Content Warning: The following chapter contains graphic violence, blood, depictions of emotional and psychological trauma, and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.
Jennie's voice cracked with raw desperation.
"Why are you doing this?!" she screamed, her voice echoing into the ruined air.
Caspian paused, the cold barrel of his gun still pressed to Miwa's temple. Her eyes fluttered, barely clinging to consciousness. For a moment, it looked like he would pull the trigger.
Instead, with a small theatrical sigh, he lowered the weapon and slowly sat down in front of them—cross-legged, relaxed. As if this were all a show.
"Y'know," Caspian said, smirking, "I should at least give some kind of explanation, right? A final act. I mean, it'd be boring to just kill you all without a little drama."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice dropped lower, more venomous.
"I never wanted peace. Never cared about being your little 'teammate'," he said, glancing at Jennie with disgust. "All that talk of hiding powers… harmony… friendship…"
He spit to the side.
"I wanted power. And to get power—you need a mask."
He smirked wider, eyes gleaming.
"So I became an actor. I built fame. Glory. Adoration. It was perfect—everyone watched me, cheered for me, loved me. But none of them really knew me."
His eyes slid toward Jahanox, and the grin curled more sinister.
"You might be wondering what I was hiding from."
Jahanox, bleeding and still kneeling with his hands raised, stared at him with hollow fury.
"What do you mean?" he asked through gritted teeth.
Caspian's smile turned predatory.
"I'm glad you asked."
He slowly stood up, took a few steps closer, and spread his arms like a preacher before a congregation.
"None of you know anything about me. Not even close."
He took a deep breath.
"I killed my parents."
The world seemed to stop.
The wind held its breath. Even the mercenaries stirred uneasily. Jennie gasped. Minos looked away. Miwa's eyes widened in horror.
Caspian's eyes glinted like polished glass.
"They were a pain. Controlling. Whiny. Always telling me what I could or couldn't do. Always dragging me down."
He stepped closer to Jahanox, crouching to his level.
"They didn't understand that greatness needs freedom. So I gave myself that freedom."
He drew a slow line across his throat with his finger.
"Freedom. Permanent and silent."
Jahanox's voice was a whisper. "You murdered your own parents… just to live how you wanted?"
Caspian chuckled.
"No. I did it because I liked it."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"I didn't need them. Never did. They were weights. Shackles. I shed them, and I felt alive for the first time."
Jennie's voice shook with horror. "That's… that's sick, Caspian."
"Oh, Jennie," he said mockingly, "this isn't even the worst part."
He stood up straight again.
"Two—no, three months ago? A fan said something rude to me. Said I was 'overrated'. That my acting was 'forced.'"
He shrugged.
"I was mad. Furious. I stalked her. Found out where she lived. And one night… I just snapped."
He exhaled in satisfaction, his voice becoming airy, dreamy.
"I strangled that bitch. Then I doused the place in alcohol. Watched her burn. Her body. Her skin. The smell…"
His eyes fluttered.
"It was beautiful. I never knew murder could feel so… pure."
Everyone's expressions contorted into silent horror. Miwa's body trembled even in her near-unconscious state. Minos stood paralyzed. Jennie's hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"But then," Caspian continued, voice lowering, "something changed."
He turned slowly, facing them again.
"I felt something in me… grow. A strange connection to her. As if her death gave me more than just relief—it gave me strength."
Jahanox's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean…?"
Caspian's smile twisted into something inhuman.
"I thought my Catalyst power was just copying, right? Temporary. One at a time."
He tilted his head.
"But maybe… if I kill you, I don't need to copy anymore."
He spread his arms again as shadows loomed behind him.
"Maybe if I kill all Catalysts, I'll become them."
A dark murmur spread among the mercenaries. Caspian looked at them and laughed loudly.
"And once I do… I'll stand on your corpses. I'll turn this world into my stage."
He raised his fist.
"And we—" he motioned to his men, "will become KINGS."
