The world slowed down to a stagnant, syrupy crawl as the three combatants began their final retaliation.
Time didn't just feel sluggish; it felt as though the very fabric of the universe was resisting the violence about to occur.
Determination flowed through Trizha and Nomoro's veins like a river of molten lead, thickening their resolve as they tightened their grips on the only things they truly held in this world: the outcome of their own lives.
This was the conclusion of their individual struggles.
This was the end of the story they had been forced to play parts in.
And what held it all together—the thin line between a tragic ending and a hard-won future—was the weapon each possessed to take down the enemy who attempted the darkest interruption of all.
One held a random, rusted iron pipe found in a dusty corner of the rooftop, a piece of industrial waste that now carried the weight of a holy relic.
The other used a part of the devil's broth, a limb reaching into the deepest fires of a personal hell to find the strength to stand.
They pushed back against the crushing aura of Zackier's presence.
They spread out, driven not by a rehearsed plan, but by a primal instinct that bridged the gap between their souls.
They entered their respective stances, their eyes locking onto the figure hovering before them with a focus so sharp it felt like it could cut the very air.
For the longest time, their lives had been defined by the ordinary: hangouts at the mall, the sound of shared laughs over a cheap meal, the warmth of smiles that meant everything, humor that broke the tension of school life, and the budding, fragile drama of love.
What is happening as you read these words right now, and the words that paved the way before this, is a simple, brutal reminder that this story has reached a peak—a climax where "Romance" was no longer the true custody and recognition of the book you are currently reading.
In fact, it's no longer just about making simple decisions or facing the light consequences of a teenage heart.
It has been more than just that… since the beginning, since day one, since the very first moment you began reading this story.
「…Three…」
Trizha stood her ground, her heels grinding into the grit of the rooftop as she began to spin her iron pipe in front of her.
It moved in a circular, hypnotic motion, the metal whistling as it cut through the stagnant air.
She didn't hold it with a simple grip; she manipulated it with a twist of her entire body, her free hand snapping out to catch the other end of the pipe as it came around.
The wind caught her dress, blowing it out like a white waterfall cascading over a cliffside.
Standing before the monster who had killed her a hundred times in other lives, she stared at him with the Harbinger's unreadable, void-like expression.
Yet, deep within that emotionless, divine exterior, she held a determination that could move mountains.
All this time, it was her own reckless ideas and her refusal to be a victim that had brought her into this.
It was a situation she never thought would "connect" in a way that was so fundamentally unexpected.
And so today, and tonight, she shall bring an end to it. She would be the one to bring the downfall of the cycle.
「…Two…」
At the same time, Nomoro stood his ground, his silhouette cast in the flickering, eerie light of the city below.
He raised his demonic arm, the obsidian plates shifting and grinding like tectonic plates.
He clenched his fist with such absolute force that the potassium chloride possessed within the armor ignited through sheer friction.
Purple flames, cold and hungry, erupted from his knuckles and raced up the length of his arm, covering it from the tip of his claws to the top of his shoulder.
Standing before Zackier, he stared at the antagonist with a devil's rage and a hellish demeanor, yet he held a calm, gentle intensity deep within that aggressive exterior.
All this time, it was his own journey of acceptance and his hard-won independence that had managed to get him this far.
He had lived his life surrounded by "Loneliness," a word that had once defined his very soul.
And so today, and tonight, he shall bring about the proof that he now fights for more than just himself.
He fights to live no longer in the shadows of his own isolation.
「…One.」
And Zackier… he stood his ground against two opponents who were growing in power with every passing second.
In a rare moment of genuine desperation, the Alter Being realized that this might be the last time he would ever see the stars or the rising sun.
For three hundred years, the idea of repeating his goals and serving the "Boss" had been an exhilarating part of his existence, a narrative he consumed continuously to avoid the void of his own heart.
But now, in this pocket of time, he knew that the possibility of losing to a protagonist's raw desire was no longer a theoretical risk.
It was a reality.
Winning a fight only to lose the war of wills was the most humiliating conclusion someone like him could ever experience.
And so, he had to act.
He had to put on the most devious, the most terrifying grin his face could manage as he marched toward what he believed to be his finale.
「Go.」
I tell you again… what's happening as you read the words right now is a simple reminder that this story has reached its ultimate climax.
Where Romance was no longer the true custody and recognition of the book you are currently reading.
In fact, it's no longer just about making decisions and the consequences of those decisions.
It's been more than just that… since the beginning, since day one, since the day you began reading this story.
It's all about… what results from it all as you take the Route.
