. Not while I'm standing."
The silence that followed was deafening. Behind them, Marcial watched from the darkness, his eyes narrowing. The hierarchy of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas had just been challenged, not by an enemy, but by one of its own.
The air in the alley didn't just turn cold—it died.
Without a word, Marcial stepped out of the shadows. He didn't run; he moved with the flickering, predatory speed of a lightning strike. Before Marcel could even process the shift in the wind, Marcial's hands were there. A single, sickening crack echoed off the damp brick walls—precise, efficient, and final.
The woman's body went limp, her new, pale face staring blankly at a world that had betrayed her one last time. Marcial let her go, watching with clinical indifference as she slumped to the pavement like a discarded silk shroud.
He didn't look at the body. Instead, his cold, dead gaze shifted between Mikhail and Marcel, pinning them both where they stood. His voice was a flat, emotionless drone that carried the weight of a death sentence.
Marcial: "Now."
He said, the word cutting through the ringing silence.
Marcial: "Shall we get moving? We have a deal to discuss, and I am growing impatient."
The leader of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas turned his back on the carnage, his presence radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. To him, the "Dark Universal Orb King" and the "Ritual Orb King" were currently nothing more than subordinates who were late for a meeting.
Marcel: "Why would you kill her?"
He demanded. The words felt like lead in his throat, heavy with a mixture of shock and a crushing, hollow disappointment.
He spun around, his blue eyes searching for the one spark of light he had found in this city. But it was too late. He caught a final, blurred glimpse of the white Hispanic girl as she vanished into the darkness of the street, her heels clicking frantically against the pavement.
He didn't need his powers to know what she was thinking—she had seen the sigils, the inhuman speed, and the casual slaughter. She knew they weren't human.
Marcel's heart sank, a cold weight settling in his chest. In her eyes, he wasn't a savior anymore; he was just another monster in a suit. The chance he had felt—the connection that had drawn him from his throne—was severed, lost to the shadows of Mexico forever.
Marcial halted, his silhouette cutting a sharp, dark line against the alleyway. He turned his head just enough to catch Marcel's gaze, his expression as unreadable and ancient as a stone monument.
Marcial: "She was a loose end."
He replied. His voice was flat, devoid of cruelty or regret; to him, he was simply stating a mathematical fact.
Marcial: "Now, come. The world doesn't stop for a girl's memory."
He stepped out of the alley, leaving the silence of the dead behind him. Marcel stood for a heartbeat longer, his fists clenched.
Mikhail stood over the body for a heartbeat longer, his dark skin receding like a tide, leaving behind the stark, porcelain pallor of his true form. He didn't look remorseful; he looked like a scientist observing a broken tool. With a final, lingering glance at the woman whose identity he had briefly stolen, he turned on his heel and moved to follow Marcial.
Marcel, however, couldn't move so easily.
His chest felt hollow, a jagged ache radiating from where his heart had been only moments before. He looked at the empty space where the Hispanic girl had stood—the woman who represented a life he could never truly have.
His piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp and regal, blurred with the hot sting of unshed tears. He wasn't just mourning a stranger; he was mourning the version of himself that might have been worthy of her.
Marcial: "Marcel."
His voice drifted back from the mouth of the alley, a low, warning vibration.
Struggling to compose himself, Marcel drew a shaky breath and forced his features into a mask of stoic obedience. He couldn't let them see the King of Orbxico weep. With leaden steps, he reluctantly trailed behind the two monsters, leaving the girl and his hope for a peaceful life cooling on the pavement of Mexico.
(Meanwhile at the underground facility).
Mochizuki: "You're a wanted man, bro."
He said, his voice echoing off the damp concrete. He leaned back in their makeshift sanctuary, holding up a flickering digital tablet. The blue light of the screen illuminated a "Dead or Alive" bounty currently plastered across Orbpan.
Kiyozawa stared at his own face on the screen. His golden eyes, usually bright with potential, looked dull—emptied by the weight of the last few days.
(In his mind).
"I didn't expect this outcome. I didn't expect any of this."
(Out of his mind).
Kiyozawa: "I didn't think it would end like this."
He said aloud, his voice cracking. The heartbreak was a physical weight; the memory of Amaya's disappearance hurt more than any price the Holy Corporation could put on his head.
Mochizuki leaned against a rusted, dripping pipe.
Mochizuki: "To be honest, I thought you would've joined them. The Holy Corp... you know it's what your father would have wanted for you."
Kiyozawa looked down at his hands. Beneath the skin, a faint, glitchy red glow pulsed—a reminder of the power he didn't ask for the book's power is still in him.
Kiyozawa: "I would."
He whispered, the words barely audible.
Kiyozawa: "But I don't want to live my life in a cage, Mochizuki. I'd rather be a wanted man than a captured one."
A flash of memory hit him: the silent graves he had dug for Amaya and his father. Both were empty. It was as if their entire existence had been systematically erased from the world.
Klaudia: "Hey, idiots. It's time to go to Orbxico."
She announced. Her voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade.
Kiyozawa looked up, confusion cutting through his grief. He hadn't realized a move was being made so soon. Seeing his hesitation, Klaudia shrugged, a sharp smirk playing on her lips.