The mercenaries erupted in cheers, guns raised in the air.
Jennie collapsed to her knees in despair. Minos grabbed Miwa's limp body. Jahanox just sat frozen, shadows crawling behind him like starving beasts.
Caspian turned his eyes back to them, grinning like the devil.
"Now then," he said, "who should I kill first?"
---
Zazm strolled through the vibrant streets of Tokyo, weaving between crowded shops and neon lights. Tourists bustled around him. Kids laughed. The world was normal here. Too normal.
He muttered to himself, one hand in his coat pocket, the other rubbing his temple.
"Wonder what Kiyo's doing right now. Probably messing something up…" he chuckled. "Jennie's probably freaking out about it. Jahanox—he's probably cleaning up their mess already."
His voice faltered.
"Caspian's quiet though. Suspiciously quiet."
Suddenly—his eyes widened.
A sharp jolt stabbed through his head, like a thread snapping inside his brain. His vision blurred for half a second, then realigned.
"HELP....KIYO.....IN TROUBLE....CASPIAN!"
The words echoed in his skull—shattered flickering like a dying signal—but the weight of them crushed his chest.
"What?" Zazm muttered, then shouted—"What happened?!"
No response. Just silence.
He stood frozen for one long second, then bolted.
He sprinted through the crowd, shoving bodies aside, ignoring curses and gasps. His eyes darted in every direction as he dashed down the street. His breathing sharpened, frantic. Cars honked. Someone yelled after him. He didn't hear a word.
He tore into a side alley, then through a subway platform, leaping over a barricade. Finally, he reached an empty park—quiet and gray, with cherry blossoms lazily drifting through the air.
There, in the silence, the second wave hit.
"Parents.....Jahanox.....kidnapped ...."
Zazm stumbled forward, hand on a tree to steady himself.
Then he snapped.
His eyes shot open—red veins spreading through the whites like lightning. His irises burned with electric blue.
His jaw clenched— so tight that a small crack echoed through his head and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His body trembled not from fear, but from unfiltered rage.
He squeezed his fists so hard his nails tore into his fists, blood dripping onto the concrete below.
"Caspian…" he whispered.
Then he shouted—raw, animalistic.
"CASPIAN!"
A shockwave of power burst around him, warping the air like a mirage.
"I'll kill you," Zazm growled, each word laced with death. "I'll erase you from every thread of existence."
He vanished—not teleported, but ripped through space.
The park stood silent again, the petals still falling… blood still staining the ground.
The Nexus's Gaze flickered in Zazm's eyes, its threads unraveling through dimensions like rivers of light. He didn't need words. He focused on one thread—the faint quantum trail belonging to Jahanox's father.
And he followed it.
The world folded. And he was there.
A dusty, industrial mercenary base, hidden on the outskirts of an abandoned city block. The air reeked of oil and sweat. Zazm crouched silently behind a pile of rusted crates, eyes locked on the patrolling guards. His senses sharpened—the hum of radios, the soft scuffle of boots, the metallic click of weapons being loaded.
Suddenly—light.
A blinding floodlight swung and locked onto his face.
Footsteps.
From the shadows emerged a tall man in dark tactical gear, his grin wide, his demeanor calm and cocky. Behind him, more mercenaries emerged like wolves circling a trapped animal.
"Well, well," the man chuckled. "Caspian said you might come. We thought he was bluffing, but look at that—these Catalyst kids really are as naive as he said."
Zazm's eyes didn't flinch. He stepped into the open, voice cold.
"Are you the ones responsible?"
The man scoffed. "What if we are?"
Zazm lifted one hand, threads coiling around his palm like deadly strings of fate. "Then I'll kill you."
But the man's smirk didn't vanish. He gestured toward a large, sealed warehouse across the yard.
"You see that? There are over a hundred of my men in there. Kill me, and your friends' parents die. Every one of them."
Zazm didn't move.
