The alarms shrieked through the mountain, their wailing cries rattling stone and steel alike.
Outside the breached chamber, the guardians of the sanctum were already flooding into formation—Spartan warriors, Viking champions, angelic sentinels, their armor gleaming gold, silver, and obsidian beneath the harsh celestial lights.
Shields locked. Spears planted. Wings spread. Every soldier was prepared for war, the elite of the heavens ready to face whatever horror had forced the ancient alarms to awaken.
The glow from the chamber intensified—
Bright.
Brighter.
Blinding.
The celestial lights reached an unbearable crescendo—
—then died.
Darkness slammed into the corridor.
The sudden loss of light was suffocating, but worse was what came next.
From the cracks in the heavy iron doors that sealed the chamber, thick mist began to spill out—black, green, and deep crimson, roiling and alive like smoke from a forbidden fire.
The guards tightened formation instinctively, shields raising high.
The Spartan commander barked through the mist.
"STEADY! Shields up! Eyes forward!"
The heavy double doors shuddered, their celestial locks straining.
Then—
With a sound like a mountain snapping in half, the doors exploded outward, massive iron gates flung like cannonballs toward the wall of soldiers.
"HOLD!" shouted the Spartan commander.
The front lines raised their shields in perfect synchronization, forming a glistening phalanx wall. The flying gates slammed into the formation—and with a thunderous crash, were deflected to the sides, carving trenches into the marble floors.
Silence for a split second.
Then they saw it.
Two glowing eyes, burning bright in the darkness—one deep red, the other an oily, seething green.
And they were getting closer.
The Spartan commander didn't hesitate.
"CHARGE!"
The army roared and surged forward, the hallway erupting into divine fury. Angelic warriors soared through the air, brandishing spears of light. Viking soldiers charged with axes crackling with runic power. Spartans sprinted forward in perfect rows, the sound of boots slamming into stone thundering like a drumbeat.
But Shigenori…
He moved.
Inhumanly fast.
He catapulted toward them, using the walls like a wild animal, rebounding with impossible force, pinging off stone and air like a monstrous blur.
He didn't run —
He hunted.
His corrupted body twisted mid-air, claws slicing open an angel's breastplate as he passed. He kicked off the ceiling and pounced onto the Spartan front lines, ripping through shields like parchment.
Soldiers screamed as they were thrown aside like dolls, their celestial armor folding under the sheer feral strength now bursting from the boy.
One Viking raised his axe, roaring—and Shigenori caught it with his bare hand, the runed metal screaming against his burning grip, before ripping the axe free and slashing the Viking across the chest in a single brutal motion.
The angelic warriors flew overhead, trying to pin him down with spears of light—but he vanished into the mist, reappearing behind them faster than their eyes could follow, grabbing wings mid-flight and slamming them into the ground with bone-snapping force.
The entire corridor became a battlefield. Blasts of divine magic clashed with black mist. Blood—silver, gold, and red—splattered across the pristine marble.
And all the while, Shigenori's smile grew wider.
He wasn't just surviving.
He was thriving.
In the middle of the chaos, the Spartan commander shouted, desperate:
"Fall back! Fall back! We need reinforcements! THIS ISN'T A MORTAL ANYMORE!"
But it was too late.
The corrupted energy now poured out from Shigenori's body in steady waves, causing divine weapons to decay if they stayed near him too long. Armor cracked. Shields rotted at the edges. Even the heavenly runes along the walls dimmed, flickering like candles in a hurricane.
He tore through another line of angelic soldiers, his hands clawed and smoldering, his body a blur of shadows and lightning-quick strikes.
In the far distance, deeper in the heavens, more alarms began to wail—the deep, hollow sound of full celestial breach.
The gods were being summoned.
And at the center of it all, Shigenori stood alone, chest heaving, mist coiling around him like the breath of a sleeping dragon.
He looked up.
Toward the heart of heaven.
Toward the gods.
And whispered under his breath, a voice not fully his own:
"I'm coming for you…"
The sirens blared louder, a sound so deep it shook the infirmary's walls. The soft golden light of the room flickered under the weight of the alarms, and everyone—Chosen, gods, healers alike—froze for a moment, unsure whether to brace for battle or pray.
The All Mighty, who had been seated calmly overlooking everything, stood up.
Immediately, a ripple of tension spread through the massive hall. Even the gods straightened, sensing the gravity of the moment.
