W.A.S. Surveillance Headquarters.

  “Van Ackerman really is powerful,” a worker marveled.

  “You should already know that,” another replied, grinning in awe. “His existence is why we’re all still alive.”

  Arthur stood straight with his arms folded, the light from the wide screen reflecting off the lenses of his glasses.

  His brows curved. ‘It’s quite a popular story in Eldrid, how Van Ackerman’s birth stabilized the tenzen–anti-tenzen balance that was unstable,’ he mused. ‘The Vesta Barrier’s erection helped seal most of the demons in Eldrid at the time, but the barrier had a fatal flaw: it couldn’t stop anti-tenzen energy from leaking in. As a result, anti-tenzen density across the region spiked, creating automatic spawn hotspots for demons.’

  Arthur blinked and adjusted his glasses. ‘But upon Van Ackerman’s birth, the balance settled… miraculously.’

  ‘Though still inconclusive, one argument was that Van had such a large volume of tenzen it was enough to neutralize the anti-tenzen density in Eldrid, meaning he possesses infinite tenzen.’

  His brows knitted. ‘However, another faction ruled out the argument as implausible, stating that the tenzen core has a maximum capacity. They proposed that the idea surrounding the event was that he simply has a passive effect that nullifies all other effects.’

  Arthur sniffed and rubbed his temples. “Whatever the answer is, we’ll find out tonight.”

  …

  Glock stared at the ground through blurry vision, watching his sweat wet the soil.

  “Fear. Horror. Dread,” he muttered, head still bowed. “I have never entertained such trifles. They are phantom dialects spoken by trembling hearts; illusory syllables forged in the throats of the fragile. Words invented by those who require darkness to justify their shaking.

  They have never found lodging in my vocabulary.

  For fear is the inheritance of the weak. Horror, the confession of the inferior. Dread, the final hymn of those who already know they will fall.

  I do not tremble. I do not recoil. And I do not kneel before shadows that beg to be believed.”

  Glock raised his eyes until they locked onto Van’s cold glare.

  “I will not fret!” he declared, voice carrying through the forest.

  Van’s glowing eyes narrowed. He stretched a hand forward and beckoned. “Come,” he commanded.

  “Giving me the first strike? How generous…” Glock said. He swung both arms apart, flaring his gothic attire outward.

  Then he began to chant:

  “I am the verdict of the turning wheel.

  Fate slows at my approach.

  I have denied tomorrow its breath, and stolen momentum from the world.

  The present fractures.

  The future kneels.

  By regression of the sacred arc…

  From twelve to six… Be still.”

  A circular sigil materialized behind him, only its upper half (12 to 6) marked. The lower half remained empty, a jagged arrow serving as the clock hand.

  Glock’s eyes gleamed with dark blue light. He clapped his hands once, sending a sharp crack ripping through the air.

  “TIME SORCERY: REGRESSIVE HALT.”

  As the sound formed, motion faltered: a falling leaf hung suspended, dust trembled in midair, sparks lingered like frozen stars. A loose thread on Glock’s sleeve lifted—not forward, but backward, retracing the motion it had already completed.

  Time bent, sound dulled, wind stalled mid-gust. Shadows split, one rooted in the present, another marking where things would have been. Everything, including Van, froze in place.

  The only sound was the steady tick of the arrow as it moved from 12 toward 6.

  Glock alone moved freely, eyes reflecting the frozen battlefield. ‘Perfect!’ he rasped inwardly. ‘Before time, even someone as powerful as you will inevitably bow.’

  He stepped forward toward Van. ‘By activating regression, I can slow the speed of time to zero for twelve seconds: the time for the arrow to move from 12 to 6. During that time, I cannot use another technique.’

  Glock reached his opponent and raised a finger toward his forehead. “Look where your boasting brought you, you arrogant fool,” he cackled and lunged only to stop halfway.

  A strange sensation tingled through him. He stepped back and studied Van for a long moment. Seeing no reaction, he advanced again. ‘Am I seeing things now?’ he thought, shaking his head with a wry smile.

  He tapped Van’s forehead.

  His fingers atomized.

