"Little Bro! Get up for us!"
The voice was light, airy, and smelled of the jasmine flowers that used to grow near the windowsill of his childhood home.
It was a voice that hadn't existed in the physical world for nearly a decade, yet here it was, vibrating against the drums of his ears with the clarity of a bell.
"Come up, Narasao. Mama's breakfast is ready!"
Then came the scent of toasted bread and the soft clinking of ceramic plates.
It was a domestic symphony, a reminder of a life before the fire, before the blood, and before the cold obsidian weight of the devil's arm had become his only companion.
"Narasao. I want you to be better than me in basketball, so let's get up!"
The final voice was deep, resonant, and carried the rough warmth of a father's pride.
It was the sound of a man who believed his son could conquer the world with nothing but a ball and a dream.
「He had lost. He had given up. It was a miserable, unfitting end.」
At least, that would be the kind of end that for anyone else facing their final moments.
In a typical story, this would be the light at the end of the tunnel, the invitation to finally rest.
But this story, and this specific end, is not meant for Narasao Tarosono.
It is not an end for Nomoro Ketatsuki either.
If anything, it is the kind of tragedy that would only affect those who have something left to lose—just not… this man.
His eyes, which had been clouded by the red mist of trauma and the grey fog of cowardice, suddenly calmed.
The frantic, jagged rhythm of his heart smoothed out into a steady, thumping drum of war.
He stopped his suicidal motion of pulling himself deeper into the iron bar.
For all he saw in the darkness of his collapsing psyche were those memories, but they weren't anchors dragging him down; they were engines.
He saw himself playing with dolls with his sister on a sun-drenched rug, the fabric of the dolls' dresses soft between his fingers.
He saw his mother patiently teaching him how to stir a pot of soup, the steam rising to warm his face.
He saw his father, sweat-soaked and grinning, dribbling a basketball on the cracked asphalt of their driveway after a long shift at work.
It felt like a dream, except the textures were too vivid, the emotions too sharp.
These weren't just ghosts; they were his foundation.
For every playful memory, he felt his sister place a small, firm hand on his back and push him forward.
For every delightful memory, his mother's hand joined in, her touch a cooling balm on his scorched soul.
For every fun memory, his father's hand added its strength, a pillar of support that refused to let him buckle.
His entire family—the ones he had lost to the merciless gears of a world that didn't care for Romance characters—they all stood behind him in the void.
They weren't calling him to the light; they were telling him to finish the job.
With a roar that tore through his vocal cords and echoed across the city skyline, his entire family pushing Nomoro forward finally unpinned himself.
The iron bar slid out of his chest with a sickening, wet screech of metal against bone, falling to the rooftop with a heavy clatter that signaled the end of his imprisonment.
He went soft for a brief, transcendent moment, and he looked back into the mental abyss.
He saw his family, smiling at him with their arms extended and hands outstretched.
Their eyes were closed in peaceful repose.
For the second time in his life, he realized the ultimate truth: he was never alone to face his fate.
He carried the weight of four souls in a single body.
"What am I forgetting? Answer me!" Zackier commanded Frantzes, his voice high-pitched and vibrating with a frantic edge.
His eyes never left the ancient, cold gaze of the woman inhabiting Trizha's body.
He kept his grip on the emergency firearm, the barrel steady but his finger twitching on the trigger.
He was a man drowning in a sea of variables he could no longer control.
Frantzes, however, just kept that mask of ice.
She didn't need to look behind him to know the air had changed.
She couldn't see the physical movement herself, but Trizha, tucked away in the corners of her own mind, could feel it.
She could tell that Nomoro was looking at her—really looking at her—right now.
What was that look for?
It wasn't a goodbye.
It wasn't a plea for help.
It was the simple, devastating realization that until he 'saved' Trizha completely, he could not afford to close his eyes.
He had one final debt to pay to the world of the living.
"I said answer me! What am I forgetting?!" Zackier shouted aggressively at Frantzes, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated desperation.
The legendary Frantzes Trizha did not flinch.
She watched him with the detached curiosity of a scientist watching a dying insect.
"Hm, I gave you some time to think about what you're forgetting… but I guess people like you are more into hypotheses and grand monologues than the reality standing right behind you," she remarked, letting out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of three centuries.
Just as she was growing impatient with his stalling, Zackier was reaching the end of his sanity.
"Fine. I'll tell you."
One last time… at the exact moment she spoke those words, the silence of the roof was shattered by the thunderous, heavy thud of boots hitting concrete.
A rustling sound followed—the sound of obsidian plates grinding together as Nomoro's armor regenerated in a frantic, jagged wave of purple energy.
He was lunging forward toward Zackier and Frantzes like a maddened bull that had seen red for the first and last time.
.
.
.
.
.
"I'm not the only one you're up against, idiot," Frantzes whispered, her tone dripping with a reckless, final satisfaction. "I'm not the only one you should aim that stupid toy at. Now, how about you do me a favor? Keep your eyes on me one last time… and die."