「As you read this story, remember: The ROUTES you take… will define the very decisions you make. Decisions that will consequence how you live in this broken world. Let no interruptions shape your destiny, your way, your fate. And if they do—then fight them through the bottom of your heart.」
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The world froze for a heartbeat, a pregnant pause in the history of the world, and then it happened.
In a dash that occurred altogether, all three fighters disappeared in a clutch of wind and pressure.
The rooftop erupted in a shockwave as they collided.
Trizha and Nomoro slammed their weapons toward Zackier with a synchronized fury, their strikes aimed to crush him between the rusted pipe and the demonic fist.
Zackier, his reflexes pushed to the absolute limit, caught both weapons milliseconds before they could reach his face.
He held them there, his hands trembling as he resisted the combined weight of their resolve.
Then, with a grunt of effort, he jumped, using their weapons as a springboard to vault into the air.
He delivered a sweeping roundhouse kick aimed at both their faces simultaneously.
Nomoro reacted in a flash, shoving Trizha backward out of the line of fire and leaping away himself, barely escaping the reach of Zackier's boots before the antagonist could make even a tiny grasp of their destiny.
Trizha didn't hesitate.
She used the backward momentum to plant her foot and retaliate instantly.
She took one step for leverage and dashed forward, unleashing an arcing vertical slash in a downwards motion.
The pipe whistled through the air, a blur of silver aimed at Zackier while he was still airborne and seemingly defenseless.
But Zackier wasn't done.
He immediately countered by grabbing onto the iron pipe itself, his fingers locking onto the cold metal as he used his weight to swing himself around.
He thrust his foot toward Trizha's face, sliding down the length of the pipe like a predator down a branch.
Suddenly, before his boot could gash her skin, Trizha dodged the kick thanks to her immense, supernatural focus.
She pulled her pipe back toward herself with a violent jerk, forcing Zackier to let go.
In the same motion, she let go of the pipe with one hand and moved across Zackier's guard at blistering speeds.
She was behind him before he could turn.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, locking her fingers tight, and performed a devastating suplex, slamming his back and the base of his neck directly into the reinforced concrete of the roof.
Zackier let out a jagged grunt of agony as his spine met the ground.
The impact was so great it cracked the rooftop tiles, sending dust into the air.
He tried to scramble up, his shattered-glass eyes wide with a mix of shock and pain, but he instantly took notice of a demonic fist approaching his face from above.
Nomoro was descending like a falling star.
By sheer survival instinct, Zackier reached out and exchanged Trizha's natural emotion of determination for a brief, blinding spark of rage for 10% out of a hundred stockpiled emotions for a complete emoplotion.
He used that stolen emotion to fuel a 5% powered Emoplotion blast from the very tip of his finger.
He aimed it horizontally beneath his view and unleashed it, the propulsion blowing him out of Trizha's grip just as Nomoro's deadly demonic fist missed his head by an inch.
He stood his ground once again, his composure regained despite the blood trickling from his lip.
He spread his legs in a wide combat stance, lifting his head to look for his targets.
The two fighters were gone.
His eyes widened in surprise and frustration as he looked left and right, his senses searching the smoke.
Suddenly, he heard a crackling sound from directly above him.
He looked up, realizing Trizha had used the distraction to launch herself high into the air.
She was descending now, aiming to slam her iron pipe against him for the second time.
The most logical action in this situation was to move, to dodge the obvious overhead strike.
For someone of Zackier's speed, it should have been effortless.
But he didn't move.
Unfazed, he faced Trizha head-on.
He tilted his head sidewards at the last possible microsecond, letting the pipe whistle past his ear.
As she passed him, he raised a finger to her chest and unleashed the second 5% Emoplotion, the shockwave effectively sending her flying away across the rooftop.
Zackier didn't wait.
He rushed toward Trizha, his eyes gleaming with the intent to end her while she was mid-air.
He wasn't done with his onslaught.
But as he closed the distance, a thought bugged him.
"Where is Nomoro?"
The question was answered before he could even finish the thought.
Nomoro was already behind Trizha's flight path, having anticipated the blast.
The two teenagers moved with a synergy that shouldn't have been possible.
Trizha extended her arm back as she flew, and Nomoro caught her hand.
He planted his feet and spun her around his body with the strength of a titan, using her momentum to launch her back at the approaching Zackier.
As she flew forward, Nomoro followed right behind her shadow.
Trizha prepared her weapon and swung her pipe at Zackier, but he sliced her iron pipe in half using just a swing of his arm.
