Emmanuel stood alone inside what remained of the Oval Office, the heart of the nation reduced to a scorched, hollow shell. The air was thick with the acrid aftermath of fire, the walls, the floor, even the once-pristine ceiling stained a uniform, suffocating black, as though the room itself had been drowned in ash. Every surface bore the scars of intense heat—warped wood, cracked stone, melted fragments of what had once been symbols of order and authority.
On the floor, not far from where the Resolute Desk had once stood, lay the remains of the woman who had spoken with the Monarchs, who had coordinated with him directly—Samantha Woods. Her body was barely recognizable, burned down to a charred, brittle form that matched the room around her, her head severed cleanly and left some distance away, as if even in death she had been denied dignity. There was no mistaking who she was, though. Emmanuel had known her too long for that.
Scattered throughout the Oval Office were the bodies of dozens of government officials—men and women who had been tasked with assisting Samantha, supporting her work, stepping in wherever they were needed. Their remains were twisted, blackened silhouettes frozen in the positions they had died in, some collapsed against walls, others strewn across the floor where they had been caught mid-movement, mid-panic. The silence was unbearable.
Emmanuel's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a young man he had once spoken to years ago—a junior aide with bright eyes and an earnest voice, someone who spoke about reform and transparency, about restoring faith in a government that had lost so much of it. That man had believed, truly believed, that change was possible.
Now his dreams, along with his life, had been stolen.
As had the dreams of every other person lying dead in that room.
Emmanuel's legs finally gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees amid the ash and debris, the impact dull and unnoticed. His expression twisted into something hollow and broken, disbelief and confusion warring inside him as his mind refused to fully accept the reality surrounding him. He had known these people for decades. He had shaken their hands, learned their names, watched them grow older alongside him.
He had made promises—to himself, to them, to the entire country. Promises to be one of the greatest Presidents in history. To end wars. To establish lasting world peace. To build America into something stronger, safer, and better than it had ever been before.
And yet, despite all of that ambition, all of that conviction, this was the scene that greeted him.
In his eyes, it was the direct result of his failure.
If he had been here—inside these walls—instead of out there fighting, then none of this would have happened. And yet, if he hadn't gone, the Leviathan and Cerberus Monarchs would have been killed. It had been a trade. Two irreplaceable lives exchanged for twelve others just as important.
But that wasn't how Emmanuel's mind framed it.
These were still lives lost. Families shattered. People who would never come home again.
And nothing could replace them.
Time lost all meaning as he knelt there. It could have been minutes or hours before the faint sound of footsteps echoed from outside the ruined room. Eventually, a figure appeared in the shattered doorway.
It was Alma.
He stood there, frozen for a moment, worry and shock written plainly across his face. Moonlight spilled in behind him, catching in his eyes, which burned brightly with two faint, concentric rings as he slowly took in the devastation—the charred walls, the ruined space, the bodies strewn across the floor.
He stepped forward just slightly, his breathing controlled, his voice low and careful.
"Emmanuel…"
"You know," Emmanuel said suddenly, cutting him off before he could say anything more. His voice was strained, raw, hovering on the edge of collapse as one hand clenched tightly over his chest. "I thought this would never happen."
He drew in a shaky breath.
"I thought… that I would be enough. It wasn't pride. It wasn't foolishness. It wasn't ego." He slowly pushed himself to his feet, his head bowed, shoulders heavy. "It came from a genuine belief that whenever trouble showed itself… I would be there." His voice fractured on the last words.
Alma could only watch him, the glowing rings in his eyes gradually dimming as sadness settled in their place.
"But now…" Emmanuel continued, turning toward him at last, tears streaming freely down his face, unhidden and unashamed. "Now I wonder… if I was ever good enough to begin with."
A brief silence fell between them, heavy and fragile.
Then Alma spoke, his voice soft, but firm enough to anchor the moment.
"Of course you are. That's why you're President. You're capable. You're enough—more than that."
"Tell that to them," Emmanuel snapped back, though the anger was hollow, directed inward more than anywhere else. His gaze dropped to the bodies again. "They believed in me. They trusted me to protect them—to save them from that Beast of Ruin. I promised them I would. And I failed." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "I can't be good enough. I just can't."