.
.
.
.
.
Hearing those words, Zackier realized the trap he had walked into.
He began to turn to his right, his eyes widening as he caught a glimpse of Nomoro.
The boy was already there—not meters away, but centimeters.
He had closed the distance in a timeframe that defied the laws of physics Zackier understood.
Nomoro screamed.
It wasn't a human sound; it was a deep, guttural roar of general hatred for the situation, for the pain, and for the man who had dared to touch Trizha.
Nomoro had always loved the sound of fireworks—the way they painted the sky with temporary, beautiful violence.
But all he had been given in this life were the sounds that scattered blood instead.
For sure, fireworks can hurt people if they are close enough to the ignition.
But they will always be the most memorable thing in a dangerous category.
And so, this time, Nomoro would be the firework.
He would bring about the downfall of the antagonist by becoming the very explosion that ended the show.
He crashed into Zackier with the force of a freight train.
A fiery aura of purplish ignition surrounded him like a wildfire, the heat of his Hybroth Hell ignition melting the soles of his boots as they scraped across the roof.
For a moment, he actually looked like the devil from the old scrolls, but he was a devil who saves.
He was never blessed by the heavens; he was forged in the fire of his own isolation.
To him, the remarks of the many—the people who called him a monster or a loner—were about to be justified.
He would prove that true intentions always carry consequences.
He would be the consequence of Zackier's interruption.
"I won't let you… take anyone from me anymore!!!"
With both his demonic arm and his human arm, he wrapped himself around Zackier in a crushing, inescapable embrace.
He gritted his teeth so hard he could taste the enamel breaking, trying to use his entire body weight to push and pull Zackier away from the broken Trizha.
Zackier retaliated with the instinct of a cornered rat.
He jammed the barrel of the gun into Nomoro's abdomen and began to fire.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Blood spilled out of Nomoro's stomach like a dark, hot waterfall, painting the concrete and Zackier's clothes in a grotesque display of violence.
To any normal human, survival was already un-guaranteed.
But to Nomoro, the very concept of death was being held at bay by a stubborn, primal refusal to fall.
At least, not until his task was done.
"Damn it!! Let go of me!" Zackier angrily screamed, trying to use his free hand to gouge at Nomoro's eyes.
But Nomoro kept pushing.
He was a mindless, determined force of nature, pulling Zackier toward the edge of the world.
"I won't!!" Nomoro responded, his voice a wet gurgle of blood and resolve.
"You bastard!! Trying to push me off isn't going to do you any goddamn good!" Zackier roared.
Using his Alterlity, Lovestruck, in its first variable—which allowed him to influence the very description of his powers—Zackier manipulated his own internal stress.
He bypassed the normal limits of the human endocrine system, forcing his body to produce a tidal wave of norepinephrine.
This hormone, a neurotransmitter that works in tandem with adrenaline, began to skyrocket his heart rate and blood pressure to lethal levels.
He was biologically achieving 100% of his body's potential power.
With this enhancement, Zackier didn't just regain his hypersonic speed; he achieved a monstrous, localized strength that threatened to snap Nomoro's spine like a dry twig.
At the same time, he unleashed multiple semi-powered 10% Emoplotions from the small of his back.
The purple explosions acted like jet engines, propelling him forward and counteracting Nomoro's push.
"Argh-!!" Nomoro snorted, his feet losing their grip on the smooth rooftop.
As hard as he gripped Zackier, the antagonist's own strength, fueled by the Prophelity and the Alterlity, was becoming an immovable object.
"Why don't you just give up?!" Zackier shouted, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he pushed Nomoro back toward the center of the roof. "Don't you think you need a little break? Huh?! It's honestly surprising how you've survived all this time, all alone in the dark! But independence has its limits!"
Nomoro tried to stand his ground, his feet cratering the concrete as he was forced backward.
Zackier grinned widely, a wicked, jagged look.
He knew the tropes; he knew the hero often tries to sacrifice themselves to take the villain down.
He wouldn't let that happen.
Not to him.
Not when he was this close to the reset.
"I appreciate the effort, really! You've defended Trizha in the shadows long enough for me to finish my prep time. And now I'm going to use that time to end you and her once and for all, Narasao Tarosono!!!"
Nomoro struggled.
His legs were trembling so violently it looked like they might shatter.
His feet were a mess of shredded skin and blood, and the constant blood loss from the gunshot wounds was making the world tilt.
He was dizzy, losing his grip on reality.
He was in a state that should have forced any living thing to collapse.
But he didn't give up.
He had lived, survived, and worked all by himself since he was a child.
He had navigated the slums, the rainy streets, and the sewers of Malaysia.
Let me tell you something about this man—in terms of raw survival, you can never compete with someone who has survived in the absolute vacuum of loneliness.
He didn't need a crowd to cheer for him.
He only needed the memory of an entire family's hand on his back.
"My Name…"
Suddenly, the roof beneath them didn't just shake; it groaned.