But she suddenly grabs the sliced part of the iron part, the two halves of her broken pipe—now dual-wielded—ready to destroy the antagonist.
The moment they clashed was a symphony of violence.
Trizha swung both pieces of the pipe at Zackier, but he moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, slicing through the air with his bare arms to deflect her strikes.
She didn't stop.
She unleashed a barrage of dual-weapon close-combat attacks, her movements a blur of silver and white.
Zackier threw his arms in front of himself, blocking and clashing with her barrage, neither side backing down as each swing unleashed mild shockwaves that rippled through the air.
Suddenly, Trizha ducked low mid-barrage.
Nomoro's demonic fist, glowing with purple fire, flew across the space she had just occupied.
He had launched himself behind her, delivering a strike that Zackier couldn't possibly have predicted.
It was an unexpected, perfect combination.
Even an average fighter would have been overwhelmed, their guard shattered by the dual-layered assault.
However, Zackier was not an average fighter.
He was a being from a different dimension of combat experience.
He reflected the demonic punch away with a simple flick of his palm, his movements precise and efficient.
But Nomoro was no pushover.
He used the momentum of the reflection to spin his body like a top.
He twisted his torso, swinging his other arm—the one he had fully encased in demonic armor.
He snapped his fingers, the friction causing an ignition that rocketed his swing forward.
The back-fist caught Zackier squarely in his forearms as he tried to block.
The blast sent the antagonist skidding back, further damaging his guard and sending him rolling across the roof.
Zackier stopped at the very edge of the tower.
He stood up slowly, gritting his teeth in frustration, but his face was also full of a strange, dark excitement.
He was fascinated.
It had been centuries since he had felt this kind of pressure, since he felt like he was the one who couldn't catch up.
"Haha, damn it… I'm actually being outclassed," Zackier muttered to himself, a soft, dry chuckle escaping his throat. "For years, my only problems in terms of combat were those two damned Grand Ministers. And now, it's the damned protagonists who are finally standing up against me."
He stood up fully, feeling a warm liquid dripping from his nose.
He brushed it off with the back of his hand and looked at the crimson stain.
It was blood.
It had happened before, during Nomoro's automatic mode, but this felt different.
This felt earned.
It made him feel more exhilarated than he had ever felt in his long, stagnant life.
"In combat, these two Prophecy Beings don't fit together at all," Zackier thought, his mind racing to analyze the threat. "Their styles are opposites. Narasao is a hammer, all singular attacks and crushing force. Trizha is a needle, fast and precise. They shouldn't be able to sync. And yet, they combine effortlessly. It's like a Prophelity and an Alterlity fighting in a single rhythm. That's truly unique."
He looked forward, panting softly.
He noticed that Trizha and Nomoro were also breathing heavily, their bodies showing the strain of the high-speed exchange.
He smirked.
"If I'm not wrong, it's only been a few seconds. That's a lot of work for a pair of kids. I wonder what's going through their heads right now. And speaking of thinking… I need to think. I need to adapt. I need to outclass them. Faster. Stronger. Think! Think…! Think…"
He slowed his internal clock.
He pushed his thoughts deeper, descending into the core of his own being.
He lifted one of his arms and looked at his palm.
It was moving gently, the skin pale and soft.
He looked at it with an unreadable expression, but deep inside, a realization was taking root—a realization he would never show to his enemies.
"I feel… less brutal."
The thought was a poison to his mission.
He hadn't shown a sign of his usual, immense cruel savageness since the moment they had started fighting together.
He lifted his head, and his eyes met Trizha's.
For a fleeting moment, a sudden sense of relief washed over him.
He was glad she was still standing.
He was glad she had survived everything he had put her through.
"I'm glad," he thought, his tone internally soft, his shattered-glass eyes flickering as the patterns faded for a brief second.
It was a vague, human moment, enough to tell anyone watching that Zackier was simply relieved that 'she survived.'
But then, the darkness returned.
"These feelings of yours, Alter Being Zackier… no, the Representation, Zack… they are too ethereal. They are a weakness. But…"
He looked into the mental mirror of his own mind.
He saw the man he was "before"—the man named Zack.
He saw a mirror of his old self, a man who still held onto the rules of benevolence.
But Zackier stared at that reflection with a sudden, violent hatred.
"But…" He repeated.
He punched the mirror in his mind, shattering the image of the man who could feel.
The glass fractured and spread, and in reality, that same punch slammed into Nomoro's jaw as the boy tried to charge in for another strike.
And so, Zackier roared, his voice booming over the rooftop as he embraced the void once more.
"...These are the feelings that I should neglect!!!"