Alma understood that feeling all too well. The ache in the chest. The crushing certainty that you had failed at something you believed you were meant to do. A promise broken not to others, but to yourself. That kind of pain never truly faded—but it also didn't have to define you.
"I know how you feel," Alma said quietly, looking down at the floor. "Breaking promises you made to yourself." He paused, then looked up at Emmanuel. "I broke one recently. One that mattered more to me than anything else."
He met Emmanuel's gaze.
"We are failures. You and me both. But I've learned something—promises always demand a sacrifice. They take something from you. And sometimes, they leave you empty." His voice softened. "The question now is whether we move past that failure. I have." He gestured subtly toward the bodies. "What about you?"
Sirens wailed in the distance—firetrucks, police, ambulances, military vehicles converging on the White House from all sides.
Emmanuel exhaled slowly, then stepped toward Alma until they stood face to face.
"I realize now… that what's done is done."
He turned his gaze toward where the desk once stood, then to Samantha's burned remains. "They knew what they were getting into. They didn't complain. They worked with smiles on their faces." His voice wavered. "I just wish their deaths hadn't ended like this."
Alma smiled gently and extended his hand.
"It wasn't your fault. It never was. You did what had to be done. You saved more lives out there than were lost in here. Don't forget that—even if it doesn't feel like it matters right now."
Emmanuel looked at the offered hand, then back up at Alma's face. A small, tired smile formed as he grasped it firmly. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate your sincerity and the rational voice."
"Anytime," Alma replied. "Though it's going to take more than my sincerity to clean this place up."
That earned Emmanuel a quiet chuckle.
"Yeah. A whole lot more."
They stepped outside together into the ruined front lawn of the White House. Guns snapped up instantly—soldiers and officers shouting orders.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE PRESIDENT!"
"WE'VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED—MOVE AND WE FIRE!"
"At ease. He's with me," Emmanuel said firmly, his voice cutting cleanly through the tension, and after a brief moment of hesitation the soldiers and officers surrounding them began to lower their weapons, though their grips remained tight and their eyes never fully left Alma.
"Sir, what happened?" one of the officers asked, glancing past Emmanuel toward the scorched remains of the White House, his expression caught somewhere between professionalism and disbelief.
"A category EF-5 Beast of Ruin attacked and killed twenty-six people," Emmanuel replied evenly, his words delivered with practiced composure as he turned slightly to address the gathered personnel. As he continued speaking, issuing short clarifications and confirmations, his voice slowly faded into the background for Alma, blending into a dull, distant murmur as the weight of the day finally began to settle in his mind.
When Emmanuel finished, the officer nodded stiffly, relayed instructions, and led the others away, their boots crunching softly against debris as they dispersed to resume their duties.
Only then did Emmanuel lower his tone.
"There was a humanoid Beast of Ruin that attacked the White House," he said quietly. "I caught her in my Dimension, but… I didn't have the will to kill her anymore. So she got away."
Alma turned his head toward Emmanuel, confusion flickering across his face at the word Dimension, but he chose not to press the issue, deciding that whatever explanation lay behind it could wait for another time. Instead, he slipped his hands into his pockets and began walking alongside Emmanuel as they moved away from the ruined structure.
"So that's why she was badly injured," Alma said after a moment, his voice thoughtful.
Emmanuel turned his head slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Earlier—before I came here—I saw a woman in the forest," Alma explained. "She was badly hurt. Blood everywhere. On the verge of death." He paused. "It was her. Beatrix. The one who changed me."
That only deepened the confusion etched across Emmanuel's face.
"Changed you?" he asked. "How so?"
Alma let out a tired breath. "That… is a long story. I'm really exhausted. I need to get back home to my ki—" he caught himself, rubbing the back of his neck, "—bed. I'm really tired."
That earned a small, genuine smile from Emmanuel.
"Alright," he said. "Go home. Get some sleep. After what you've been through—after what the nation's been through—we all deserve a little shut-eye."
Alma nodded in agreement and reached up, removing his earpiece and unclipping the tracker before handing them over. "I'm going to be off duty tomorrow," he said, hesitating briefly. "Maybe a couple of days. I'm sorry."
Emmanuel shook his head immediately. "No. Like I said—you need rest."
Alma smiled. "Thank you. Take care. And… don't keep your head stuck in that room." He gave a brief wave before lifting off the ground and disappearing into the night sky.
