04/10/2012, Velvet Room, Night.
The eerie yet soothing stillness of the Velvet Room, usually a sanctuary of blue velvet and distant melodies coming from the countless music devices Elizabe th decorated the room with, was shattered by ragged breaths and the metallic tang of blood.
Ryoji Mochizuki moved with an uncharacteristic urgency, his expression stripped of its usual enigmatic calm, replaced by a grim focus that deepened the lines around his eyes. He helped Kiba gently lower the terrifyingly still form of Akeno onto a spare, plush bed that seemed to materialize from the shifting mists.
Akeno's chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular hitches, her face as pale as the moonstone walls, a stark contrast to the dark blood soaking through her torn clothes. Each labored breath sounded like the rasp of a failing bellows.
Koneko clung to the doorway, her small frame trembling. Her wide, golden eyes, usually guarded or fierce, were pools of raw, terrified hope fixed on Ryoji.
"Mochizuki!" Kiba gasped, his voice tight with desperation, knuckles white where he gripped the bed frame. Sweat plastered his silver hair to his forehead. "Can you heal her? Please!"
Ryoji didn't meet their pleading gazes immediately. He looked down at Akeno, a profound sadness shadowing his features. "Unfortunately, no," he said softly, the words falling like stones into the tense silence. "The damage... it's beyond my power to reverse."
He finally lifted his gaze, his blue eyes holding a depth of ancient sorrow. "But I can stabilize her. Anchor her slipping spirit. Prevent her from... crossing the threshold entirely."
He placed a hand gently but firmly over Akeno's heart. A faint, ethereal light, cold like starlight on winter ice, emanated from his palm. It seeped into her, not healing, but binding, slowing the deadly, invisible spiral of her fading life force into a fragile stasis. A soft, pained sigh escaped Akeno's lips, a small sign of the immense pressure Ryoji exerted.
Kiba and Koneko exchanged a single, agonized glance. The need to act, to fight, warred violently with the need to stay, to witness Akeno's fragile hold on life. The battle outside was a siren call they couldn't ignore.
Before Ryoji could utter a word of caution or command, they were gone, vanishing through the doorway back into the maelstrom, driven by loyalty and fear.
Alone with the unconscious Fallen Angel hybrid, Ryoji let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to echo in the vast emptiness. He smoothed a stray lock of dark hair from Akeno's clammy forehead, his gaze distant, seeing not just her, but another face etched with pain.
"Forgive me, Makoto," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, thick with a burden centuries old. "This power... it's a stopgap, a cruel mercy. I just... I couldn't bear for you to suffer loss again. Not so soon."
04/10/2012, Kuoh Outskirts, Night.
The scene they plunged back into was a tableau of devastation. Rubble choked the street; the acrid smell of ozone, dust, and fresh blood hung heavy in the air. Rias Gremory, the proud Heiress, was a broken figure struggling to rise near a shattered storefront.
Her magnificent wings, symbols of her identity as a devil, were a ruin—one bent grotesquely, the other dragging limply on the ground, feathers torn and bloody. Her breathing was ragged, her normally immaculate uniform shredded and stained. Above her, monstrous and triumphant, loomed Kazan Ishikagawa.
The massive oni, his armor scarred but still formidable, raised his colossal tetsubo high, muscles coiling like steel cables under cracked hide. His tusked maw split in a savage grin, spittle flying as he bellowed, the sound vibrating through the very pavement:
"TIME TO DIE, DEVIL!"
The blow descended with the force of a falling building, aimed to pulverize Rias where she laid. It never connected. With a deafening, soul-jarring CLANG! that echoed off the surrounding ruins, the Sword of Lucifer, wreathed in flickering intercepted the tetsubo mere inches from Rias's head.
Makoto stood braced in the narrow space between Rias and annihilation, boots grinding against the fractured asphalt. The impact traveled up his arms like a lightning bolt, jolting his entire skeleton. A harsh, involuntary cough ripped from his lungs, spraying a fine mist of bright red blood onto the grey stone at his feet.
He held, muscles screaming in protest, tendons stretched to their absolute limit, his stance rooted only by sheer, unyielding will. The sword vibrated violently in his grasp, threatening to tear itself from his weakening hands.
'This hurts. Feels like my arms are tearing off. If only... if only I had the Omnipotent Orb now.' The thought was a grim flicker in the storm of pain and adrenaline.
'UNIVERSE! GET OUT! FLEE! HE WILL CRUSH YOU!' Lucifer's mental shriek was pure, unadulterated rage, a primal fear that resonated deep within Makoto's soul, contrasting violently with the Persona's usual arrogance.
