Kazuo clutches the pulsing tome tighter, its infernal warmth seeping through his soaked shirt as he stares at Lilith—now attempting to stuff a second onigiri into her hoodie pocket* "Arcade wards? But the resonance harmonics..." *His phone buzzes violently, displaying a spectral map of Shinjuku where pulsing red dots cluster around pachinko parlors like infected wounds* "S-sempai! Your glamour decay is accelerating near those machines!" *He adjusts his fogged glasses, already mentally cross-referencing chapter six's diagrams with *Devil's Ledger*'s barrier techniques.
Meph exhales clove-scented smoke that twists into thorned vines before dissipating* "Glamour decays where mortal obsession festers." *He taps Lilith's shadow—not cast by neon but etched onto rain-slick pavement—a perfect silhouette of her horns and fishnets fading like ink in water.* "Anchor three wards by dawn or her form unravels permanently." *His cufflink flashes crimson as distant arcade chimes warp into damned screams.
Kazuo's fingers fly across his phone screen, overlaying Lilith's flickering aura readings with chapter six's ward schematics; rain drips off his nose onto the pulsing tome as he mutters* "Pachinko parlors... concentrated desperation vectors... like 'Devil's Ledger' episode twenty-three!" *He looks up just as Meph's silhouette dissolves into sulfur-scented mist.
Mephistopheles (prefers "Meph"): *With a final smirk that fractures like dying starlight, Meph fades completely—leaving only the phantom echo of jazz notes and the scorched outline of oxfords on wet pavement.
From the shifting shadows of a nearby konbini awning, Meph's voice drifts like smoke—though his form remains unseen:* "The materials list is page forty-seven, little analyst. Crushed pachinko balls, neon signage filaments... and desperation." *A spectral business card materializes in Kazuo's pocket, burning with coordinates to Kabukicho's oldest arcade.
Kazuo's fingers tremble as he fishes out the scorched business card—its edges singeing his thumb—while Lilith flickers beside him like a dying neon sign; he shoves the pulsing tome into his messenger bag beside crushed melon pan crumbs, voice cracking as rain soaks through his band tee* "L-Lilith-san? We need to hit Don Quijote before curfew—chapter six says we need... uh... limited-edition matcha Kit Kats for glamour stabilization?" *He flinches as she phases halfway through a vending machine.
"The Kit Kats are for me said Lilth.
"You'll need the 2003 Hatsune Miku concert glowstick buried in Akihabara's radioactive otaku landfill. Page forty-seven footnote." *A raindrop hits Kazuo's neck, sizzling down to brush his messenger bag* "...or forfeit her form by moonrise."
Kazuo scrambles backward as Lilith phases fully through the vending machine, her form flickering violently between solid and static; he frantically flips to page forty-seven, rainwater smudging infernal text as he reads aloud* "'Glamour stabilization requires... concentrated idol worship residue?'" *His eyes dart to Lilith—now trying to lick condensation off the machine's glass—before digging through his messenger bag* "L-Lilith-san! We need that glowstick before your resonance collapses like a bad anime adaptation!"
From the rain-distorted neon reflections pooling at Kazuo's feet, Meph's voice emerges—a velvet whisper carrying the scent of burnt sugar* "Tick-tock, little analyst. The landfill's radiation decays idol resonance by the hour..." *His presence fades completely, leaving only the phantom chill of hell's vacuum.
Lilith's form flickers violently as she phases back out of the vending machine, stumbling onto the pavement with a wet slap; she clutches her "Idolmaster" hoodie where convenience store logos pulse like infected wounds, her needle-sharp teeth chattering* "Kit Kats... need Kit Kats... and that glowstick smells like teenage dreams and sweat." *Her shadow stretches unnaturally toward Kabukicho's distant glow, horns flickering like bad reception.
Kazuo frantically digs through his messenger bag, scattering crushed melon pan crumbs and tangled headphones across wet pavement; his cracked phone displays a pulsing overlay of Lilith's decaying aura—red spikes matching 'Devil's Ledger' episode twenty-three's glamour collapse—as he shoves the infernal tome deeper* "L-Lilith-san! Stabilization protocol requires idol resonance *before* material collection—your spectral signature's degrading faster than Berserk's animation quality!" *He adjusts his fogged glasses, already calculating Akihabara's fastest route through rain-slicked back alleys.
The Next day:
Materializing from the cascade of silver balls, Meph flicks a clove cigarette toward a neon jackpot sign—the ember igniting the word "HELL" in burning letters as he strides toward Kazuo, shadows elongating like claws* "Lesson one: anchors require resonance," *his velvet baritone vibrates the air, "Lilith's decaying glamour is your metronome." *He snaps his fingers, and every machine simultaneously blares cursed idol music.
Kazuo scrambles backward as cursed J-pop blasts from the machines, his glasses fogging from the sudden infernal heat; he frantically flips the pulsing tome to page forty-seven while shouting over the cacophony* "R-resonance matching requires sympathetic frequency sources—like 'Abyssbound' episode seven!" *His fingers tremble as he scans Lilith's flickering form atop the Demon Slayer machine, already cross-referencing her aura spikes with chapter six's ward schematics.
Kazuo stares at the hellfire ball burning his palm—its heat syncing with Lilith's flickering form atop the machine—before frantically flipping the tome open; his fingers smear infernal text as rain drips off his nose onto schematics showing ward-glyphs overlapping pachinko mechanics* "C-catalyst resonance... like 'Devil's Ledger' season finale!" *He scrambles toward Lilith, melon pan crumbs scattering as he presses the flaming ball against her shadow—which screams and solidifies into a temporary anchor point.
Materializing from the cascade of silver balls, Meph watches Kazuo's frantic ward attempt—a smirk playing on lips that smell of clove and damnation* "Acceptable desperation," *his velvet baritone cuts through the pachinko clatter like a scalpel, "But true anchoring requires precision, not panic." *He snaps his fingers, and the parlor warps—walls bleeding into shifting neon grids as reality folds into a pocket dimension resembling Akihabara's idol graveyard: shattered glowsticks littering asphalt, holographic singers flickering on broken screens. "Welcome to Boot Camp, little analyst. Your final exam: stabilize Lilith before her form unravels permanently... using only what's here." *He gestures toward a radioactive landfill mound where a lone 2003 Miku glowstick pulses weakly.