---
December 6th — 9:00 PM
The events of the previous day, December 5th, would go down as one of the most infamous and catastrophic days in modern human history. Approximately forty-two million people had lost their lives—military personnel, law enforcement officers, emergency responders, and civilians alike—numbers so staggering that they scarcely felt real even as they were recorded.
It was a terrible day for America.
One that the rest of the world would not dare exploit, out of fear that their own forces would be met with the same annihilation—and by the Monarchs who protected the land. Despite the devastation, America retained its title as the strongest nation on Earth, not solely because of the Monarchs who stood guard over it, but because of the government's relentless refusal to collapse beneath the weight of loss.
American technology, already advanced, was forced to evolve at an unprecedented pace. Weapons capable of merely detecting Beasts of Ruin had to become a reality, leading to the rapid development of advanced radar systems, spiritual detection arrays, and devices capable of perceiving existence beyond the physical. Yet even that was only the beginning.
The true challenge lay ahead—creating weapons that could not only injure a Beast of Ruin, but kill one outright.
What had once belonged solely to science fiction now became a grim necessity, and everyone inside the United States government—and beyond it—knew there was no alternative. The Beasts of Ruin were growing stronger. No one understood that better than Emmanuel… and Alma.
What the world did not yet grasp was just how dangerous those Beasts had become—or that they were no longer the only threat. The emergence of what would soon be known as Humans of Ruin marked a shift that existing classifications could no longer adequately contain.
EF-1 threats were beginning to behave like EF-2s, not only in terms of damage to infrastructure and populations, but in raw destructive potential. A power shift was underway, and it was not limited to the Beasts alone.
In truth, the United States—and the rest of the world—now relied almost entirely on Alma.
It was just after nine at night when Alma finally returned to his apartment.
It had been days since he had last spoken to his children, and the slip-up he'd made earlier with Emmanuel made him cringe faintly as the exhaustion settled deeper into his bones. Not physical exhaustion—he could endure that—but the mental and emotional weight that pressed down on him relentlessly, demanding rest.
He needed time. Time to breathe. Time to process. Time away from Monarchs, Dimensions, and Beasts of Ruin.
The most humanizing part of his life now was coming home—being with Jasmine and Max. Outside of saving lives, it was his favorite moment. The quiet. The comfort. The fragile peace that followed danger. And yet, it wasn't the Beasts of Ruin themselves that haunted him—it was the responsibility of saving people from them.
Alma pulled out his keys and unlocked the door.
Jasmine sat on the couch, the television off, staring straight at him. Max slowly turned around in his desk chair. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The looks on their faces were as if they were staring at a ghost.
Jasmine moved first.
She rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her face into his stomach as she clung to him with everything she had. Tears spilled freely as she refused to let go. Alma held her close, one hand resting protectively on her head, and looked down at Max with a small, tired smile.
Max sprang to his feet and ran forward, wrapping his arms around Alma just as tightly. Alma closed his eyes briefly, holding both of them, grounding himself in the simple reality of their presence.
Jasmine eventually pulled back, reluctantly, her eyes red and wet as she looked up at him.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Yeah," Max added softly. "We were worried about you."
Alma closed and locked the door behind him, then walked to the couch without answering. When he saw them still standing near the door, he patted the empty spaces beside him.
They both sat.
"Max," Alma said as he stood again, turning to face him. "It's time you learned… who I really am."
Max frowned, confusion flashing across his face as he glanced at Jasmine, who met his gaze with a calm, reassuring expression.
"Are you sure this is the right time, Dad?" she asked gently.
Alma nodded.
"I am not from this world," he said. "Nor from this universe. I come from a place extremely far from here—a place that is no longer accessible." He paused. "I have killed many people. Those who deserved it… and those as innocent as you."
---
One hour later.
Alma still stood.
Max sat frozen, his expression a tangled mix of shock, worry, and disbelief. The things he had heard—the lives his father had lived, the deaths, the weapons, the Endless Labyrinth—felt like something torn straight from a myth. And yet, he knew they were real.
He realized then that his father's life had been far harsher than his own. Losing parents. Spear. Endless isolation. Responsibility without escape.
Alma had left out the details of how the Second Circle manifested. That truth he chose to bury.
Everything else, however, had been laid bare.
And Max was left staring at a reality he would never again be able to unsee.
