Several months had passed since the Prom Tower tragedy.
Back at school, Trizha stood before the classroom window, her long, wavy blonde hair fluttering with the gentle breeze as she gazed at the undying horizon.
Her left arm rested in a sling pouch—still healing, still recovering. Though her body had weakened, her spirit hadn't. She refused to sit and simply wait for that special someone, yet there was nothing more she could do.
Her face showed a calm yet worried expression, her eyes quietly praying that this someone had survived.
"Heya, Trizha. What are you looking at?"
Wyne's familiar voice broke the silence as she stepped into the classroom, her hair now tied neatly into a ponytail.
"Hey, Wyne," Trizha replied softly.
"You're… still waiting for him, huh?"
"Yeah."
Setting her bag aside, Wyne approached and gently patted Trizha's shoulder. "He'll be fine. You saved him as much as you saved me."
Trizha smiled faintly at the words—but then her lips curved into a teasing smirk.
"Yeah, when you were bald~" she said with a grin.
"Oh, so we're going there, are we?" Wyne grinned back, feigning annoyance.
They crossed their arms and leaned into each other, foreheads clashing like rival swords as sparks of mock fury flew.
"You seem sooo interested in hairstyles! How about giving yourself a new one—something totally unfitting, blondie? Like… bald!"
"Wow! Spoken like a true philosopher, Wyne! Maybe we should dye your hair blonde so you can be Barbie in Black!"
"Huh?!"
"Hehh?!"
A sharp tension filled the air—two storms colliding—until a quiet, eerie voice interrupted them.
"Speaking of hair dye," Margaret began, her tone calm yet chilling, "imagine a drop of dye liquid falling into your eye. Would it burn your cornea or change the color of your entire sclera? Both could lead to permanent blindness, you know."
Both Trizha and Wyne froze, staring at her with wide eyes.
"Who even thinks like that…?" Wyne muttered.
"That's… creepy," Trizha added.
"Me," Margaret replied innocently, flashing a cute smile.
As the two tried to shake off the chill, Margaret's gaze shifted to Trizha's hair. Something caught her attention. She reached out suddenly, startling Trizha.
"W–Wait, what are you doing?!"
"Checking. You still have some dried blood here from months ago."
"Don't remind me of that!"
Margaret squinted, parting a few strands—then froze. Among the golden hair, a single pink strand shimmered faintly.
"...Trizha," she whispered. "You dyed your hair."
"What?!"
Panicked, Trizha snatched her hair back and checked for herself. Sure enough, there it was—a soft pink strand hidden beneath the others.
Wyne folded her arms, puzzled. "Whoa… you never dyed your hair before. When did that happen?"
"If she were lying, I'd know," Wyne added quietly.
"Of course you would," Trizha said, rolling her eyes. "So? Am I?"
Wyne paused, then sighed. "No. You used to be obsessed with vanity… before you decided to change, that is. I'm glad you did."
"Can we not talk about that either?" Trizha groaned.
"Why not—oh, right. You don't like talking about yourself much lately."
"Yeah. I'm still… not used to it."
"Yeah. My bad."
Wyne raised a peace sign apologetically. Trizha just stared at it.
"You don't have to do that. I understand," Trizha said softly.
"Shut up," Wyne replied.
Margaret silently observed the two before glancing again at the pink strand. She'd known Trizha for years—every shade of her golden hair—yet this was the first time she'd ever seen that color. And the more she looked, the more she realized: it wasn't dyed. It was natural.
No explanation came to mind. No bridge connected this new mystery to what she knew. All she could do was believe it had appeared during the Prom Tower tragedy… and hope that was the truth.
But deep down, she sensed something else—an unfamiliar presence lingering within Trizha. It wasn't just her anymore. Like two souls sharing one body.
Unable to stop herself, Margaret muttered under her breath, "...Who are you?"
Unfortunately, her voice wasn't as quiet as she thought.
"Who's who?" Trizha asked, confused.
"Margaret, what is it?" Wyne added, frowning.