"And that's not all," the man added, pulling out a small USB-like device from his vest. "This? Every video, every frame—your training sessions, teleportations, even some of your little Catalyst experiments. We've got them all."
Zazm's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"
The man twirled the device lazily. "From your very own friend—Caspian."
Zazm froze.
"He made a deal with us," the man continued. "Said he'd hand over anything we wanted—data, footage, identities. In exchange? We follow his commands, help him build his little world domination scheme. Said he'd make us rich. Famous. Powerful."
Zazm clenched his fists, blood seeping through the cracks in his skin again.
"You followed a maniac… for money?"
The mercenaries around them laughed, loud and cruel.
"What else were we gonna do?" the leader shrugged. "Caspian's a freak with power. So are you. If we said no, he'd kill us too. At least this way, we get something out of it."
Zazm's voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with fury.
"Where is he now?"
The man leaned closer, a devilish grin on his face.
"He's with your friends... Right now. Said he's going to kill them all and take their powers. One by one. And guess what? You don't even have time to stop him."
Zazm stood in silence. The threads around him began to vibrate violently. The wind shifted.
The leader grinned, amused.
"What now, little hero? Gonna kill me and doom them all?"
Zazm didn't respond.
Zazm stood still beneath the grey sky, his fists clenched so tight that blood trickled down from the crescent cuts made by his own fingernails.
The mercenary leader before him held a device—a USB stick—with all their secrets, all their vulnerabilities. The man had spoken so casually about Caspian, about betrayal, about the parents they had kidnapped like pawns on a chessboard.
"He said he'd give us power, money. All we had to do was follow orders,"
"He's going to kill your friends. You don't have time."
Zazm's body barely moved—but inside, everything broke.
He activated Nexus's Gaze—fully.
His eyes ignited with an unnatural, celestial light—spinning concentric rings of violet, silver, and black. The threads of time and space unfurled around him like glowing veins. Reality slowed. Then stopped.
Time froze.
The world became quiet. Too quiet. The wind halted in mid-air. Dust hung still. Even the blood in his own veins felt like it had paused. But it hadn't. His heart was still beating, erratically. Loud. Painfully.
He turned to the mercenary leader.
"I gave you a chance," Zazm whispered.
With a slow, almost mournful motion, he raised his hand. The threads around the leader's neck twisted—elegant and exact.
The man's head exploded.
It wasn't instant. It burst like an overripe fruit—flesh tearing, bone shattering, the arteries flailing mid-air like snapped wires, pumping bright red blood into the sky.
Zazm didn't flinch. But his eyes trembled. A single tear slipped down his right cheek, mixing with the blood pouring from his ducts due to the pressure of Nexus's Gaze.
He whispered to the frozen body, "One."
He turned around to all the men surrounding him and did the same to all of them, the blood was flowing like a fountain as it covered his face and his entire clothes but he didn't care.
And then he turned to the rest of the base.
He began to walk. Everything was still, except him.
Two men at the gates.
Their expressions frozen in laughter. Cigarettes halfway to their mouths. He twisted space subtly—just around their internal organs. The stomach folded into the lungs, the intestines wrapped around their hearts, kidneys crumbled in on themselves.
"Ten. Eleven."
Three guards standing by a supply truck.
Zazm compressed the space within their chests. Their hearts collapsed under astronomical pressure, exploding inside them like tiny bombs. Blood geysered from their noses and ears.
"Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen."
He kept count.
He had to.
It was the only thing keeping him sane.
Inside the warehouse yard—mercenaries drinking, loading weapons.
Zazm stared at them for a long time. Thirty men.
He took a deep breath.
Then he accelerated time in their bodies—just theirs.
Seconds became decades. Blood boiled. Arteries bulged. Skin peeled. One by one, they exploded from inside—veins bursting like pipework under pressure. Some blew apart at the chest. Others crumpled as their skeletons disintegrated from age.
"Seven through thirty-seven," Zazm murmured.
