The Shattered Moon
Above Kuoh, the moon bled.
Not from damage, not from battle—but from conceptual erosion.
Amon sat on a radio tower, legs swinging as he stared at the celestial wound. From the red gash across the moon's surface, thin white strings descended—tethers of narrative memory. They coiled downward like strands of spider silk, attaching themselves to the sleeping minds of every devil, angel, and dragon.
He didn't even have to tug.
Just... hum.
And they twitched in response.
"One more push," he whispered. "And your little world becomes an open book."
A voice echoed behind him.
"But who's writing it?"
Amon didn't turn. "Wong. You again."
The Sorcerer Supreme stood behind him in full regalia, crimson cloak fluttering.
"You've touched something sacred. You're trying to overwrite myth with anomaly."
Amon leaned back, resting his hands on the cold steel.
"I'm not overwriting. I'm liberating it from your imposed meanings."
"Meaning gives purpose."
"No. Meaning is a leash with golden edges."
Wong raised his hands. "You forget something: this world has defenders beyond devils and angels. The Divine Council is stirring. Even Azathoth blinked."
Amon's smile widened.
"Good."
Meanwhile – Rias Awakens
When Rias opened her eyes, the mirror shards were gone.
She lay upon an altar of obsidian, her new wings curled around her like a cocoon. Gone was the school uniform. In its place was a flowing robe of white and crimson—a symbol of her transition.
Mephisto stood nearby, sipping wine.
"You've changed."
She nodded. "I faced my role. Killed it. Claimed my truth."
He offered her a mirror. In it, she didn't just see herself—she saw a queen. Not because someone wrote her as one, but because she chose it.
"Where is Amon?"
Mephisto chuckled. "Dancing between strings. Pulling fate by the ankle. You'll see him again."
"I plan to."
Her fists clenched.
"I'm not just a devil. I'm the author of my own myth now."
The Divine God Arrives
The sky tore again—this time not by Amon's hand.
It was a divine intrusion.
A being descended cloaked in pure light, faceless, floating just above the Kuoh shrine. His name echoed not in syllables, but in meanings:
Vel'Zhan the Manuscript, Recorder of Threads, God of Causal Harmony.
Mortals collapsed at his presence. Time paused for animals. Even Azazel winced in pain across dimensions.
Vel'Zhan raised a single glowing quill.
"Amon. Your anomaly has surpassed recreational interference. You have violated the Mandates of Narrative Integrity."
And far across the rooftops, Amon chuckled.
He raised his monocle, turning it until it gleamed like a full moon.
"I was wondering when one of you would show up."
Vel'Zhan's voice echoed across souls.
"Cease your corruption. Return to your root world."
Amon slowly stood, the wind swirling.
"Oh dear. I'm afraid I left that book unfinished."
The Hidden Conclave
In the underworld, four figures gathered in secrecy.
Sirzechs, Ajuka Beelzebub, Azazel, and an old being known only as The Curator.
"He's awakened more than just reflection echoes," Sirzechs said gravely. "He's damaged the continuity field itself. If this continues..."
The Curator nodded. "Reality collapses into quantum ambiguity."
Ajuka stared at a globe of light. Within it, images flickered: Issei, now resisting dreams; Rias, ascended beyond prophecy; and Amon—everywhere and nowhere.
"Even the Sacred Gears are mutating," Azazel muttered.
"What's our move?" asked Ajuka.
The Curator raised a finger.
"We must do the unthinkable. Send a soul across narrative borders."
"You mean—?"
"We must summon someone who was erased. Someone with no written fate. A walking contradiction."
Azazel's eyes widened.
"You mean her."
Amon vs Vel'Zhan
Beneath the shrine, the wind died.
Amon and Vel'Zhan faced one another like mythic chessmasters.
The god wrote sigils into the air—glyphs of stasis, order, memory.
Amon countered with gestures, each finger movement twisting a rule of logic, untying a truth, undoing a cause.
"Why do you fear chaos?" Amon asked lightly.
"Because chaos is the denial of legacy."
"No. It's freedom."
Amon snapped his fingers.
From every mirror in Kuoh, echoes emerged—not just of Rias and her peerage, but of past lives, forgotten timelines, scrapped drafts of this universe.
An Issei who never received Boosted Gear.
A Koneko who became queen.
A Riser who died honorably.
Vel'Zhan gasped.
"These are... what could have been."
"They still are. In the right light."
Amon stepped forward.
"You call yourself Recorder of Threads. But I am the Scissors."
He plunged his hand forward.
Vel'Zhan's glow flickered.
A World On the Edge
Issei was screaming in his dreams again.
Only this time, it wasn't fear. It was recognition.
He had seen something in his last battle with the reflection. Something that couldn't be explained—his true self. The one that had always been shoved aside by fanservice, by fate, by formula.
"What if I'm not the hero?" he whispered to Ddraig.
{Then carve your own legend.}
Meanwhile, Rias flew above Kuoh, her new wings trailing flames of paradox.
She was no longer protecting her friends from threats.
She was protecting them from the very rules that once defined them.
From a world that now bent at the whims of a god in a monocle.
Elsewhere – The Summoning Begins
In a blackened chamber surrounded by forgotten prophecies, The Curator began the ritual.
Each rune was a banned word. Each verse, a cut page.
He spoke the name of someone struck from all canon.
And the void answered.
"Come, bearer of broken arcs. Come, child of denied endings. Come, anomaly to face the anomaly."
The circle flashed.
And a girl stepped through.
Eyes burning violet. Dressed in tatters of light and ink.
She smiled sadly.
"You called me back?"
Azazel whispered, "May the gods forgive us. She's the only one who can challenge him."
"What's her name?" Ajuka asked.
The Curator bowed his head.
"Her name was never written."