Makoto ignored the internal cacophony, his gaze locked on Kazan's furious, piggish eyes. His voice was a raw scrape, each word an effort forced past bruised ribs and a burning throat.
"Gremory," he rasped, not daring to look away from the looming threat. "Are you functional? Can you walk, fight?" His question was clipped, tactical, belying the agony etched onto his own pale face.
"Y-Yuki?!" Rias gasped, shock momentarily cutting through the haze of her own pain. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, flickered between the blade holding back certain death and the battered form of the transfer studen.
"Listen," Makoto commanded, his voice gaining a fraction of steel as he subtly shifted his grip, preparing for the inevitable backlash.
"My powers... tapped out. Dry. You..." He met her gaze for a split second, the intensity startling. "...you're the only one whose power can truly hurt him now. Make it count." It was a statement of cold, brutal fact, delivered without flinching.
"Another traitor? Annoying FLIES!" Kazan roared, his earlier triumph curdling into furious irritation. With a grunt of effort, he wrenched his tetsubo free from the locked blades. Abandoning Rias for the moment, he launched into a furious, earth-shaking assault directed solely at Makoto.
Blow after bone-crushing blow rained down, each swing of the tetsubo a black blur carrying the promise of oblivion. Makoto parried, dodged, and weaved, but it was a desperate, losing dance. Gone was the supernatural grace, the effortless speed granted by the Universe Arcana.
His movements now were fueled purely by hard-won combat experience, ingrained reflexes honed in the Dark Hour and Tartarus, and the raw, unbreakable will to survive. He felt every impact jarring his bones, every near-miss whistling past his ear. He was slowing, tiring, the edge of the monstrous weapon grazing his shoulder, tearing fabric and skin.
Seeing her opening, Rias didn't hesitate. Summoning the dregs of her formidable power, ignoring the screaming protest from her broken wing and battered body, she focused her crimson Destruction energy into a searing point of annihilating light. With a cry that was part defiance, part agony, she unleashed it point-blank into Kazan's broad, armored back.
The concentrated blast struck with the force of a bomb, vaporizing chunks of obsidian plating and searing the flesh beneath. A howl of genuine, surprised pain erupted from the oni—a sound more bestial roar than human cry—and he stumbled forward, his relentless assault on Makoto broken.
"President! Senpai!" Kiba and Koneko skidded into the chaotic scene, weapons gleaming in the dusty light. Kiba's Holy Demonic Swords materialized in his hands, their holy light flickering with his exhaustion but held steady.
Koneko, despite her small size, radiated fierce determination, demonic energy crackling faintly around her fists, her breathing heavy but controlled. Their faces were etched with the same grim resolve, the sight of their injured President and the desperate stand of their Senpai hardening their spirits.
"We're here!"
"COME AT ME, VERMIN! MORE MEAT FOR THE GRINDER!" Kazan bellowed, recovering swiftly despite the smoking wound on his back. He shifted his stance, lowering the massive tetsubo, holding it wide and low like a battering ram, presenting a wall of scarred armor and menacing intent. His bloodshot eyes darted between the four opponents, calculating, furious.
"Listen!" Makoto yelled, his voice cutting through the oni's roar like a knife, commanding attention despite his obvious weakness. He saw the formation, saw the flicker of coordination in the eyes of the Occult Research Club members.
"I'll pin him! When he's down—hit him with everything! An all-out attack! No holding back!" He didn't wait for nods, for confirmation. Trust, in this moment, was implicit. Survival depended on it.
With a final surge of adrenaline, he feinted high with the Sword of Lucifer, drawing Kazan's guard upwards for a split second. Then, moving with the last dregs of his speed, he ducked low under a wild, sweeping counter-swing that would have taken his head off.
He drove forward, channeling every ounce of his remaining strength, and plunged the crimson blade deep, deep into the gap just above Kazan's hip, aiming for the vulnerable point where armor met flesh in the lower back.
The sword sank in with a sickening, wet thunk, grating against bone. "NOW!"
Rias, Kiba, and Koneko exploded into action with the synchronicity of a well-rehearsed, deadly orchestra. Rias unleashed another torrent of her Destruction, a focused beam of pure annihilation that slammed into Kazan's chest, vaporizing more armor and scorching flesh.
Kiba became a whirlwind of light, his Holy Demonic Swords a blinding blur as he struck with impossible speed, targeting every visible gap, every chink in the oni's remaining armor each slash precise and deep, drawing gouts of dark blood.