A tear dropped onto his boot. He didn't wipe it away.
He walked through the outer barracks—room after room of mercenaries sleeping, playing cards, unaware.
He didn't give them warning.
He would enter, stop, and let the threads wrap around them like a net. Then—either twist their organs until their spines snapped or invert the air pressure in their lungs, causing their rib cages to crush their hearts.
"Thirty-eight… fifty-two…"
His voice was growing shakier. More broken.
One room had a boy no older than 16. Frozen, sitting on a bed with a gun hung on his back looking at a small picture perhaps his mother.
Zazm stopped in front of him.
He knelt.
"I wish you had stayed home," he whispered.
Then—he twisted the space behind the boy's neck. Instant brain death.
He didn't count that one out loud.
Inside the command center—forty more.
This time Zazm didn't use his hands. He closed his eyes and visualized the threads, the blood, the bones, the oxygen moving through their bodies.
He snapped time forward—fifteen years in three seconds. Their bodies couldn't withstand it. Skin tore apart. Muscles split. Some aged into withered husks. Others screamed in silent agony as their insides turned to pulp from sheer velocity of blood flow.
"Eighty… one hundred…"
His legs were shaking now.
He could hear his friends' voices in the silence. Kiyomasa's laugh. Jennie's gentle hum. Myeong-hwa's teasing tone. Jahanox's dry sarcasm.
And Caspian's voice, twisted and cruel, echoing in his mind.
In the final hall—thirty-nine men.
He could've just collapsed the building. But he didn't. He owed it to the victims to see it through.
He forced all thirty-nine men's bodies to experience a single hour in 0.001 seconds.
The effect was horrifying.
Their hearts exploded, skulls caved in, bodies swelled grotesquely and burst. Blood sprayed in microscopic particles across the walls, red mist frozen in place.
He stood in the center of the carnage.
"One hundred and thirty-nine," he whispered.
He dropped to his knees.
His hands were shaking, not from exhaustion—but from what he had done.
He couldn't breathe. The blood on his cheeks—his own and theirs—burned.
He looked around. A frozen world. A frozen nightmare.
All dead.
And no one could stop it. No one could even see it.
As the silence settled again—not the silence of frozen time, but the silence of mass death—Zazm stood alone in the middle of what could only be described as a slaughterhouse made from men.
Blood hung in the air. Pooled on the floor. Clung to the walls like ivy.
He stood still.
Then, without warning, he laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't cruel.
It was soft. Broken. Distant.
A single chuckle. Then another. Then a short burst of laughter like he was hearing the joke too late—a joke told by someone long dead.
His knees buckled, and he fell.
Down on the blood-soaked concrete, he looked at his hands.
Soaked in red.
Shaking
He turned them around slowly, flexing his fingers like he didn't recognize them.
"Ha…" he breathed. "I… killed them."
His voice cracked like glass. A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"One hundred… and thirty-nine… people…"
He pressed a trembling palm against his chest.
His heartbeat fast. Shallow.
Like he was scared of himself.
He laughed again—but now it was thinner, more strained. Not humor.
Shock.
He looked down at his reflection in a puddle of blood.
His eyes—cracked with glowing threads, still weeping blood. His face—hollow. Pale. His hair stuck to his skin. His Catalyst pulsed faintly like it, too, had seen enough.
He whispered, "This isn't who I was…"
Then his breath hitched.
He curled slightly forward, fists still clenched as if he could hold in the grief. The guilt. The weight of one hundred and thirty-nine souls.
"I didn't… I didn't want this."
His shoulders trembled as he gasped for air through pain. His body shook so hard it looked like he might break apart.
"But… I had to. I had to…"
Over and over he whispered it, like a prayer.
Blood stained his face. Tears watered it down.
No one could see him. No one could stop him.
He was alone.
Zazm placed a trembling hand on the vault door.
"You'll be safe now," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"But I'm not."
He had saved them.