Margaret's gaze stayed fixed on Trizha. After a moment, she blinked—and then, deadpan, said:
"Trizha. There's a ghost behind you."
"WHA—!"
By instinct, Trizha swung her recovering arm backward—only to scream in pain. "Ow, ow, ow! My arm!!"
"Ah. Sorry." Margaret raised a peace sign.
"You don't have to—ugh! Don't do that again!!"
"No."
Wyne burst into laughter, nearly falling over. "You're brave enough to jump off a tower, but you're scared of ghosts?! Hahahaha!"
"Stop laughing!!" Trizha yelled, face red.
Suddenly, the classroom door burst open as T. Marcela entered, panting heavily.
The trio froze. Trizha darted to her seat; Wyne grabbed Margaret by the shoulders to drag her along; and Margaret, as usual, simply accepted her fate.
"It's not what you think, idiots!!" T. Marcela shouted.
Her voice echoed across the classroom. Everyone froze. Then, turning toward Trizha with a troubled yet excited look, she said—
"Trizha! He's awake!"
Trizha's eyes widened. The words struck her like lightning. He's awake.
"Who… is?" Wyne asked quietly.
But Trizha was already gone—running out of the room, her heart pounding.
Down the halls, past the classrooms, dodging anyone who got in her way—even those calling out her name.
"Hey, it's Izha!"
"The Corny Hero girl!"
"Hey Izha, wait—"
"I'm not Izha, I'm Trizha!!" she shouted back.
The paparazzi never rested when it came to their idol. But to Trizha, Izha was gone.
She was never that false truth.
Racing through the school gates, she sprinted across the bustling streets, past the monument honoring the victims of the Prom Tower tragedy.
Her steps grew faster. Her heart louder.
Because after all this time… she was finally going to see him again.
***
"Yuri Calypso. During the events in your establishment, a total of 293 students and several of your staff fell as casualties."
The judge's voice echoed through the courtroom. From the defendant's seat, Yuri lifted her gaze to meet his — calm, cold, and unflinching. Heavy chains bound her wrists, glinting under the pale courtroom light. Beside her, her assistant, Ramoss, shifted anxiously.
"Mrs. Calypso," the judge continued, "you knew the risks. Your own staff warned you. Yet you chose profit over safety. Because of that choice, hundreds are dead. The state finds you criminally negligent. You are hereby sentenced to ten years in prison."
His eyes narrowed, burning with disdain. To him, Yuri's emotionless face was an insult — a mockery of the lives lost.
"Yuri Calypso," he said sharply, "you may speak before we proceed. Do you have any final words?"
"I do."
Yuri stepped forward, her voice calm and steady.
"Whatever happened that night… was completely out of my control."
Instantly, angry voices erupted across the room.
"Stop making excuses!"
"You were responsible for those children — one of them was mine!"
"Rot in hell!"
Ramoss and the remaining Calypso staff stood frozen, unable to interfere as the chaos grew.
Yuri, however, simply smirked.
"Heh. I failed to protect your children — so what? What exactly did you expect me to do when the tower was collapsing? Blow it up myself and cause even more deaths? Honestly, you people can't even think straight."
Her words struck the room like a match in dry grass.
"Enough!" the judge barked, slamming his gavel. "Silence!"
The uproar died instantly.
He glared down at her. "Take this woman to the waiting room. We'll discuss this later."
Two guards approached, but before they could take her, a few of Yuri's men stepped forward and escorted her out instead.
"Yuri, that was reckless," Ramoss hissed. "You shouldn't have said any of that."
"Why not?" she replied, shrugging. "The judge never said anything about keeping it professional."
"Still—!"
Ramoss sighed, rubbing his forehead. He couldn't deny it though; deep down, he knew she was right. The disaster really was out of anyone's control. Even with all her influence and strength, no one could've stopped that catastrophe.
"So… what now?" he asked quietly.
Yuri leaned back in her chair. "We wait."
"Wait? For what?"
"For them to release me after ten years."