Raiden, Kaito, Zohar, Kirashi, Connor—and all the other battered Chosen—looked around, confusion flashing across their faces.
Kirashi, sitting up weakly on her cot, clutched the blanket around her shoulders.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice small but urgent.
"Is this some kind of… drill or something?"
Kaito shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the gods shift uneasily.
"Nah… This doesn't look normal."
Raiden, meanwhile, wasn't looking at the crowd.
His gaze was locked firmly on the All Mighty.
And what he saw unsettled him more than the alarms.
The All Mighty's eyes—so calm, so commanding before—now burned with something else entirely.
Guilt. Fear. Calculation.
A thousand stories seemed to hide behind that sharp gaze, like he was holding a hand of cards close to his chest, bluffing at a game no one else even knew they were playing.
Raiden clenched his jaw.
What are you hiding?
The All Mighty lifted his arms with a commanding motion, forcing calm into the panicked room. His voice echoed with unnatural authority.
"There has been a breach in our security," he announced, loud enough for all to hear.
"Nothing for you to worry about. Rest. Heal. Leave this matter to the gods and our divine commanders."
Murmurs filled the room instantly. Doubts. Fear. Whispers.
The All Mighty turned, his long white robes billowing like clouds behind him as he moved toward the grand exit.
That's when Zohar couldn't hold back anymore.
"Shouldn't we still be able to help?" he called out, loud enough to make the All Mighty pause.
"Isn't that the point of all this training?!"
The room went silent again.
Slowly, very slowly, the All Mighty turned his head—not fully, just enough to side-eye Zohar from beneath his brow.
The look he gave was cold. Calculated. Almost… predatory.
Before anything could escalate, Raiden stepped forward and clamped his hand firmly on Zohar's shoulder, squeezing hard.
"Don't worry about it," Raiden said quietly, meeting Zohar's confused, frustrated gaze.
"He's right. We should rest."
Zohar hesitated, glaring at Raiden for a heartbeat. But there was something unspoken between them—a brotherly trust, a silent agreement.
Zohar exhaled sharply and dropped his head.
"Fine…"
The All Mighty gave a thin, unreadable smile—one that didn't reach his eyes—and walked out, disappearing behind the towering gates of the infirmary.
As the heavy doors sealed behind him with a distant boom, the room seemed to deflate. Chosen ones slumped back into their beds, healers resumed moving between the wounded, and the gods huddled together, speaking in hushed, urgent voices.
Raiden turned to the others.
"Something's wrong," he said under his breath.
Kaito leaned in, keeping his voice low.
"You noticed too, huh?"
Kirashi clutched the blanket tighter, fear threading into her voice.
"W-What do you think it is? Another demon breach?"
Raiden shook his head grimly.
"Worse. I think it's something… they can't control."
None of them spoke after that.
The sirens kept screaming.
And somewhere deep beneath their feet, Shigenori was ripping through the celestial defenses like a hurricane.
The heavens were about to learn what happened when a mortal refused to die.
The infirmary buzzed with quiet tension, the alarms still blaring faintly through the walls.
At the far end of the room, Feiyu sat hunched at the edge of his bed, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Without warning, he stood up, his chair screeching back across the floor.
"Zohar's right," Feiyu said, loud enough for most of the room to hear. "We need to help."
Heads turned. Murmured conversations died instantly.
One of the stationed guards by the infirmary door, clad in golden armor, immediately stepped forward. His voice was stern but measured.
"You can't leave. Orders from the All Mighty. You are all to rest until the situation is resolved."
Feiyu narrowed his eyes.
"Screw that." He took a step forward, chest heaving with adrenaline.
"I'm not gonna sit here while some demon is causing mayhem on our watch."
A few Chosen—bruised, bandaged, but wide-eyed—stood behind Feiyu now, drawn by the electricity of the moment. They exchanged glances, shifting uneasily.
Feiyu tried to shoulder past the guard—but his body betrayed him. His legs buckled slightly under the weight of exhaustion still clinging to him after the brutal Colosseum trials.
The guard caught him easily, pushing him gently but firmly back.
"Return to your bed," the guard warned, voice hardening, "or you will be restrained for disobeying the All Mighty's command."
Feiyu gritted his teeth, glaring up at him.
Zohar, Raiden, Kaito, and Kirashi watched from their own cots, tension thick in the air.
Feiyu stood there breathing hard, caught between pride and exhaustion, his fists shaking with helpless rage.
Before anyone could act—