But the cost was a part of himself he would never get back.
Zazm stood up slowly, body still trembling, blood caking his boots and gloves, the scent of iron soaking into his lungs like poison. He wiped his face with the back of his hand—sweat, tears, and blood all mixing together into a single, unholy smear.
He looked ahead.
"This isn't over," he whispered hoarsely. "I still have to save them…"
He turned, walked to Jahanox's parents—frozen in the suspended threads of time. Carefully, as if afraid they might break, he laid his hands on them. His eyes, though cracked and bloodshot from Nexus's Gaze, softened slightly.
"They'll be okay," he murmured. "I promise."
He gently created a rip in space, folding it like fabric, and placed them through the portal into a safe dimension—one he'd prepared long ago for emergencies. It felt mechanical. Empty. Robotic.
He turned again.
And walked outside the warehouse.
The scene before him was hell incarnate.
Bodies—piles of them. Some twisted, contorted, ruptured from within. Organs plastered to the walls like paint. Legs, arms, heads—some whole, some fragmented—scattered like discarded dolls. Veins splattered, eyes popped from pressure, blood soaked into the soil beneath.
It stank.
Not just of death, but of what he had done.
Zazm tried not to look. He kept walking. But the sounds—faint, slow, creeping—began to emerge. Whispers. Echoes. Voices not of the living.
At first they were soft. Just noises at the edge of his hearing.
Then came the laughter. Twisted. Warped. Mocking.
Then:
"Monster."
"You chose who lived."
"You could've saved me."
He clenched his fists.
"No…"
He pressed his palms against his ears.
"You ignored us."
"You saw our threads. You looked away."
"You let us die."
His knees weakened. He staggered, but didn't fall. His breath came fast.
"Not now. Not now. Stop—"
Then he froze.
A cat sat before him.
A thin, frail black cat. Its eyes—yellow, wide, glassy—pierced through the horror.
He knew that cat.
Two years ago.
He saw it. Injured. Trapped in a tree, he saw it one day when coming back with Jahanox, he knew the cat would die.
But he didn't help it.
He thought helping would slow him down. Cause a disruption in the timeline. He turned away, rationalized it, and left it to die.
But it had looked at him. Just like this.
Eyes begging: Help me.
His chest tightened. "No… not you…"
The cat stood up, turned, and walked ahead.
Zazm took a step back, fear blooming in his gut.
And then—
A little girl.
She stood just behind the cat, hands by her sides, staring directly at him.
Her dress was torn. One sock down. A patch of dried blood under her collar.
"Why didn't you save us?" she asked.
Zazm's heart shattered.
"I—"
He took a step forward.
But then—
They appeared.
Dozens. No....hundreds perhaps thousands of People. Men. Women. Children. Elderly. All strangers.
But their threads were familiar. Faint. He had glimpsed them once—while walking through cities, towns, stations. Threads that fluctuated strangely. Threads that trembled.
Threads he ignored.
"You saw my son's thread," a man said, stepping forward, "You saw it twist that day on the highway. You could've warned me. He was hit by a truck."
Zazm shook his head. "I didn't know…"
"You could've stopped me," said a boy, maybe eighteen. "I stepped into traffic. You looked right at me."
"I—I couldn't—"
An old woman now. Her voice was cracked like the skin on her hands. "You passed me on the bench. My heart gave out five minutes later. You could've called someone."
"Stop…"
"You chose who lived. You left us behind."
"Shut up."
"You're a monster," the little girl whispered.
"You're selfish."
Zazm's eyes filled again. Tears streaming freely. His fists clenched. Nails biting into flesh.
"I didn't mean to—I tried—I was just trying to—"
The voices overlapped, crescendoing into a chorus of accusation.
"Selfish."
"Selective."
"You watched us die."
Zazm screamed.
"SHUT UP!"
Reality twisted.
The sky cracked like a mirror. The earth beneath him buckled. The warehouse—the bodies, the blood, the walls, the weapons—everything…
Collapsed inward.
