The Vatican was silent, heavy with ancient prayers that clung to the stone like incense. Beneath the catacombs, behind vaults sealed with holy sigils, two figures walked past coffins of long-dead saints and inquisitors. The air was cold, but not because of death. Because of fear.
"Are you certain this is where it began?" Xenovia asked, her fingers wrapped tightly around Durandal's hilt.
Irina beside her nodded. "The records say the Black Archive first documented the Error here—centuries ago. But the priests buried it. Called it a mistake. A deviation not from Heaven, but from reality itself."
A third figure joined them. Azazel. His coat trailed behind him like a storm cloud. "They didn't want to admit something stronger than dogma had entered the world."
They reached the final gate. A towering arch of obsidian, ringed with runes that pulsed softly.
"No one's been past here in three hundred years," Irina whispered.
"Until now," Xenovia said, pushing open the door.
Inside, a shrine of mirrors stood. Broken. Shattered reflections of forgotten beings stared back at them. At the center, etched into a pedestal, was a mask. A single glass eye embedded in its forehead. And beside it, a small note, written in an elegant, ancient hand.
The liar is not born. He is accepted.
Azazel leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Amon left this here. On purpose."
Xenovia felt it before anyone else—the pressure, the coiling of something ancient brushing against her soul.
"He's watching us."
---
In the Dimensional Gap, Amon sat cross-legged above a pool of shattered timelines. His form blurred between male and female, between angel and devil, between cloaked god and forgotten child.
"They found it," he whispered to himself.
A voice echoed beside him. Not from a person. From the Gap itself.
"Why do you provoke them? They will not let you touch the boy."
Amon smiled. "They cannot stop what is already written."
The Gap shivered.
Amon stood, lifting his staff.
"Vali is shaken. The factions are stirred. Irina remembers. The chessboard is almost ready."
He pointed the staff downward, and a single ripple cascaded across the Gap.
---
At Kuoh Academy, Issei dreamed.
He stood in a sea of glass, each shard reflecting a different version of himself. Some held sacred gears; others bore horns or wings. One version wore Amon's mask.
The masked version stepped forward. "You still don't know who you are, do you?"
Issei backed away. "You're not me."
"But I could be. If you accept me."
Suddenly, he was drowning. The sea of glass consumed him, pulling his limbs down, whispering names not his own.
"Wake up!" a voice screamed.
Issei bolted upright.
Rias sat beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "Another nightmare?"
He nodded, panting. "He's in my head. I don't know how, but Amon's trying to change me."
Azazel entered the room, carrying a scroll. "That's because you're next. He's not just targeting Vali. He's begun weaving himself into the Red Dragon Emperor's mythos."
Issei stared at him. "What does that mean?"
Azazel unrolled the scroll. It showed an ancient tapestry. The Two Heavenly Dragons in combat. But in the center, a third figure—hooded, masked, laughing.
"This is older than any church document. Amon inserted himself into the oldest legends."
Rias gasped. "But that means..."
"He's rewriting fate," Azazel finished. "And you're the linchpin."
---
Vali trained in silence.
Blow after blow. Strike after strike.
He remembered the feeling of losing himself. Of almost being erased.
He slammed a blast into the cliffside, panting. "You're not taking who I am. I won't let you."
Behind him, Kuroka watched. "You know, Nyah, he might be doing all this just to get a reaction."
Vali didn't respond.
But deep down, he knew.
Amon wasn't after power.
He was after meaning.
And Vali, Issei, Irina, Azazel, Rias—they were just roles in his grand illusion.
But not for long.
Because this time, the script would fight back.