Klaudia: "If you want to go too, why not? It's better than sitting here waiting for the Holy Corporation to kick the door down."
Mochizuki: "Kaien is coming with us."
He added firmly. He kept Kaien close to his side; the boy looked shy and uncertain, but he didn't pull away from the only safety he had left.
Suddenly, the air in the room tore open. A swirling black portal manifested, a direct path carved through space by the Black Figure.
Kiyozawa stared into the dark vortex, his heart heavy with doubt. He had no idea what they were walking into. But as Klaudia and Mochizuki shared a silent, knowing look, the truth remained hidden from him: they weren't just fleeing—they were heading straight into the arms of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas.
(Orbxico).
The portal snapped shut behind them, leaving the group standing in the suffocating heat of Orbxico. As they navigated the dusty, sun-bleached streets, they passed a storefront lined with flickering television screens. Every channel was broadcasting the same emergency report, the headlines screaming in bold text: DARK ORB KING YUSUKE INTERVENES IN HUMAN WORLD.
Klaudia sighed, shaking her head at the screens.
Klaudia: "That man..."
Kiyozawa simply rolled his eyes. He didn't have the energy for Yusuke's grandstanding; his own heart was already too heavy to carry the weight of a King's politics.
Suddenly, the air shimmered. Marcel materialized directly in front of them. He was a stark contrast to the dusty street—his suit was perfectly tailored, his presence calm and commanding. He adjusted his cuffs and looked at the group with an expression that was terrifyingly warm.
Marcel: "Welcome to Orbxico."
He said. His gentlemanly tone was smooth, cutting through the tension of the street like silk. He offered a polite smile, though his eyes carried the weight of his office.
Marcel: "They've been waiting for you."
He nodded toward Klaudia and Mochizuki, his silent gesture making it clear: the deal was already in motion.
Mochizuki: "We have brought someone who isn't a king, but he is very useful to us,"
He said, glancing at Kiyozawa. Kiyozawa felt a flicker of nervousness standing before a monarch known for his immense strength.
Marcel held out his hand.
Marcel: "I am glad to meet you."
Kiyozawa hesitated, then reached out to shake it when he complied, his touch heavy with the weight of Amaya's absence and the fresh grief of Zentaro's passing just days ago. Marcel detected the fraying edges of his soul in that single gesture.
(In his mind).
"His heart is filled with sadness and despair."
He mused silently, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
(Out of his mind).
Marcel: "Well then, let's get going."
He commanded. He led Kiyozawa, Klaudia, Mochizuki, and Kaien toward the hideout of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas. The moment they crossed the threshold to meet Marcial and the other gathered royals, the air shifted. The atmosphere was crushing, heavy with a pressure so intense that Kiyozawa struggled to remain standing.
Marcial's gaze shifted, landing sharply on Kiyozawa. The room fell quiet. As the leader of the Cártel de Reyes y Reinas, Marcial had a strict rule against outsiders, permitting them only if they were willing to join—and that initiation always came at a steep price. Kiyozawa felt the weight of that look, realizing he was being weighed and measured.
Kiyozawa's eyes flared a vivid, warning red as he tapped into his power, his body tensing for a fight. He barely had time to blink before Marcial was upon him, pinning him to the floor with terrifying speed. The reaction was instantaneous: Mochizuki's palms ignited with dark, swirling flames. To the rest of the world, they were comrades-in-arms, but since the horrors of the goat cult, Mochizuki viewed Kiyozawa as something far more precious—a true friend. He would not stand by and watch him be crushed.
Marcial leaned down, his voice cold and cutting.
Marcial: "Are you willing to join us, or shall I kill you here for your trespass?"
Kiyozawa's breath hitched. He was still reeling from the sheer speed of the man's movement, but the threat hung heavy in the air. He didn't have a choice—not if he wanted to survive long enough to settle his own scores.
Kiyozawa: "I'm here to join you,"
He replied, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
Marcial: "Show me what you've got,"
He said, stepping back to cede the floor. He was replaced by Mikhail, the Ritual Orb King. As Mikhail stood before him, a third eye manifested in the center of his forehead, glowing with an unnatural, eldritch light. Kiyozawa climbed to his feet, his nerves fraying at the sight of such power. Just as doubt began to cloud his focus, a familiar shout cut through the tension.
Mochizuki: "Go, Kiyozawa!"
It was Mochizuki, his voice a steady anchor of support amidst the suffocating energy of the room.
Kiyozawa: "Don't worry... I've got this."
He muttered, though his voice wavered.
Mikhail sensed the profound sorrow clinging to the boy, a vulnerability he could easily exploit. A slight, predatory smirk touched his lips. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a glowing symbol into the air; from the ethereal light, a figure coalesced. She was eighteen, her features identical to Amaya's—the same face that had faded to nothing in Kiyozawa's arms.
Kiyozawa's eyes widened, the world tilting on its axis as his breath hitched. The memory of her slipping away, the cold feeling of loss, rushed back with agonizing clarity.
Kiyozawa: "Amaya..."
He whispered, his vision blurring as hot tears tracked down his face.
This will continue in the next chapter.