Folded into nothing.
He warped the entire zone—compressing the space into a speck smaller than an atom. Erasing it from time and existence like it never was.
But the voices didn't stop.
They weren't in the air.
They were in him.
His hands still trembled. He looked down at himself. The blood was gone—but his heart still saw it.
"I'm sorry…"
He collapsed to his knees again. His breathing ragged. His eyes burning.
"I'm sorry—I didn't know who to save—I didn't want this—I just wanted to protect them—I just wanted to help—"
The Nexus's Gaze still glowed faintly. Dull. Tired. Like it too was exhausted by the weight of choice.
Zazm curled forward, holding himself as the space around him slowly stabilized.
No applause. No comfort. No redemption.
Just silence.
Zazm knelt alone in the empty field of nothingness he had created.
The warehouse was gone.
The blood was gone.
But the guilt remained.
He couldn't hear the voices anymore—but their weight lingered, like cold chains around his ribs. Every breath felt shallow, every movement heavy. His hands, still trembling, reached for his face. He touched beneath his eyes and felt crusted blood where the Nexus's Gaze had pushed too far.
He let out a breathless laugh.
It sounded broken.
"This is what it takes… huh?" he whispered, voice quivering.
His gaze dropped to his palms. They were clean now—but all he could see were the images burned into memory. Faces of the dead.
The eyes of the mercenaries as time froze and he twisted their organs, ruptured their bodies, shattered their bones from inside with sheer pressure. Some had looked like they cried. Others never saw it coming.
One hundred and thirty-nine.
He had counted them.
Each one.
He forced himself to remember them. As punishment.
Because forgetting would be too easy.
He laughed again. Louder this time. A dry, lifeless laugh that cracked at the edges of his voice like splintered glass.
"I killed so many people," he muttered.
His shoulders shook. At first from the weight.
Then the tremors turned into sobs.
Deep. Raw. Violent.
He slammed his fists into the ground, space fracturing beneath the blow but refusing to shatter again. He screamed into the dirt, into the silence, into the void that had once held life and horror.
"I didn't want this! I DIDN'T WANT THIS!"
Tears streamed freely now. His entire body trembling. Not from exhaustion—but from the helpless, hollow agony of knowing that there was no clean path left. No version of himself that could walk away unchanged.
He had chosen.
He had killed.
He had erased.
The pain of it clawed at his insides like a wildfire eating its own heart. He felt like something sacred inside him had been broken—and no power, no thread, no manipulation of space or time could put it back together.
But then—amid the screams and despair—a whisper from deep within reminded him:
"This isn't over."
His eyes, now dull and ringed with blood, widened slowly.
Jahanox. Kiyomasa. Jennie. Miwa.
His friends were still in danger.
And Caspian… Caspian was with them.
Zazm wiped his eyes again, shakily, and stood to his feet. His legs threatened to collapse again, but he forced them to obey. He clenched his fists tight enough to cut the skin, using the pain to anchor himself.
He looked ahead—toward the invisible threads stretching across reality. So many futures. So many possibilities.
But only one path mattered now.
"I'll fix this," he muttered.
Not as a vow of redemption.
Not as a hero.
But as someone who had already crossed the point of no return—and would not stop walking until it was finished.
He opened a tear in space—just wide enough for one broken soul to walk through—and stepped into it, vanishing into the glowing threads that led toward Caspian's betrayal, and the final reckoning.
Caspian grinned. His voice laced with venom.
"Playtime's over," he said, stepping over the gravel, gun gleaming in his hand. "Now I kill you. One by one. I'll even enjoy it."
But then—
The air shifted.
A pulse of void. A ripple in space.
One by one, the armed mercenaries around him—men holding rifles aimed at the Catalysts—began to vanish.
Not teleport. Not flee. Just… vanish.
Their forms fizzled like smoke in a windless room, erased from the fabric of space entirely.
Gone.
