There was silence.
The shattered echoes of Toki's roar still hung in the air, suspended like ghosts between the black pillars of the Palace of Mirrors. The goddess stood before him—Moonlight, guardian of night and mistress of the unseen—her silver-lined cloak billowing gently as if stirred by a wind that didn't exist.
She studied him with quiet curiosity. Not mockery. Not pity. Just… interest.
Waiting.
Toki's eyes burned with fury. His breath came in short, trembling bursts, yet his voice rang clear, hard as steel.
"Why do you always stand here and watch me," he snapped, "like I'm supposed to know what to do?"
Moonlight raised a brow, but said nothing.
Toki's hands curled into fists.
"Why do you only ever say what you want to say? Why do you leave me in the dark? Why do you do nothing while the people of your church suffer—while they scream for guidance and bleed in your name?"
His voice cracked, then sharpened again.
"How ungrateful can you be?"
He stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Bernard. Smith. Everyone in the Order—they've performed rituals in your name. They've carried your sigil through war and shadow. And you just ignore them?"
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
"You still do not think like a god," she said softly. "If you did… you would already know what must be done. And you would understand why they're not worth the effort."
Toki flinched.
"What did you just say?"
"I gave them their chance," Moonlight replied. "I offered them my path. If they are too weak to walk it, that is not my failing."
Toki's blood surged, boiling in his veins. His body trembled not with fear, but rage—pure, blinding fury.
"You…" he hissed. "Wretched witch—!"
He charged forward, fist raised, eyes full of fire.
But before he could even touch her, her shovel slid smoothly beneath his feet.
He tripped—hard—and landed again on his knees, breath knocked from his chest. His hair fell loose over his eyes, damp with sweat, shadowed by frustration. He stared down at the floor shrouded in black mist.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
That had been his last plan. His last spark.
And she still refused to help.
"If I go back out there," he said, his voice hollow, "I'll have to watch my friends be slaughtered. Like lambs. And I'll be powerless to stop it."
The agony in his words echoed louder than any scream.
Moonlight approached slowly. She knelt beside him and, to his surprise, reached out and stroked his hair.
Gently.
"Toki," she murmured, "let me show you something."
Before he could ask, her hand moved to his forehead.
In an instant, the air changed.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of voices exploded around him. Some were soft whispers, others sharp, desperate cries.
"Lady Moonlight… goddess of shadow… answer my plea—"
"Please, guardian of the stars, hear my voice—"
"Deliver us, divine one, we beg you—"
The cacophony layered into itself, louder and louder, prayers overlapping, echoing from every corner of the mirrored palace.
Toki's eyes widened.
"What… What is this?"
"Prayers," Moonlight answered simply. "All those directed to me. You'll notice some sound louder than others. That's desperation. Clarity. Repetition. Volume."
She rose and walked a few steps away, her voice even but tinged with something more ancient.
"Humans are desperate for divine revelation. But we do not ignore them, not truly. No god ignores all prayers. We can't."
Toki stood slowly, still shaking.
"Then why do so many go unanswered?"
Moonlight's gaze turned cold.
"Because we are bound, Toki. You think gods are free? We are not. Our power—our very existence—depends on two things: faith and dominion. Without followers and without territory to anchor ourselves, we fade. We starve."
She paused.
"Do you understand now? A god without these things doesn't die. They go mad."
Toki stared at her, his expression darkening.
"Even gods have instincts," she continued. "We are driven by will—what we choose to do—but also by instinct, the invisible force that keeps us from unraveling. When a god is near death, instinct overrides will. It drives us to survive, no matter the cost. Even if it means destroying the very church we built."
She turned to face him fully, her smile gone.
"If I helped you directly—if I intervened in the world—you wouldn't be the only one at risk. My identity would be exposed. My dominion… shattered."
Toki was silent.
Then his voice came—low, bitter.
"Sounds like a coward's excuse."
Moonlight's eyes narrowed.
"You humans have one thing we gods envy," she said. "One thing so powerful, it has led many of us to take mortal vessels."
She stepped close, eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood.
"You act… even when you know you might die. That defiance of survival—that will—is divine."
Her tone turned solemn.
"A mortal's will that surpasses instinct… can elevate them to the level of a god. That is why we offer phase ascensions. Not out of pity. But for profit. A loyal, praying servant on a high phase is worth hundreds of thousands of mortal voices."
Toki grit his teeth.
"And what good is power if you don't love anyone? What use is strength if there's nothing you're willing to protect?"
Moonlight looked at him for a long time.