A few seconds of silence followed, thick and heavy, the kind that settled in the room not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. Max's mind worked through everything he had just been told, fitting pieces together that refused to sit neatly, replaying images and implications until his thoughts felt tangled and uneven.
"I'm… I don't know what to think," Max said at last, his voice slow and uncertain, as if he were testing each word before letting it escape.
"You aren't upset about my actions from the past?" Alma asked, watching him closely, his tone careful, restrained, as though he were bracing himself for a reaction he believed he deserved.
"No, not anymore," Max replied, then paused, gathering himself before continuing. "If you were still killing innocents, or if you hadn't even tried to stop, then yeah, I would be. But the you from back then and the you standing right in front of me now aren't the same person. You're… changed."
Alma smiled softly, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. "Thank you," he said, the words carrying more weight than they seemed. "I needed to hear that."
Max returned the smile without hesitation, wide and genuine, his eyes closing briefly as if the moment itself felt relieving.
"But I'm still confused," Max said, opening his eyes again. "You've got all these insane abilities—like the Endless Labyrinth—but you barely ever use it. And what about False Action: Echo? From what you said, it doesn't just stop attacks—it reflects intent itself."
"Well," Alma said, exhaling slowly, "there are two reasons for that." He shifted slightly, leaning against the counter as he spoke. "First, I'm not unknown anymore. People recognize me now—my face, my name, my connection to the President and the government. To a lot of people, I probably look like some arrogant, untouchable figure. Someone rich, powerful… someone worth hating. And if even one of those people decides they want me dead, I don't know what Echo would do to them."
He hesitated, then continued, his expression darkening just a bit. "That's the second reason. I don't fully understand Echo. It's only activated once, in actual combat, and that was back when I was nobody. I don't know its range. I don't know if it affects only people actively targeting me, or anyone who harbors intent at all. I don't even know if it's limited to conscious intent. What if it reacts to action itself? Or thought? What if anyone who has ever thought about harming me—before or after activation—is affected?"
Max's brow furrowed as Alma kept speaking, the implications growing heavier with each sentence.
"It's too dangerous to test now," Alma finished. "And I don't mean this arrogantly, but I already have Shield and Spear. They're my strongest abilities, the ones I rely on above everything else. The others are contingencies. Last resorts. And the Endless Labyrinth…" He paused. "That's for when absolutely nothing else works. My trump card."
Max nodded slowly. "Yeah, that makes sense. But shouldn't you be mastering those abilities anyway? It doesn't seem smart to walk around with powers you barely understand. I mean, it's worked so far—but that doesn't mean it always will."
Jasmine shot him a sharp look. "Hey," she said, frowning. "That was kind of mean."
Max immediately raised his hands defensively. "What? I'm not insulting him. I'm just warning him."
"No," Alma said calmly, cutting in before either of them could argue further. "Max is right." He looked at both of them in turn. "The days of me avoiding these abilities, of treating them like something I can half-use and then pretend don't exist, are over. If I want to move forward—if I want to live—I need to accept what I have and stop running from it."
He lifted his gaze slightly. "These eyes of mine…" he said, and as he spoke, power stirred. Another circle manifested around the first, larger and more defined, radiating something deeper than despair. "They're evolving. I call them the Eyes of Desire." He lowered his hand as the pressure in the room subtly shifted. "I feel stronger now. Faster. More aware. More than I ever was with the Eyes of Despair—something I honestly believed could never be surpassed."
He let the silence sit for a moment before adding, "It's going to take time, but I'll do everything I can to master this. All of it."
With that, Alma turned and walked into the kitchen.
'I need to adapt,' he thought as he turned on the sink, the sound of running water filling the space. 'Everything I have needs to evolve too.'
"Have you two eaten today?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Uh… no," Jasmine admitted.
"No, we haven't," Max added.
Alma smiled faintly. "Alright. Then I'll fix the food I've been craving for a long time." He reached for a large cast-iron pan. "I want to introduce you both to a Mexican dish. Exactly the way my father used to make it."
"Mexican?" Jasmine asked. "Are you Hispanic?"
"Yeah," Alma said casually. "Both my parents immigrated to the United States sometime in the 1920s, I think. From Mexico. I don't remember the exact year anymore."
Max snorted. "I seriously keep forgetting how old you are."