Caspian's smile faltered. "Jahanox," he barked. "What are you doing? Do you not care your parents are right there?!"
Jahanox turned sharply. "It's not me!" he shouted, panic rising in his throat. "I—I'm not doing this!"
The group froze.
Caspian jerked his gun toward the Catalysts—intent to shoot even if alone—but before he could lift it—
A shadow slammed into his gut.
A violent, blurring force cracked through the air and sent him flying, his body hitting the dirt with a loud thud. The gun clattered from his hands and skidded away.
Everyone turned.
And then they saw him.
The shadow slowly faded as Zazm Mystic came into view.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
He stood—barely. His body trembled, covered from head to toe in blood, not just smeared, but soaked. His once-pristine hair hung wet, half-dyed red from the gore and now from the pouring rain. Chunks of flesh stuck to his jacket. His hands hung at his sides, dripping red. His boots squelched with every slight movement.
But what struck them the most…
Were his eyes.
Lifeless. Hollow. Glassy.
There was nothing there.
No spark. No rage. No remorse.
Just void.
Just death.
His head hung low as if the weight of what he'd done—of what he'd become—pressed his neck down like gravity itself.
A crack of thunder echoed overhead, and suddenly the clouds broke open.
The skies wept.
Rain fell in sheets, hammering the broken battlefield, washing blood into rivers in the dirt. It pelted Zazm's shoulders, turning the red into muddy pink, but there was too much to be cleansed.
He took one step forward.
Then stopped.
His body flinched.
He looked at Kiyomasa.
And something inside him shattered.
His breath hitched. A soft, choked sob escaped his lips.
He tried to keep walking, but he staggered instead—frozen by grief.
Then he looked at Jahanox.
His voice came out barely a whisper—cracked and brittle:
"…Your parents are safe. I… I sent them through the portal. They're okay."
He tried to sound stable. Tried to be strong.
But it was broken.
Shaky.
Each word bled.
Jennie rushed forward, tears in her eyes. "Zazm—what is this?! What happened to you?!"
Her voice cut through the rain.
But he didn't answer.
He didn't meet her eyes.
He turned instead—slowly—toward Caspian.
The traitor was groaning, pushing himself off the ground, that same infuriating smirk creeping back to his face even now.
"Still standing, huh?" Caspian said, voice cocky despite the hit. "Did you get bored of playing executioner or—"
Bang!
A single shot rang out.
Sharp. Clean.
Zazm had already picked up the gun.
And fired.
The bullet ripped into Caspian's stomach, twisting his body mid-sentence. He fell again, gasping, clutching the fresh wound with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Blood began to pool.
Zazm stared down at him.
Face blank. Eyes still empty.
He didn't even blink.
The rain poured harder.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The battlefield had changed again—and yet no one felt relief. They felt something heavier.
Something darker.
Because their savior didn't look like a hero.
He looked like a ghost.
The rain didn't stop.
It only poured harder—as if the sky itself mourned what had just happened.
Zazm slowly stepped through the mud and blood, each step echoing with a heavy squelch. His boots, caked in dirt and red, moved without hesitation toward the body that lay writhing in the mud.
Caspian.
Wounded. Laughing.
Bleeding out.
When Zazm reached him, he didn't speak. He just stood over him, staring.
Caspian chuckled hoarsely through the blood pooling in his mouth. "So… Miwa managed to call you, huh?" he coughed, blood painting his lips. "Figures. That girl never shuts up."
Then, he grinned and raised his hand weakly toward the empty space.
"What happened to the mercs?" he asked with mock innocence. "Y'know… the ones holding Jahanox's parents hostage?"
Zazm didn't reply.
He looked down at his own body.
At the blood. At the bits of flesh and tissue stuck to his sleeves. At the red that stained his skin, clung to his fingertips.
Caspian threw his head back and laughed.
"He killed them!" he screamed into the storm, his voice manic and triumphant. "Not just the ones in there—he killed them all! Every single one!"
