Alma had become far more cautious in his approach to destroying J.I.B.R.I.L. facilities.
After the fight with his opponent, and her escape, Alma couldn't shake the fear of a counterstrike. One mistake and he could expose himself completely.
Now, more than ever, he needed to be calm—smart and tactical. Mistakes were not an option.
He hadn't attacked another J.I.B.R.I.L. base in over a week. Truthfully, he wasn't sure when he'd start again.
They knew his plan now—his goal—and they'd surely put countermeasures in place to slow him down, if not stop him altogether.
The fear of failure weighed on him heavier than ever before, even more than the fear of disappointing his parents, his best friend... himself. It was pure pressure, and it crushed him.
His resentment toward the Evil Eyes made them unusable, leaving him without one of his greatest weapons.
But Alma knew: the time for resentment was over. He had to accept what he once rejected. Tolerance had to become acceptance. Resentment had to harden into conviction. Otherwise, he would fail.
September 24th, 1955.
A month had passed—and with it, a broken promise to himself.
In that time, Alma trained relentlessly. His previous maximum lift was 250 pounds; now it was 280.
Today, he would make changes. Today, he would push forward, no matter the cost—even if it killed him.
Conviction.
Alma climbed into his truck for the first time in a month. As the engine roared to life, he set his mind: Today would mark the beginning of the end for J.I.B.R.I.L.
No empty promises. No hollow vows. Only action—and the chaos that would follow.
Leaving the cave behind, Alma drove to another J.I.B.R.I.L. facility, keeping the possibility of an ambush firmly in mind.
As he neared the facility, a hatch opened in the ground—but nothing emerged. A silent invitation.
Alma parked, stepped out, and approached the opening. Peering down, he saw what awaited him: an army of 200 superhumans.
Armed with advanced guns, armor, and weapons, they stood ready. Alma couldn't tell if they were stronger than him or if he still had the edge. Despite the distance, he could feel their collective gaze bearing down on him behind their masks.
Unsheathing his machete with his right hand, and drawing his father's shotgun with his left, Alma prepared for the slaughter.
One side would fall.
Without hesitation, he sprinted down the ramp as the troops charged.
Alma raised his shotgun and blew off the first troop's head before they could even react. He smiled.
He had to reload fast.
Alma vaulted over the first few soldiers, unloading the spent shell, grabbing a new buckshot round from his bag, and loading it mid-air. Landing smoothly, he dodged an uppercut from a superhuman, then brought his machete down, splitting the man's skull wide open.
Spinning, he slit another enemy's throat. Blood sprayed across the ramp.
Another troop tried to sneak behind him.
Without even looking, Alma pointed his shotgun and fired point-blank.
They weren't stronger. They weren't even close.
Alma tore through them—one by one—until only a few dozen remained. Blood soaked the ramp, bodies piled at his feet. A grin stretched across his face. He enjoyed this.
The surviving superhumans hesitated, inching back.
That's when Alma sensed a presence behind him.
Without turning fully, he glanced over his shoulder: a black man with brown eyes, blond hair curled at the edges, and an all-black casual outfit, gripping a sheathed katana in his left hand.
They locked eyes. Time froze. Not even the superhumans dared to move.
"You're the one..." the man said—and then disappeared. "Who almost killed Ilene," he finished, reappearing beside Alma.
Eyes widening, Alma swung his machete, but the man ducked low and drew his katana in one fluid motion.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying, both forces straining for dominance. With a surge of strength, the man knocked Alma backward, out of the facility and onto the dirt outside.
Alma landed gracefully, scanning for his opponent.
The man leapt skyward, raining down miniature knives. Alma evaded them easily, watching as the man landed and charged.
Their blades collided again and again, each impact sending bursts of wind and flares of light into the air.
The man matched Alma's strength, though not the woman's insane speed—except for that sudden dash earlier. Maybe it required preparation.
A grin broke across Alma's face. He was excited. "Bring it on!" Alma shouted, ducking another slash.
The man suddenly pulled back, throwing more knives—deflected effortlessly.
"You asked for it," the man said, just as a helicopter flew overhead. "Last time, it was unfair," he continued. "So we thought we'd make it..."
A woman dropped from the helicopter, landing beside the man. Ilene.
"Even," she said, smirking.
