The two monsters stood locked in a psychological stalemate, the very air between them vibrating with the kinetic energy of their clashing wills.
One was a boy forged in the fires of a tragic past, clenching his fists with a desperate, newfound determination.
The other was a phantom draped in shadow, his fingers white-knuckled around a blade meant for nothing but total destruction.
Neither was willing to yield a single inch of ground.
To back down now was to forfeit their soul.
"I've spent years honing this power, training my body to be a shield for those who can't protect themselves," Nomoro roared in the silent theater of his mind.
He lifted his demonic arm, the heavy, blackened plating catching the moonlight. "I'm not holding back. Not this time. I will go all out!"
As if responding to his resolve, violent purple flames erupted from the seams of his demonic armor.
The heat was instantaneous, shimmering in waves that distorted the reality around his fist.
Across from him, Zackier watched with eyes that looked like shattered crimson glass, a predatory grin widening beneath the hood of his cloak.
"I know exactly what he's thinking," Zackier mused, his thoughts a dark, swirling vortex of malice. "He thinks his willpower is enough. I'll match him, then. For the sheer thrill of the sport, and for the miracle he thinks he's found. I will go all out!"
He raised his serrated knife, the steel humming with an intense, concentrated killing intent.
Then, the world exploded into motion.
They lunged simultaneously, two streaks of light and shadow hurtling toward the center of the tower's third floor.
Nomoro pulled his demonic arm back, his muscles coiling like high-tension springs to gather every ounce of momentum.
Zackier, conversely, pointed his blade forward with the surgical precision of an assassin, his entire form streamlining into a needle of lethal intent.
One screamed with the fury of determination.
The other screamed with the ecstasy of destruction.
Nomoro's demonic armor was a marvel of volatile chemistry.
It was composed primarily of KF—potassium fluoride.
While often used as a simple electrolyte or in buffer solutions, in this concentrated, solidified form, it acted as a high-grade reactive salt.
By creating immense friction through the movement of his own internal energy, Nomoro could trigger the salt to erupt into a localized, high-temperature combustion.
As he launched himself forward, the friction against the air and his own shifting plates caused the armor to generate jagged, chaotic purple flames.
With the power of the Prophelity acting as a catalyst, Nomoro's physical output was pushed beyond the limits of biological possibility.
Zackier, however, was playing a far more complex game.
He reactivated his Alterlity, but with a terrifying twist:
「Reverse Causality.」
It is the incorrect direction and the reversal between two different variables of Alterlity: its original description and the cause-and-effect of its existing techniques.
Within these two variables, the user can decide which variable to reverse its causality, allowing the user to possibly gain a new description but in exchange of losing the opposite/previous description.
Here, he chose to reverse the first variable of his power.
Normally, his Alterlity allowed him to store and exchange the emotions of those around him via physical tough.
By flipping the causality, he reached inward, storing and exchanging his own internal state.
He took his current physical motions and exchanged them for a pure, distilled fight-or-flight response.
He flooded his system with his own stored fear, panic, and the raw desperation to survive.
His heart didn't just beat; it hammered against his ribs with the force of a piston, triggering a cascade of adrenaline that turned his blood into liquid lightning.
He wasn't just fast; he was a human body operating at 100% of its mechanical capacity, ignoring the pain of tearing ligaments and straining bone.
One was a juggernaut of strength.
The other was a ghost of speed.
Nomoro reached the center first, his boots skidding on the polished floor as he planted his lead foot to pivot.
The recoil of his own momentum channeled directly into his shoulder.
He unleashed the punch, a devastating, sky-shattering launch of his demonic fist.
"AHHHH!!!" he screamed, the sound tearing through his throat.
And the blow landed.
…But it didn't find Zackier's chest.
Instead, the fist was suddenly slammed directly into the floorboards with the force of a falling meteor.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The reinforced concrete and marble of the third floor shattered instantly, a massive crater yawning open beneath the combatants.
The destruction didn't stop there.
The kinetic energy of the missed punch transformed into a series of massive, rolling shockwaves that rippled through the entire Prom Tower.
Every pane of expensive glass in the building—from the ground floor to the gallery—shattered simultaneously, raining down in a glittering, lethal shower.
The tower groaned, the structural supports trembling as if an earthquake had struck the heart of the hotel.
Down below, the screams of the students were instantaneous.
The music died, replaced by the roar of falling debris and the panicked cries of those who had been dancing just seconds ago.
Debris fell from the ceiling like hail, risking the lives of every guest in the building.
Nomoro panted, his demonic arm buried deep within the shattered floor, his knuckles embedded in the structural steel.
He looked up, his eyes wide with horror as he realized he had missed.
High above him, silhouetted against the midnight clouds and the indifferent stars, Zackier hovered in the air.
He had used Nomoro's own momentum against him, leaping onto the extended arm and using it as a springboard to vault into the sky, forcing the punch downward.
He hung there for a moment, arms spread wide like a dark angel, looking down at the "Devil" below.
"All that sound and fury, just to smash the ground," Zackier said, his voice carrying a mocking, effortless weight. "How incredibly childish. The earth is not your plaything, little demon. Look at what you've done—you're risking the lives of the very people you claim to protect."
Nomoro looked up, a cold sweat breaking out across his chest.
His arm was stuck, anchored by the very floor he had destroyed.
"You're kidding me," Nomoro whispered to himself, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and forced humbleness. "He moved too fast... he didn't just dodge. He redirected me. He used my own strength to bury me."
For a fleeting second, Nomoro had believed he was standing on equal footing with the man in the cloak.
But the reality was far grimmer. Zackier wasn't just ahead of him—he was playing a different game entirely.
The tower was falling.
The students were screaming.
And Zackier was just getting started.