"That's too long!"
"You're immortal," she said with a faint smirk. "Ten years is like ten weeks for you."
"That's not the point!" Ramoss snapped. "Without your leadership, the Calypso business will be bankrupt in five years — less, since the La Luna Sangre Hotel's been destroyed!"
Yuri tilted her head slightly, listening — but her calm expression never wavered.
Then she grinned and raised a finger. "Is that so? Well, then it's time for Plan B."
Ramoss blinked. "...What?"
"Plan B," she repeated, her tone playful.
"What are you plotting now, Yuri?"
"Oh, nothing major." She chuckled and reached into her suit, pulling out a neatly folded construction blueprint. Spreading it open, she revealed the title written in bold ink:
La Luna Sangre Version II — The Divine Mall.
Ramoss and the others leaned over the paper, confused.
"...What am I looking at?" Ramoss muttered.
"You're looking," Yuri said proudly, hands on her hips, "at a new day."
Her grin widened. "Get excited, everyone. We're entering the Glory Days."
***
Honk! Honk!
"Watch where you're going, blonde brat!" a driver yelled furiously.
"Sorry!!"
Trizha gasped out an apology, sprinting across the street toward the hospital. Moments earlier, she'd nearly been flattened by two cars, running blindly through traffic.
Reaching the end of the road, she dashed down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd like a blur of wind and panic. People yelped as she brushed past them.
"Excuse me! Sorry!"
Her long blonde hair whipped behind her, catching the sunlight as sweat poured down her forehead. It had only been minutes, but her lungs already burned. Still, she refused to stop.
Ahead of her, a man walked a pack of dogs—big, fluffy, and utterly blocking the path.
"Damn it!"
Trizha tried to slow down, but her momentum betrayed her. With a grunt, she launched herself into a backflip over the line of dogs, landing squarely in front of an elderly man holding a newspaper.
Startled, the old man dropped it.
As it hit the pavement, the headline stared back:
[Dead Russian Man Mysteriously Found Alive During the Prom Tower Tragedy!]
***
"The individual known as Zackier Morkator—a Russian teacher—was declared dead since the late 2000s. And yet, here you are… barely alive."
Inside a secret Antarctic prison, General Koby sat across from the recently revived Zackier. The interrogation room was silent, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights above.
Zackier sat still, wrists cuffed in heavy metal restraints, his head lowered.
Koby's fingers tightened around a folder marked Classified. "We exhumed your grave in Russia and ran a DNA test. The results matched perfectly… except for one anomaly. Your DNA was modified—cloned, perhaps. Tell me, Zackier. Why?"
Zackier remained silent until he finally raised his head, his eyes dull and fractured.
"...Representation."
Koby frowned. "Repeat that."
"I am not the same Zackier Morkator representative of this world."
"...I see." The general leaned back, intrigued. "Multiverse theory. So it exists. And you're proof of it—a variant. A perfect duplicate."
Zackier nodded faintly, then shook his head.
Koby narrowed his eyes. "Months ago, a cloaked man named V came to me. He told me to 'exterminate' you—an Alter Being. I refused, not until I know everything."
He leaned forward, his voice sharp.
"What are you? What's your purpose? Your organization? Your history? Tell me everything."
Zackier said nothing. But Koby noticed something strange—his eyes, once fractured like glass, now turned black, depthless.
"...Run." Zackier muttered.
Koby blinked. "Run? Enough nonsense—answer my ques—"
He froze. Zackier's body began to fade.
The coffee cup on the table trembled, then the ground itself quaked.
"What's happening?!" Koby shouted, standing up.
Outside the observation window, Commander George's expression hardened. "Something's wrong—alert security!"
***
[When an Alter Being dies—or loses their state—they do not return as souls, spirits, or ghosts.]
Zackier's body convulsed. Black fluid erupted from his skin, coating him entirely. The pressure shattered every glass panel in the prison. His eyes were now voids—pure darkness.
General Koby drew his pistol with shaking hands. "Damn it…"
He fired.