  “Huh?!” Glock exclaimed and leapt back. He skidded to a halt, breathing heavily, heart thudding like thunder. He spun toward the clock; the arrow stood at the 10 mark.

  Glock whirled back to face Van. “My time halt is still in effect and his disintegration zone works?” He shivered, cold sweat running down his back.

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  “There’s no rule that says the activation of two different effects are mutually exclusive, y’know,” the voice intoned from everywhere.

  “What the—” Glock gasped and looked up. Van was calmly repacking his white hair and walking toward him.

  Van smiled faintly. “You’re quite stupid for who you are,” he said calmly. “Thinking a cute little clock would stop me? That’s really funny.” He almost chuckled.

  Glock’s eyes snapped wide. “How can you move?!” he demanded, staggering backward. He glanced at the clock; the arrow was now at the midpoint between 9 and 8.

  Van kept approaching while Glock retreated. “I decided to be generous and grant you the first chance to hit me, but it looks like you fell my hand,” he said, shaking his head with a mock-sad expression.

  “Hoarh.” Glock exhaled and chuckled dryly. His eyes darkened. “If only you never existed… if only I had struck earlier and wiped out the Ackermans before you could be born…” He cursed, face twisting as he stretched and touched Van's knuckles. “Every plan, every tactic, every technique always had to have you in it. I couldn’t rest knowing you were out there after me. You knew everything that was happening, didn’t you? Still… you let it happen.”

  “It was simply perseverance,” Van shrugged. “I thought you’d become strong enough to challenge me.” His voice dripped with mockery.

  “Tch,” Glock hissed.

  “Now, I’m guessing it’s my turn,” Van said. He extended his hand; the surrounding air bent toward it. Tiny motes of dust and stray rays of moonlight streamed inward. In his palm, a sphere of pure light coalesced—brilliant white at its core, fading to pale gold along its edges. Waves of energy rippled inside, spiraling and pulsing as if the light had weight. Around the orb, the air shimmered and warped like heat rising off asphalt; faint hums resonated from the trapped energy.

  “Light?” Glock stammered, legs shaking.

  Van looked away from the orb—its light reflecting on his face—to Glock. “Do you know what happens when light gains mass?” he asked calmly.

  “Light gains mass…? That’s impossible,” Glock deadpanned. “Has your arrogance made you that delusional?” he rasped.

  “Impossibility is but a shadow in my lexicon of the impossible,” Van replied. His hand rose, and he spoke:

  “PARTICLE STYLE: POINT OF NO BEING.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the orb shot forward, trailing a comet-like streak and bending light and shadow around it. The world rippled along its path.

  Glock raised his palms to cast another chant, but it failed instantly. Realization hit him.

  ‘Shit!’ He glanced back at the clock; the arrow was approaching 6. During Regressive Halt, he could not use any other technique.

  ‘Faster!!’ Glock screamed inwardly at the clock. The sheer presence of the light already burned his face.

  The arrow made one last move and struck the mark.

  “Harrh…” Glock exhaled in relief and turned only to meet the flare right in his face.

  “Eh?” That was all he could say before the impact connected.

  The orb erupted in a blinding flash—a concentrated pulse of kinetic and radiant force that slammed into his body, piercing through skin like solid matter while disintegrating him down to the subatomic level. Reflections scattered across the wet ground; shadows warped and danced like flames.

  In the fleeting second before his death, Glock threw his cellphone away, as it landed next to Terror's remains.

  The light dematerialized in a thin thread, leaving a sprawling display of carnage behind. Glock’s body was gone. No sign that he had ever existed remained.

  The helicopter above clattered and swept its light over the terrain, transmitting the scene to every television and screen.

  No one blinked. Eyes remained wide in a mix of confusion and shock. Twelve seconds ago, everything had gone blank, perception had declined, and by the time the world restored, Van Ackerman stood alone with Glock Harbinger nowhere to be found.

  “What happened?” Arthur asked himself, unable to find a logical answer.

  “Where’s the traitor?” a man before the skyscraper asked, voice shaky.

  “He’s gone.” “There’s only Van Ackerman there.” “So, are you saying…”

  “…Van Ackerman defeated Glock Harbinger?” someone in THE OCTAGON murmured.