Then—she smiled.
"That question… that's what separates you from us. And perhaps…" She tapped a finger to her chin. "Perhaps that's what makes you dangerous."
Toki turned away, frustration curling through his chest like smoke.
"You keep telling me to think like a god. But I'm not a god. I don't even have power. The potion I drank—it won't help me in time."
Moonlight was suddenly in front of him.
Her hands cupped his face.
"Idiot boy," she whispered. "Have you already forgotten where you are?"
Toki blinked.
She smiled faintly, locking eyes with him.
"This is your realm. Here, you are the master. You may not have a church, or followers… but you have a domain. Partial, yes. But enough."
She gestured around them.
"In the physical world, that potion would've taken months to assimilate. But here… above the Abyss, where darkness reigns forever? You've absorbed more power in minutes than most do in years."
Toki's eyes widened. A pulse of heat surged through his chest.
"You mean…"
Moonlight stepped back and gave a slight nod.
"Start thinking like a god. Fight like one. Use everything at your disposal."
She paused, then added, "When you return, the darkness will be part of you."
A silence passed between them.
Then Toki walked forward and stretched out his hand.
The shattered obsidian table—the altar of his inner self—rose from the mist, reforming piece by piece until it stood whole again. He sat in the great chair, his throne.
With a heavy knock, he tapped the table once.
A familiar deck of black cards appeared before him.
"You said everything here was built to help me," he said. "If that's true, then the cards should have an answer."
Moonlight sat gracefully in the chair beside him, her legs crossed, her smile serene.
"You're learning," she said.
Toki shuffled the deck with sharp, practiced hands.
Then he drew three cards: one from the top, one from the middle, one from the bottom.
He placed them face-down.
Moonlight reached out and flipped them.
The first card: Courage.
The second: Fear.
The third: Death.
Toki stared at them, heart pounding.
"These aren't the same as before," he muttered. "Last time, they were different. You were right. The cards shift based on what I need."
He looked up, jaw set.
"I owe the Red Priest for leaving me this gift. I'll find the other half of the deck one day. I'll uncover the truth of this world."
Moonlight tilted her head.
"And what now, little knight?"
Toki looked at her—and smiled.
"You said you can't help me directly. But… can I ask you for one favor?"
She chuckled softly.
"Why not, my dear?"
He took a breath.
"I want you to pray for me."
She blinked—then grinned.
"A request worthy of the moon," she said. "Very well. I'll keep my fingers crossed."
Toki closed his eyes.
And when he opened them—
He was back.
The glowing chains still held him, biting into his wrists and ankles.
The battlefield was unchanged: the monster still clawed at Utsuki and Lady Elizabeth, its tentacles wild and twitching. Bernard and Ozvold were still locked in torment—battling memories shaped into flesh.
But something had changed.
Toki's breath slowed.
He could feel it now.
The darkness.
It lived beneath his skin. Inside his breath. In the silence between each heartbeat.
It was time to act.
Without anyone noticing, Toki slipped his hand beneath his cloak and drew out a single playing card.
"Courage."
As his fingers closed around it, the card dissolved into shimmering mist—absorbed into his body like a spark disappearing into flame.
The puppeteer, still lounging like a noble watching theater, tilted his head curiously. "Enjoying the performance, dear knight? Or would you prefer a better seat?"
Toki didn't answer the question. Instead, he stepped forward through the clearing smoke, his voice steady, sharp.
"You know," he began, "for someone who planned such a complicated attack, you're surprisingly stupid."
The puppeteer gave a theatrical gasp, hand on his chest.
"Now, now. No need to wound me with words. Elaborate insult is the currency of poets, not prisoners."
But Toki's glare didn't waver.
"The kind of man who judges others from the shadows only does so because he doesn't have the courage to think for himself," Toki said. "You're not a mastermind. You're a coward hiding behind the curtain."
Red threads shifted subtly behind the puppeteer, but Toki raised his voice.
"Look at them," he said, gesturing to the battlefield. "Each of them is fighting for something real. They stand against death—not because they're fearless, but because they know what's worth protecting."
His eyes gleamed like steel.
"Every person who shows courage was once terrified. Every strong knight was once weak. And you think we'll break just because your play is dirty?"
Toki stepped forward, chin high.
"You're a bigger fool than I thought."
Then he turned his gaze on Bernard—bloodied, exhausted, still barely standing.
"Bernard!"
The bard flinched slightly, startled by the call.
Toki's voice softened, yet filled the courtyard.
