"Knock knock..."
The sound was wrong. It wasn't a voice, not really—it was a whisper inside their bones, a rattling echo across existence. It struck the soul like a hand brushing too close to the heart.
Issei's body stiffened.
Azazel turned sharply toward the center of the mirror trap.
"Amon's probing," he said, his voice sharp. "Barrier integrity down by fifteen percent already."
"That fast?" Akeno muttered, sweat beading on her brow as she poured more power into the protective sigils.
Koneko flinched and growled low. "He's watching us."
Indeed, from the center of the ritual, the ancient mirror shimmered—its surface warping, bubbling like oil on fire. A face began to take shape. Not one face, but many: a thousand expressions overlapping, smiling, frowning, sneering. Eyes that blinked too often. A nose that moved like smoke.
And then, they all collapsed into one.
A man stood within the mirror, reflected in impossible geometry.
Tall, well-dressed. A black three-piece suit with a crimson cravat. He wore a long coat, open, the inside embroidered with shifting runes. And over his eyes—those calm, unreadable golden eyes—sat a single monocle, glinting like a fallen star.
"Amon," Azazel breathed.
"That's a bold name to utter aloud, Grigori," Amon said, tilting his head.
His voice was smooth. Friendly. Like a lecturer welcoming students. But it was wrong. Beneath it was static, a broken record skipping on forgotten hymns.
"You took the bait," Azazel said.
"Of course I did. You dangled the boy's fate like an apple in the garden. How could I resist?"
Issei stepped forward, chest tight, but defiant. "What do you want with me?"
Amon's gaze fell on him.
"Want? Such a simple word. I do not want you, Issei Hyoudou. I want what clings to you. The weight of your legend. The shape of your destiny."
He walked forward inside the mirror—though the reflection showed nothing around him. Just void.
"You are a narrative anchor, young dragon. A fixed point in an unstable story. I feed on those."
Kiba raised his blade. "We're not going to let you."
"You already did," Amon said.
He lifted his hand—and from the mirror, black tendrils erupted, lashing toward Issei.
Akeno's lightning flared. Rias summoned her Power of Destruction. Kiba slashed three away in a blur of motion.
But the mirror pulsed again—and Amon stepped through.
Not an illusion. Not a projection.
He walked from the glass as if exiting a doorway, trailing impossible shadows.
"Your ritual was clever," he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "But flawed. You baited the trap, yes… but you never learned what bait truly lures me."
He moved faster than they could follow.
In an instant, he was before Kiba, fingers splayed.
Kiba blocked the attack with his sword, but the blade bent like rubber. Time twisted.
Amon tapped him gently on the forehead.
Kiba froze.
Then collapsed—eyes wide, twitching, whispering fragments of forgotten dreams.
"Kiba!" Issei shouted.
Rias flared her energy, blasting a torrent of crimson power at Amon.
The man raised a single finger.
The blast unraveled before hitting him—converted into cherry blossoms, which evaporated midair.
"My, such flair," Amon chuckled.
Azazel dove forward then, spear of light in hand, and stabbed at Amon's center.
It connected.
Amon looked down at the weapon, buried through his chest. He blinked.
"Interesting," he said.
Then he reached up and pulled the spear out—not from his body, but from Azazel's hand—rewinding the moment like film.
"Try again."
Azazel's eyes widened. "He's distorting causality."
"No," Amon corrected. "I am merely skipping chapters."
Then Amon stopped.
He tilted his head. His smile vanished.
He turned to the mirror—and frowned.
"Hmm. Cracks already?"
He stepped back.
Around the ritual, the mirror circle began to shudder. Flames flickered at its edges. The barrier was straining.
Rias, eyes glowing, yelled to Akeno. "Channel more power! Reinforce the center!"
Akeno obeyed, sweat pouring from her brow.
Amon looked down at his palm—and saw flickers of golden fire.
Riser's flames.
"They burn again," Amon muttered. "Persistent, aren't you?"
His fingers twitched.
Suddenly, he stumbled.
For a split second, he looked surprised.
Then, furious.
Inside his soul, Riser's voice echoed—cracked, hoarse, and defiant.
"No more... I'm not... your vessel…"
Amon's posture faltered. His coat flickered. His monocle cracked slightly at the rim.
He gritted his teeth and stepped back into the mirror world.
The barrier snapped shut behind him.
Silence fell.
Rias collapsed to one knee, panting.
Koneko helped Kiba sit up. He blinked slowly, still disoriented.
Azazel clenched his fists. "We pushed him out."
"For now," Akeno added.
Issei looked at the mirror, now still once more. "Did we… win?"
"No," Azazel said coldly. "We survived."
—
Somewhere, in a place without shape, Amon drifted.
He clutched his monocle, pressing it against his eye as images flashed.
Riser's soul had fought back. That wasn't supposed to happen.
"Interesting," he muttered, his voice calm again.
"Even a noble devil can burn with rebellion."
He turned to the side.
There stood a shadow. Featureless. Silent.
Amon smiled.
"Don't look at me like that, Monocle. I haven't lost. I've merely adapted."
The shadow did not move.
Amon turned away.
"I'll shift tactics. I'll find a new tether. I'll study the girl—Asia. Her purity glows like an untouched manuscript. Or the knight boy—his scars make good footnotes. Perhaps even the fallen one, Akeno."
He chuckled.
"Yes. The game has grown interesting."
—
Back at Kuoh, in the Occult Research Club, Rias held a meeting late into the night.
Azazel looked up from his notes. "We wounded his pride. That means he'll retaliate."
"He'll pick a new target," Rias said. "We need to identify it before he does."
"Maybe we don't wait," Issei said, fist clenched. "Maybe we bring the fight to him."
Azazel gave him a look. "You're not ready."
"I'll never be if we keep waiting."
A silence.
Then Rias nodded. "We prepare."
Kiba looked up. "For what?"
Rias stared out the window at the stars.
"For war."
—