The Catalysts behind him froze.
Eyes widened. Hearts sank.
Even through the roar of rain, his words pierced them like knives.
Minos took a shaky step forward. "What… what does he mean?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Zazm didn't speak.
He simply turned his cold, rain-drenched face toward Caspian again.
One phrase escaped his lips—soft and broken, but sharp as glass:
"Why did you do this?"
Caspian blinked.
Surprised, maybe.
But then… he smiled. Slowly. Like a snake revealing its fangs.
"Why else?" he rasped. "For power."
His smile widened. "And you're no different, Zazm. You killed all those people tonight. To save yourself. To protect your little toys. Your friends. Your illusions."
He tilted his head, voice venomous and calm. "You act like you're above it all—but you're just like me. Selfish. Hungry. Willing to paint the ground red to protect your pride."
Zazm crouched beside him. Rain trickled off his hair like strands of blood.
"I thought of you as family," he whispered. "Part of the little world I wanted to protect. Even after everything…"
Caspian's grin didn't waver. "You shouldn't have," he said coldly. "To me, everyone's just a piece on the board. If I lose, that only means the other player was smarter."
Zazm's hands trembled.
Not in fear.
Not in hesitation.
But from pure exhaustion. Emotional, mental, spiritual.
He stood again.
Raised the gun.
Pointed it directly at Caspian's head.
The rain fell harder, as if to mask the silence that followed.
"Any last wishes?" Zazm asked.
His voice was quiet—but hollow.
Empty.
Caspian grinned, blood running down his chin.
"I nearly killed all your friends. Even the parents of your childhood friend," he croaked, voice growing weak. "And you're still asking that?"
Zazm didn't answer.
His finger hovered over the trigger.
Then Caspian whispered something—a final, hushed phrase meant only for Zazm.
And Zazm heard it.
Bang.
The gunshot split the air.
And Caspian's skull exploded backward—blood, brain, and bone mixing with the rain as his body dropped, limp and lifeless.
Everyone froze.
Even the rain felt quieter in that moment.
Kiyomasa lay unconscious nearby.
The rest?
Just watched.
Horrified.
Heartbroken.
Paralyzed.
Zazm turned slowly, gun falling to his side. He faced them.
Tears mixed with the rain down his face, invisible to everyone.
His voice cracked as he spoke.
"I killed them."
Silence.
"I killed several people tonight… to save all of you. I'm not asking for your thanks. I didn't do it for that."
His knees buckled slightly—but he didn't fall.
"I did it for me. Only me. Because I couldn't lose you. I'm sorry. For dragging you into this. I'm sorry for not being enough."
He turned.
Started to walk away.
Still bleeding.
Still trembling.
Still crying—hidden behind the curtain of rain.
"Zazm!" Jennie cried, rushing forward. "Wait! Please—!"
But a hand caught hers.
Jahanox.
His eyes were shadowed beneath the veil of his wet hair.
"Don't," he said softly.
Jennie's voice broke. "He needs someone. He's falling apart!"
But Jahanox… smiled. A sad, broken smile.
"If we follow him now," he said, "it'll only make it worse. He needs to be alone… to feel this."
His voice cracked. And then he fell to his knees.
Slamming his fists into the mud.
Tears pouring from his eyes.
"I was so weak," he cried. "If I'd been stronger—more careful—none of this would've happened."
Miwa fell beside him, grabbing his arm tightly. Her own face streaked with tears.
"It's not just you," she whispered. "We all failed. All of us."
Jennie dropped too, sobbing openly now. Her hands covered her face.
Minos put one hand on her shoulder… and the other on Jahanox's.
He too trembled.
But he spoke calmly through the storm.
"Enough. We need to hold on. For each other."
And in the distance…
Zazm disappeared into the rain.
Alone.
Broken.
But still walking.
Still carrying the weight of every life he couldn't save and all the lifes he decided to take.
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