Koneko channeled hr strength into devastating blows, hammering fists and feet against Kazan's legs, his ribs, aiming to buckle the massive frame, her small form a powerhouse of focused fury.
The combined assault created a localized maelstrom of power, a cacophony of impacts, roars, and the sizzle of magic that engulfed the oni completely.
When the light faded and the dust settled, Kazan stood swaying like a storm-battered oak. His once-imposing armor was shattered, reduced to smoking, jagged fragments clinging to his ravaged body. Blood streamed from countless deep wounds, pooling darkly on the ground around his massive feet. His tetsubo lay broken, snapped cleanly in half, the splintered ends gleaming dully.
His breath came in wet, bubbling gasps, each inhalation a visible struggle. He looked less like a conqueror and more like a ruin, held upright only by sheer, monstrous vitality and indomitable rage. Near death, but not yet extinguished.
"We... we did it..." Rias panted, the words escaping on a wave of profound exhaustion. She sagged heavily against the crumbling wall behind her, her broken wing dragging uselessly, her remaining strength utterly spent. Relief warred with the overwhelming toll of her injuries.
Kiba leaned on his swords, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, a shaky breath escaping him. The frantic energy of battle drained away, leaving only bone-deep weariness.
Koneko simply slumped to her knees, then sat back hard on the pavement, head bowed, shoulders trembling with exertion. She looked impossibly small and fragile amidst the destruction.
Silence threatened to descend, thick and heavy. Then it shattered.
"I... I'M NOT DONE..." Kazan's voice was a wet, bubbling rasp, barely audible, yet it carried a terrifying, unshakeable defiance that froze the blood. He pressed a massive, trembling hand against the worst of the wounds on his chest, where Rias's Destruction magic had burned deepest.
His lifeblood, dark and thick surged upwards, defying gravity. It coalesced, twisted, and hardened in the air before him, forming a long, wicked katana forged entirely from his own vital essence. The blade glistened with a malevolent crimson light, radiating pure hatred and the stench of death.
"I WILL NEVER... NEVER LOSE... TO TRAITORS!" With a final, guttural scream that tore from his ruined throat—a sound of absolute, unhinged fury—he launched himself forward.
It wasn't a charge; it was a suicide lunge, every ounce of his remaining life force poured into this single, desperate strike. The blood-blade aimed unerringly, lethally, at Makoto's heart, a streak of crimson doom.
"YUKI!" Rias's scream was pure terror, raw and piercing.
"SENPAI!" Kiba and Koneko's shouts merged into a single cry of despair.
Makoto braced, the world narrowing to the point of that horrific blade filling his vision. Every muscle screamed in protest. Every instinct screamed move. But there was nothing left—no strength to dodge, no energy to summon a defense, no time. Death rushed towards him on a tide of blood and rage.
'We are returned, Universe! USE US!' Orpheus Telos's voice rang out within his mind, not a whisper, but a clarion call—clear, strong, resonant with the power of reforged bonds.
The name tore from Makoto's throat, ripped out by desperation and the sudden, surging connection:
"YOSHITSUNE!"
The air crackled. Not with the sharp report of an Evoker, but with the sudden, electric presence of immense will. In a flash of spectral blue light that momentarily bleached the scene, the legendary Heian Era commander, Minamoto no Yoshitsune, materialized.
He stood poised between Makoto and the charging oni, his stance perfect, his ornate armor ethereal, his expression one of serene, deadly focus. Kazan's blood-blade was a hair's breadth from its target.
Yoshitsune's own katana was a silver blur, moving faster than sight, a single, flawless iaijutsu draw-strike honed by an infinite amount of time within all humankind's unconscious . A clean, almost silent shink cut through the air.
Kazan Ishikagawa's head, eyes still wide with berserk fury, flew from his shoulders in a high, dark arc. His massive, charging body, robbed of its guiding will, collapsed forward like a great tree felled, hitting the ground with a heavy, final thud that shook the street.
The blood-blade, inches from Makoto's chest, dissolved instantly into a fine, crimson mist that hung in the air for a breath before vanishing. Yoshitsune gave the barest nod, a ghost of respect in his spectral eyes, and then he too vanished, dissolving back into the blue light as swiftly as he had appeared, leaving only the scent of blood and the echo of ancient bushido.
The tension, the fury, the desperate struggle – it snapped. Makoto's legs, held rigid by sheer willpower until that final, impossible moment, simply gave way. He collapsed first to his knees, then slumped heavily onto his side and then his back panting heavily, his body a map of agony and utter exhaustion.
The Sword of Lucifer slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering loudly on the bloodstained pavement beside him, its glow finally fading to inert metal.