The moon above Kuoh Town hung pale and silent, veiled by thin clouds that drifted like omens. The atmosphere carried a strange weight, not quite oppressive, but charged with the expectation of something nearing the precipice. Below, in the heart of the town, the Occult Research Club had assembled once more, still licking their wounds from past encounters but steadied by a hardened resolve.
Rias stood at the head of the room, her crimson hair flowing like fire. Her eyes scanned the faces of her peerage: Akeno, Kiba, Xenovia, Asia, and Issei. Beside her, Azazel leaned with casual precision, a knowing look in his eye.
"His silence is louder than his presence," Azazel remarked. "Amon hasn't moved overtly since his retreat. That alone should worry us."
Kiba nodded. "He's planning something. The avatars haven't appeared since the fallout of the last attack."
"He's not gone. He's hiding," Issei said, clenching his fist. "He always moves in shadow. He wants us to grow complacent."
Rias crossed her arms. "We won't give him that satisfaction."
Azazel tossed a file onto the table. Diagrams, sketches, and coordinates spilled out like puzzle pieces.
"I've received intel from the Grigori's dimensional scouts," he said. "They're picking up erratic fluctuations from abandoned ruins spread across different planes. Amon's residue lingers in all of them. He may be constructing a metaphysical grid—an altar or convergence point."
Xenovia frowned. "A ritual of godhood?"
"Possibly," Azazel replied. "If he's prepping for ascension, we have a limited window."
---
Elsewhere, Amon observed the unfolding events from a perch between realities—a fractured plane suspended over the remnants of dreams and discarded hopes. The jagged platform under his feet pulsed with memory and void. His eyes, glimmering with unnatural intelligence, pierced through dimensions.
He did not speak. He did not need to.
His avatars moved across the realms, subtle, ghostly, and methodical. Each one inserted itself into systems of influence: a whisper in a council chamber, a shifting shadow at a political rally, a false vision in a monk's meditation. The world turned unaware.
Amon tilted his head toward the stream of ether swirling before him. Within it, he glimpsed Rias and her peerage.
"They cling to their hope," he mused aloud. "They rally behind their pain. And they believe they are preparing."
He reached into the stream, distorting it slightly. Echoes of old divinities shimmered and fractured.
"Let them come. The more effort they exert, the more beautiful the moment of collapse."
Then he turned away from the stream and walked toward a great chasm in the dream-void. At its edge, a black spire rose from nothingness—a construct not of brick or bone, but of concept, memory, and shadow. This was the Shrine of Discord, his chosen crucible.
Inside, metaphysical symbols burned with logic-defying fire. Each one was an equation, a story, a truth rewritten. They formed the foundation of his path to ascension.
"Soon," he said, placing a hand on the pulsating core of the structure. "Soon I will become the lie that no truth can touch."
---
Back on Earth, in the Underworld, Sirzechs Lucifer convened with Serafall, Ajuka, and Michael of the Heaven faction. Their expressions were grim.
"We may be nearing the final phase of Amon's plan," Sirzechs said.
Ajuka nodded. "He's laying groundwork beyond what our reality can perceive. He's rewriting the rules."
Michael looked thoughtful. "And yet, he faltered before. He revealed himself. He made mistakes."
"Was that genuine failure or calculated exposure?" Serafall asked quietly.
The silence that followed was unsettling.
---
In the Clubroom, Issei stepped outside for fresh air. The night was cool, calm, deceptively so. As he leaned against the railing, he felt a ripple in the air. Not threatening—familiar, almost curious.
From the shadow of the nearby tree, a figure emerged. Not fully formed, half-there, a shimmer of an illusion. One of Amon's avatars.
"Hello, Red Dragon Emperor."
Issei instantly flared his aura. "You picked the wrong night."
"Did I?" the avatar asked. Its voice echoed with multiple tones. "I bring no threat. Only a thought."
"Talk, then disappear."
The avatar's form flickered. "He watches you, you know. He wonders if you'll be the mistake that undoes him—or the unwitting ally who opens the last gate."
Issei grit his teeth. "I won't play his game."
"You already are," the avatar whispered, then vanished.
Behind Issei, Azazel had quietly emerged, having sensed the disturbance.
"Another one?"
Issei nodded. "They're watching us. We need to act soon."
Azazel's expression darkened. "Then we finish what we started."
---
In the deep void of his shrine, Amon sat upon an altar of unspeakable geometry. He did not close his eyes—they burned like twin stars. His mind processed a thousand permutations, a million possible futures.
He spoke a single word, not to an avatar, but to the Shrine itself.
"Begin."
The core glowed, and pulses radiated out into the multiverse. Invisible to most, these waves disrupted spells, altered prayers, distorted blessings, and cursed rituals.
Back in the Clubroom, Asia staggered.
"Something's wrong. My healing spell just failed."
Akeno tested a lightning incantation. It fizzled.
"He's disrupting magical constants," Rias murmured. "He's attacking reality itself."
Azazel's comm rang. He answered it, only to hear chaos on the other side.
"He's starting the final act," Azazel said.
Rias stood. Her eyes were resolute.
"Then so do we."
Author note:
Hey guys! If you're enjoying the story, toss a Power Stone my way—it really helps keep me motivated to write more. Thanks for reading!