Each bullet vanished the instant it touched Zackier's form.
Gravity began to distort—the cup floated, then the chairs, then fragments of the floor.
"This guy… he's erasing gravity?" Koby muttered in disbelief.
[Instead, they return as beings of non-existence—The Entities.]
Koby fired again. Every bullet disintegrated on impact.
[Anything bound to reality and existence cannot affect what does not exist.]
"Gun Force Style—First Act: Whirlwind Fire!!"
Koby launched forward, spinning in midair, firing in a spiraling burst of bullets that screamed through the air like a storm.
But Zackier's cuffs dissolved to dust. He raised his arm—one swing was all it took.
A diagonal slash split Koby's shoulder open, blood spraying as he fell to one knee.
"Koby!!"
Commander George and his men burst through the door.
"Fall back!! Fall back!!" Koby roared.
But the Entity turned, stretching its arm impossibly far, slicing through the air itself.
[Toughness as weak as paper—but strength…]
The arm extended across the room—then beyond it—cutting Commander George and his men cleanly in half, slicing walls, mountains, even the atmosphere apart.
[…as powerful as a god, limitless in reach.]
Koby could only stare, frozen in horror. For the first time, the hero failed to save anyone.
"Prophelity: The One Marked by Power."
A red-haired man burst into the room, appearing before the Entity in an instant.
"Durability Negation Fist."
His fists glowed bright blue. With one strike, he pierced through the Entity's chest at immeasurable speed.
[The only weapons capable of killing divine beings…]
Koby could only watch in stunned silence as the Entity shrieked and collapsed.
The man grabbed its shoulder, his arm glowing purple.
"Soul Transfiguration."
In a blinding flash, Zackier's soul was torn free from the Entity's black shell.
[…are those that exist within their Pantheon—Fiction.]
Zackier coughed blood as the red-haired man slammed him to the ground, pinning him effortlessly.
"First of all, let me ask you two questions, Alter Being." His voice was calm but cold.
Koby steadied himself, observing the man's striking appearance—ruffled red hair, bloodstained scarf striped yellow and red, a sleeveless crimson coat over a dark suit, and black pants patterned with strange symbols.
He looked like a character straight out of fiction.
"Where is the world Monde Composite," the man asked, "and where is THWAOWL?"
Koby frowned. Those names again. Cryptic—and terrifyingly familiar.
Then he realized—his wound was gone. The blood, the pain—erased.
"...Koby?"
His eyes then widened as he became even more shocked. He hears his best friend's voice. He turned. His comrades were alive again, unharmed. Everything destroyed minutes ago had been restored.
That man had rewritten reality.
Zackier gasped weakly. "Who… are you?"
"Don't change the subject," the man replied. "Answer, and I'll grant you a painless death."
Zackier trembled. "You're… bad news. Using multiple Prophelities at once—no one should be able to do that."
He smirked faintly through the pain. "Heh… victim of THWAOWL's interference, aren't you? Hunting for a perfect Alter Being to—AAAGHH!!"
The man's arm ignited, scorching Zackier's throat mid-sentence.
"What a shame," he said flatly. "First Alter Being in history to lose your state—and still useless."
"D-damn you! Fine!"
"Talk."
Zackier broke. "Fine! Monde Composite… it's outside the Franchise lines—between Asymtron and Princantadia! As for THWAOWL… he still hides within!"
The man loosened his grip. Zackier's body began to crumble into dust. Piece by piece, he vanished from existence, never realizing his end.
Koby stared, horrified. The man turned calmly toward him.
"Just who is this guy…" Koby whispered.
The air thickened. Power radiated off him—boundless, divine.
"Who are you?" Koby asked softly, bowing his head.
The red-haired man met his gaze, his voice calm and ancient.
"First of all, you may call me… TOMP."
Koby froze. That name. He had seen and heard of that name; it's that author. He just said his alias, never revealing his actual name.
He clenched his fists. Cryptic here, cryptic there. No one was revealing information that's related to any of this, and he has gotten sick of it.