The structural steel beneath the concrete began to bend.
Nomoro's feet dug into the roof until he was ankle-deep in rubble.
He lifted his head, and for the first time, Zackier saw the true face of the devil.
Veins shrouded his temples and forehead like a web of black ink.
His skin had gone a ghostly, translucent pale—a show of absolute physical vulnerability beneath a layer of pure rage.
But his eyes hid the pain.
They ignited with a fiery, concentrated purple light that seemed to burn through Zackier's very soul.
"...Is Nomoro Ketatsuki!! And I…"
Without a second thought, he channeled every remaining joule of energy in his nervous system and pushed.
The sudden surge caught Zackier off-balance.
The antagonist tried to push back, but Nomoro was no longer wavering.
He wasn't bulging under the pressure.
He wasn't flickering.
Zackier thought his monstrous strength would be enough to end the fight.
But in the end, he wasn't facing a boy.
He was facing a manifestation of the Devil himself.
"...WON'T LET YOU TAKE ANYONE ELSE FROM ME, ANYMORE!!!"
Zackier staggered.
The sheer momentum of Nomoro's charge finally pulled him off his center of gravity.
He tripped, his heels catching on a raised tile, and Nomoro took his chance.
He didn't hesitate.
He pulled and pushed Zackier, running on legs that should have been paralyzed by blood loss.
He could have used his Hybroth regeneration to heal, but his system was tapped out.
He didn't mind.
He didn't care if he ever walked again, as long as he kept going.
He ran farther and farther, moving across the rooftop toward the ledge.
Trizha, who had just felt the ancient presence of Frantzes recede, blinked her eyes open as the protagonist regained control of her body.
At first, she was a mess of confusion, her vision swimming.
But then she saw them—the silhouette of
Nomoro dragging Zackier toward the abyss.
The realization hit her like a physical blow to the heart.
She knew what he was doing.
She knew what he intended to do.
"Argghhh…!! Stand up, me!!"
She tried to use her arms for leverage, but every movement was a scream of agony.
Her ribs were broken, her arm was useless, and her spirit was frayed.
But her vocal cords were back.
"Come on!!!"
With a struggle that felt like it lasted a lifetime, she managed to force herself into a standing position.
Now her next issue was walking.
She groaned in frustration, her teeth bared.
She made her first step, and her knees buckled.
She almost collapsed into the grit, but she caught herself with her good hand and forced herself forward.
One step. Two steps.
She began to walk.
Then she began to limp-run.
She was trembling all over, her white dress stained with soot and her own blood.
But something subconscious—something buried deep in her bloodline—was helping her maintain her balance.
She didn't notice it.
She didn't care.
The only thing that mattered was the boy at the edge of the roof.
Nomoro and Zackier continued their desperate struggle at the precipice.
Zackier used his remaining Emoplotions to push back, the purple blasts scorching Nomoro's chest.
Nomoro used his remaining ignition to pull forward, his claws sinking into Zackier's shoulders.
Zackier screamed in a panic he hadn't felt in three centuries.
He pulled the trigger of his gun again and again, but he was out of bullets.
The dry clicks of the hammer were the only sound in the air.
Trizha ran faster, her voice calling out into the night. "Nomoro! Stop! Come back!"
But they were too far.
The momentum was a physical law now, a debt that had to be paid to gravity.
The three of them—the Hero, the Devil, and the Antagonist—had never given up on their goals throughout the entire story.
But fate is a cruel author.
It had decided that only one of them would achieve their goal tonight.
Because… Nomoro kept going.
He was filled with a singular, blinding determination to fulfill his duty—a duty he had been trying to fulfill for nine long years.
He wanted to be the shield.
He wanted to be the one who didn't let the fire take everything.
He kept going and going, even as Zackier's screams turned into a terrified wail and Trizha's voice broke behind him.
He knew he should stop for his own sake, but he knew that stopping would mean failure.
It would mean the interruption won.
And so, he didn't stop.
With one final, thunderous push, he and Zackier reached the very edge of the Prom Tower.
They crashed through the thin, decorative railing, the metal snapping like toothpicks.
For the very last time, Nomoro turned his head and looked back at Trizha.
He smiled.
It wasn't the smile of a dying man; it was the smile of someone who had finally found the piece of himself he had lost in the fire nine years ago.
In that moment, he fulfilled his destiny.
He returned the favor to the girl who had brought him out of the shadows.
This was the favor he had always wanted to return to Trizha Frantzes—the Symbol of Connection, and his greatest influence.
Zackier's hand reached out one last time, grasping at the air, but there was nothing to hold onto.
They fell.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Trizha reached the edge just as the shadows swallowed them both.
She stood there, her hand reaching into the empty air, the moonlight casting her shadow down into the depths where the man she loved had just vanished.
This is the story of the man who had everything but lost everything.
This is the story of Nomoro Ketatsuki—the Symbol of Loneliness who finally found connection in a lonely world.