"Hey," Alma said, glancing back. "I'm not old."
"You kind of are," Max replied with a grin. "You're from the 1940s, right? That makes you, what, ninety-two?"
"Oh, quit it," Alma said dryly. "I'm nineteen. No more. No less."
As the conversation drifted, Jasmine remained quiet, lost in her own thoughts.
'Can he really be trusted now?' She wondered. 'He says he's from Mexico… but that was his world. A place where those people don't even exist.' She shook her head slightly. 'It's probably fine. Still… one day, I'll have to tell him the truth.'
Alma sliced long strips of white onion and bell pepper, dropping the peppers into the pan first after coating it with coconut oil. He stirred them over high heat, letting them soften and deepen in color before adding the onions. Jalapeños followed, then cherry tomatoes, the mixture sizzling and releasing a rich, layered aroma. When the vegetables were ready, he added the chicken, watching it slowly turn white before seasoning it with cumin, turmeric, and ginger. A small amount of water and stir-fry sauce followed, the liquid soaking into the food as everything simmered together.
He turned off the stove and set the pan in the center, filling disposable bowls before carrying them into the living room.
'Am I doing the right thing?' He wondered as he set the bowls down. 'Should I give them to someone else? He dismissed the thought almost immediately. No. No one would treat them better than I would. Not in a world this broken.'
"Wow," Max said, leaning forward. "This smells amazing."
Jasmine took a cautious sniff, then another, clearly approving.
"This whole time," she said quietly, "I never realized we were the same race."
Alma blinked, then laughed softly. "Oh. You're Mexican too? That's unexpected."
"Yeah," Jasmine said. "How big was your family?"
"Not very," Alma replied. "Just my parents, me, and my uncle. But after that night…" His voice softened. "Only my uncle and I are left. The last of the Alastor bloodline."
---
Ruin Zone — where monstrosities reside.
10:00 PM, December 7th.
Viroth and Eclipser moved in silence across the ruined expanse, their footsteps crunching softly against earth that no longer felt alive. The land stretched outward in every direction in varying shades of brown and black, the soil cracked and dry, as though it had been drained of anything that once sustained it. Dead and decayed trees stood scattered like skeletal remains, their trunks warped and hollowed, their branches twisted into unnatural shapes, frozen in the moment of collapse. Above them, the sky hung low and heavy, stained a deep, suffocating brown, as if even the atmosphere itself had begun to rot.
The moment they crossed into this place, they both felt it—an immediate, unmistakable shift. Power stirred within them, subtle at first, then steadily growing, responding to the rot in the air and the decay beneath their feet as if this land itself were feeding them. The Ruin Zone welcomed them in the only way it knew how: by making them stronger.
It was perfect.
"This is it," Viroth said as they came upon the structure rising from the wasteland ahead of them.
The cathedral loomed over the surrounding decay, impossibly intact for something standing in a place like this. Its stone exterior was scarred and weathered, portions of the roof caved in and several walls punctured by massive holes, yet the structure itself remained upright, steady, and defiant, as though the rot had tested it and found it unwilling—or unable—to fall.
"This is the place… where monstrosities are truly born," Viroth said, his voice low, reverent, almost admiring.
The Ruin Zone was not merely a location; it was a state of existence defined by decay. Everything within it—living or inanimate—was subjected to relentless rot, eroding rapidly toward eventual collapse. Flesh weakened, metal corroded, stone crumbled, and even concepts like stability and continuity seemed to falter under its influence. The effective area of the Ruin Zone was staggering in scale, consuming nearly half of the Earth itself. To the east of America and Canada, Russia still existed, along with the entirety of Europe and Asia. However, the other side of the world, where all those countries once were, was claimed by, rot, swallowed whole by the Ruin Zone's endless spread.
An ocean of decay.
"Do you think they'll let us in? Keaton said that he was born in there. But he wasn't the strongest among them, and was eventually kicked out. The same goes for Beatrix," Eclipser said, his gaze fixed on the cathedral as though it might be watching them in return.
"Of course they will," Viroth replied without hesitation. "We bring them information, the capabilities, of expanding far beyond what the Ruin Zone allows for." He paused briefly, then continued, his tone sharpening. "We hold what they need. Reject us, and reject progress. After all… this is… the beginning of evolution."