"Enough riddles! Tell me everything! No more hiding behind cryptic nonsense!"
"Second," TOMP interrupted, his tone darkening, "don't ask about the war. It's pointless."
"What—?"
The air grew heavy. Even gravity bent to his presence.
"And third…" TOMP's eyes gleamed. "A representation like you could never comprehend our war."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," he replied, "you're too weak."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Commander George flinched.
Koby's pride shattered under the weight of the words. He tried to speak, but TOMP continued:
"What, did you place your pride so high that you expect no limitation to your strength? I admit, you hold power beyond mortals—that's why you're a Minister. But even that isn't enough. You're facing incomprehension, Koby Frantzes."
Koby fell silent. He knew. Against this man—this author—his strength meant nothing.
TOMP turned to leave. "I suggest you do what everyone shouldn't do; Interfere. If you wish to discover, you're just wishing for death."
With that, TOMP turned around, intending to make his leave. But General Koby stopped him before he could leave, shouting for his "name".
"Wait!" Koby shouted. "If you won't tell me anything, at least tell me your real name!"
Reality twisted. The wind spiraled around TOMP as the world distorted—space stretching, light bending.
He paused, looking over his shoulder. "You won't like it."
"I don't care! Tell me!"
TOMP smiled faintly.
"Fine."
The air warped into a red-black vortex—spaghettifying everything nearby.
"My name…"
The distortion deepened, his form collapsing into the singularity.
"…is Narasao Tarosono."
The vortex shrank, imploding into silence. His presence was gone.
Only stillness remained.
Koby and the others stood frozen in disbelief.
"That… can't be," Koby whispered.
That name… it was a weird name. It has no meaning, as if it was just a made-up, and it is a name that can only be held by one person. And that person is in a coma, lying down in a hospital.
"...Truly, what a strange world we live in."
***
"Where is his room?!"
Trizha shouted at the hospital receptionist, her voice trembling with urgency. The woman behind the counter, calm and unfazed—as though used to this kind of desperation—simply blinked.
"Ah, I see. You're looking for the patient they call the Demon of Nine Years Ago?"
"Don't call him that!" Trizha snapped, slamming her hands on the counter.
"Oh! My apologies," the receptionist said quickly, maintaining her composure. "It's just what people around here tend to say. Reputation sticks, you know."
"It's not a reputation—it's slander!"
"I understand. I truly am sorry," the woman replied. "Now, if you'd just calm down—"
"Where is he?!"
"Room 312."
"Thank you!"
Trizha muttered under her breath, forcing a polite smile that couldn't hide her irritation, and then dashed through the hallway—dodging doctors, nurses, and startled visitors in her path.
She raced past a cloaked man leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His mismatched sanpaku eyes—one turquoise, one light brown—followed her with quiet curiosity.
For a moment, surprise crossed his face. Then relief. Then a grin.
"Heh… so it's true."
He relaxed his body and let himself fall backward into a swirling portal that appeared behind him. Without a sound, he vanished from this world.
---
He traveled through folds of time and fiction, through the corridor between worlds—until he emerged in a metallic chamber, landing effortlessly on a steel platform surrounded by floating Dyson-like rings orbiting a bright blue sphere.
Two cloaked figures awaited him: a woman with a sheathed katana at her side, arms crossed, and a silent man seated beside her.
"Heya, you two," the man greeted casually, waving. "How long was I gone?"
"Not long," the woman replied evenly. "About five days."
"Five? Seriously?!" He groaned dramatically.
"Seems like your little trip to Dawn Romantica rattled your head, Vangence," she said, smirking. "How was it?"
"Exhausting! You didn't tell me I'd need a passport just to fly out of Malaysia!"
The woman—Yumi—sighed. "Unlike the Princantadia Franchise, Dawn Romantica's Earth still follows standard travel laws. I assumed you knew."
"Well, excuse me, Yumi, for not memorizing every fictional bureaucracy."