  In the W.A.S. Surveillance Headquarters, everyone stood stupefied. “G-Glock Harbinger’s tenzen signature has been erased!” the announcement blared.

  “H-he’s actually dead… Van Ackerman really defeated him…” an old man among the crowd stammered and fell to his knees.

  “Wait, look, he’s about to do something…” another person said, pointing at the screen.

  Everyone turned back and stared with bated breath.

  Van slowly raised his right hand into the air and flashed a peace sign.

  “Van Ackerman,” the whole world said in unison.

  “Ha… hahahaha!” “He won, he really won!” Cries of joy exploded through the air of the W.A.S. Headquarters and every corner of the city.

  ‘Van Ackerman…’ Arthur nodded proudly. ‘…you really did it. You really protected Eldrid.’ He smiled: the first genuine smile of his life.

  Noises and celebrations carried through the air. In Blackthorn Forest, Van stood unflinching even as the rain beat against him. Cold gusts of breath escaped his throat in white mists.

  Pitch silence soaked the atmosphere, punctuated only by Van’s breathing and…

  Van’s eyes flicked sideways.

  …the white noise from the lit cellphone lying next to Terror’s remains.

  Van’s eyes widened.

  “How smart of me to have planned this ahead?” a voice crackled from the phone.

  The voice was unmistakable.

  It belonged to the person Van had just killed.

  Gideon Horloge. Glock Harbinger.

  **************************************

  Lights flickered on, bathing the stage in a harsh, theatrical glow. At the center sat a single chair, occupied by a cartoonish version of Glock Harbinger with exaggerated proportions, oversized grin painted across a plastic face, eyes wide and gleaming like cheap LEDs. A garish sign hung above in looping decorative bulbs:

  GIDEON HORLOGE'S SHOW

  The voice that emerged from the cartoon figure was unmistakably Glock’s; amused, and dripping with satisfaction.

  “Aurelia Welles’ soul bind grants the ability to seal any soulful entity by touch. It doesn’t kill them, but halts every biological, mental, and physical process the body carries out. However, this technique falters in the presence of proximal concentrated attacks like Van Ackerman’s disintegration zone. Step into his bound, and you’re atomized before the seal can even take hold.

  I needed a plan, or even a technique, that would let me get close to Van Ackerman without being erased.

  Then I realized something. Instead of trying to approach him, why not make him come to me? As the rule of chess goes: ‘Make your opponent feel like he’s won, and you’ll win.’ So I let Van Ackerman believe I had nothing left after Regressive Halt. I let him think I was powerless. He drew closer, let his guard down, deactivated his disintegration zone. All I needed was one graze; one fleeting touch of my finger against his knuckles.”

  The cartoon Glock tilted his head, grin widening.

  “Still, the odds were razor-thin. Even if it worked, I knew it would cost my life.

  So what did I do?

  I atomized part of my main core—exactly like Heinrich Ackerman once did—using the particle-manipulation powers I stole from Gin Ackerman’s core long ago. Since the soul inhabits the core, I was able to bind my soul to my cellphone instead.

  After that, I didn’t have to worry about my main body anymore.”

  The cartoon figure leaned forward, elbows on cartoon knees, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “All this time, I had been calculating your every move. Your disintegration zone isn’t automatic; it requires conscious activation. That single, exploitable flaw was more than enough for me to defeat you.”

  The phone’s screen flashed once and the camera panned down. The sound of rain mixed with heavy heartbeats.

  The hearts of everyone watching the scene sank, eyes wide in unbelief.

  Van Ackerman’s body lay collapsed on the rain-soaked ground, limbs slack, eyes vacant, chest still. Raindrops rolled off his open, unblinking eyes and traced clean paths through the dirt on his face.

  The cartoon Glock spread his arms wide, as if accepting applause from an invisible audience.

  “The plan was almost impossible to carry out. But what’s important is that it worked.”

  A long, theatrical pause followed. Then the cartoon figure leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and let out a soft, satisfied chuckle.

  “Checkmate, God.”

  The stage lights dimmed slowly until only the glowing sign remained, buzzing faintly in the dark.

  GIDEON HORLOGE'S SHOW