"You buried Corren once. I know you can do it again. Don't let despair take you, my friend. Let your thoughts cut like your words. Show him what your friendship made you. Show them all why you're the First Division's commander. Show them how the moon shines brightest in darkness."
Bernard blinked, chest heaving.
Then Toki turned to Ozvold, whose chest still rose and fell with painful, ragged breaths.
"And you, Ozvold…"
Ozvold looked up, surprise flickering across his bruised face.
"You taught me there are things stronger than a sword. That I didn't need a blade to bring joy to others. But now—pick up the sword. Claim what was always yours. Prove why I made you my right hand."
The puppeteer crossed his arms, tapping his fingers.
"Oh? A motivational speech?" he mocked. "How charming."
But Toki ignored him.
"I'm not the strongest knight," he said, turning back to his allies. "And I don't have any fame to my name… but I'll fight with everything I've got."
He clenched his fists.
"This feeling—this weight in my chest—it's not fear anymore. It's belief. I believe in my friends. I have the courage to say: they will conquer the darkness in their hearts."
He raised his hand high.
"It's time to tear down the curtain… together!"
A pulse of energy rippled through the air like a silent bell.
Across the battlefield, the knights stirred.
Bernard's back straightened. His eyes cleared. A soft glow traced the edges of his limbs, and the broken sword he grasped shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Then he reached out, running his hand down the jagged edge.
Silver light flowed from his fingers.
A new blade formed—smooth, ethereal, a sword forged from moonlight itself.
His catlike pupils narrowed.
Despair vanished from his face.
Utsuki, standing at the edge of the fray, glanced at Elizabeth, wide-eyed.
"Did you see that?" she whispered. "Bernard… he's different."
Elizabeth's lips curled faintly.
"There's no need to worry about him now. That's the look of a true knight of the Moon Division."
Kandaki, still shielding the others, noticed Ozvold's violin cracking in his grip. The strings snapped one by one.
"It won't last," he muttered.
Without missing a beat, he picked up Toki's fallen sword and hurled it across the battlefield.
The blade spun through the air—embedding itself in the ground in front of Ozvold, its edge gleaming.
Ozvold's father rushed at him, blade high, a slash ready to fall.
But Ozvold ducked.
Then—he struck.
A single punch to the jaw.
His father reeled backward, surprised by the force.
Ozvold rolled forward, gripping the sword's hilt. He tore it from the ground in one motion and held it high. His voice was firm.
"Let the show begin."
Toki smirked and turned slowly toward the puppeteer, who now stood behind him.
"It's time for the final act," Toki said.
The puppeteer tilted his head again. "Oh? Already?"
Toki didn't respond. He bit his lower lip—hard.
A drop of blood spilled onto the stone.
He whispered just loud enough to be heard:
"If I remember right… my blood's irresistible to beasts."
The monster, still writhing near the altar, shrieked.
Its blind head twisted. It smelled him.
It charged.
"No!" the puppeteer shouted, backing away instinctively.
But it was too late.
The creature swallowed Toki whole—chains and all.
The altar cracked under its weight.
Silence.
Shock froze every face.
Then…
A voice. Clear, resounding. Not in the air—but in Toki's mind.
"Master of the Abyss. Seeker of the Chaos' Sea. Son of Horrors. Hear my prayer."
It was Moonlight.
In that instant, the monster convulsed.
Its belly burst open in a shockwave of black fog. Mist and ichor sprayed outward. A scream echoed into the night—both beastly and human.
Then came the gunshots.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Each one rang like thunder.
From the smoke, tentacles fell. One by one. Severed. Useless.
Toki stood in the beast's shredded remains, his revolver aimed forward. Shadow clung to his body like armor. Black steam hissed from his skin.
His thoughts echoed.
If a prayer can empower a god… then maybe a god's prayer can empower a man.
Thank you, Moonlight…
The voice came again, warm in his mind.
"Go, my black knight."
He raised the gun.
It no longer fired normal bullets.
Each shot was a condensed blast of mist—fog turned into a spear of oblivion. Where it struck the creature's flesh, regeneration failed. Wounds remained open. Ichor drained endlessly.
He fired one last time—right between the beast's shrieking eyes.
The monster collapsed.
Dead.
All eyes turned to Toki.
He exhaled once, slowly, and turned to face the puppeteer.
The masked man stood alone now, near the edge of the ruined altar.
The strings that had once filled the air hung limp.
His creations—his play—was crumbling.
Toki took one step forward.
"It's time," he said, "for the final scene."