She rolled her eyes. The man beside her remained silent, still as a statue. Vangence glanced at him, realization dawning.
"Oh! Right—Captain!" He saluted awkwardly. "Uh, yeah… mission accomplished!"
Yumi groaned. The Captain said nothing, though disappointment lingered in the air. Vangence cleared his throat.
"...Huh. Not too surprising, is it? Because… that's not what I meant." His voice softened.
After all, Vangence's mission was simply to convince any one of the ministers to eliminate the existing Alter Being, Koby specifically. But there was a sub-mission given to him just in case…
"I meant 'both'."
…and that mission was to see if 'she' is still there to this day.
Yumi froze. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
"You don't mean…"
Vangence's grin returned.
"Yeah. She lives."
At that, the seated man finally moved, turning his head toward Vangence. His deep voice echoed faintly:
"...Frantzes…?"
Vangence nodded. "It's been what—three hundred years? Feels good to finally see one of 'ours' fight—and win."
He paused, then smirked. "I'm sure you know what to do next, Captain—or should I say… Nomoro Ketatsuki."
The Nomoro Ketatsuki rose slowly, his cloak rippling like dark waves beneath the gleam of the colossal sphere. All around, metallic platforms—Dyson-like rings—floated in synchronized orbit.
Nomoro looked toward the glowing core, his voice deep and resolute.
"Today marks the beginning of the end. What happened earlier was only the first spark. Now… we move."
The sphere pulsed with radiant light, illuminating the dimension as it showed that every ring was filled with countless figures, standing upon their floating platforms, awaiting his command.
But they're not just any army. Not soldiers. Not citizens.
Protagonists. Beings from Romance, Fantasy, Dystopia, you name it. They come from every world, every franchise, every timeline—united.
Every gathered protagonist—each one a living story, united under a single cause:
To stand against "The He Who Appears On What's Left."
THWAOWL.
"She is reborn," Nomoro declared, raising his arm high. "And that means we will no longer hide. We will no longer wait. We will no longer let her bear everything alone."
He thrust his arm forward, cloak billowing like a black wave.
"As she opens her eyes—let us show her that we kept moving! That we never stopped fighting! That the legacy she left us… still burns within our very own ROUTES!"
The crowd erupted, their voices shaking the void.
***
Back in the hospital, the elevator doors slid open. Trizha stepped out, breathless, determination blazing in her eyes. She didn't slow. Not once.
***
"Find them all," Nomoro commanded, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. "Every Entity. Every Alter Being. Every remnant of THWAOWL's will!"
"YEAH!!" The Timeline Society roared, portals igniting one after another as they leapt into the unknown.
***
A doctor exited a room, clipboard in hand, nearly tripping as Trizha blurred past him like the wind.
"Slow down, young lady! This is a hospital!" he called out.
Soon enough, she reached that room.
A door slowly creaked open. A warm beam of light spilled through into the room.
Trizha peeked in—and froze, breath catching in her throat.
There he was. Standing by the window, dressed in a patient's gown. The same man she had waited for all this time.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Tears welled up before she could even speak.
He turned around, his calm smile unchanged. Those cat-like eyes, that short dark hair, that gentle expression—unmistakable.
"...Nomoro."
Trizha ran forward, and Nomoro opened his arms. She collided into him, wrapping him in a tight embrace as tears flowed freely, the world falling away around them.
From two worlds apart, one Nomoro reached his end
And another reached his beginning.
Their story ended for them,
and began for them.
Unending. Endless. Continuing forever…
so long as it is not interrupted.
「Because…」
"We will show them," Yumi shouted, drawing her katana, "the consequences of their interruption!"
「...After all, this story」
"You all heard him! We will protect," Vangence bellowed, laughing, "the stories that made us who we are!! Once more!!!"
「and everything else before and after it…」
Nomoro's voice thundered across dimensions.
"And we will fight!" Nomoro's voice echoed across realities. "Through the depths of our hearts, we will fight! Through the bottom of our hearts!!"
「…is all just for that one man.」