Alma's eyes narrowed at the woman he nearly defeated a month ago.
He unleashed the Beast from his left eye, the entity materializing beside him.
Now it was two-on-two.
Alma knew Ilene's abilities—but the man's, beyond his dash, knives, and swordplay, remained a mystery.
Ilene charged, moving like a bolt of lightning. Alma ducked—but that left him exposed to the man. The Beast intercepted him, however.
A shimmering cloak of blue and white energy surrounded the man, protecting him from the Beast's corruption.
Alma's eyes widened. Something was wrong.
Before he could process it, Ilene smashed an electrified punch into his head, sending him flying.
The Beast retracted into Alma's eye.
Slowly, Alma rose, wiping blood and dirt from his jawline.
"Ouch," he muttered.
"This man's energy... it blocks corrosion," he realized aloud.
His vision blurred—the electricity had scrambled his brain. But Alma forced himself to focus.
His pupils dilated, covering his irises completely. In a swirl, a triangular formation of triple sixes appeared.
The Evil Eyes had activated.
Instantly, the disorientation faded. His strength, speed, and perception skyrocketed.
He noticed something new: white, ethereal patches inside both Ilene and the man's bodies—smudged, ghostly images.
The Beast reemerged from his eye, its form darker, dripping a black liquid onto the earth.
"Well, Ilene, you got what you wanted," the man said.
"You're damned right I did," Ilene snapped. "Last month, you and that monster embarrassed me. Now, with Kojo—" she gestured to the man—"we're going to wipe the floor with you."
Alma smirked coldly. "Really? I already know how to beat both of you. You will lose. And you will die."
The Beast crouched, ready to strike.
The ground beneath Ilene's feet sparked with purple electricity, burning the grass around her to ash. Kojo, meanwhile, looked indifferent—he just wanted to go home.
In a flash, Ilene blitzed forward, a thunderclap in her wake.
But Alma tracked her easily, watching the white smudges move faster than her body.
His machete, the blade engulfed and dripping with the black liquid from the Beast, slashed horizontally. Ilene ducked—but Alma anticipated it, swinging down—blocked—by Kojo, who caught the blade with his katana.
Ilene twisted to kick Alma's head, but he caught her ankle effortlessly.
Her eyes widened.
She kicked free, retreating, leaving Alma to duel Kojo one-on-one.
Their blades clashed violently, each collision bursting with sparks as the Beast pursued Ilene.
Kojo's katana began glowing with that same ethereal blue and white energy.
He raised it high—and swung down.
Alma didn't wait. He dodged instinctively.
A colossal wave of energy carved through the forest—hundreds of miles—leaving a deep, smoking scar in the earth.
Alma's eyes widened — the force of the attack shattered the air itself.
Ilene moved like a blur, weaving through the Beast's strikes, each dodge buying precious seconds.
"Come on, Kojo!" she shouted, her voice raw with desperation.
Kojo gave no warning. One moment he was gone; the next, he was upon Alma—his body cloaked in swirling shadows, his katana flashing like lightning.
The strikes came too fast to see, a storm of slashes meant to overwhelm.
But Alma moved.
He couldn't track Kojo's body — only the smears of white tearing through the air — and it was enough.
Each thrust missed by a breath. Each slash carved through empty space. Alma weaved between the blows with a calm that defied reason.
Kojo faltered for half a second, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
Ilene's heart dropped. "What!?" she cried out, the word tearing from her throat.
Alma quickly retracted the Beast.
In a flash, he knocked Kojo's katana from his hands with a strike of his machete, seized him by the throat, lifted him effortlessly, and slammed him into the ground.
The Beast slithered down Alma's arms, creeping across Kojo's body. It would devour him whole.
Kojo reacted instantly. His cloak erupted into black mist, halting the corrosion.
Alma narrowed his eyes, noting the change — the cloak was now black instead of its original color.
Watching it work told him everything he needed to know.
"I knew it," Alma muttered with a smirk. "You can only delay the corrosion... but once that cloak rots away, you're next."
Ilene struck from behind. Alma twisted out of the way, her kick missing by inches—and in one fluid motion, he spun and slammed his own foot into her back.
The blow hurled her into the trees, dealing with her—for now.
"Astral Light," Kojo said beneath Alma, forcing him to look down.
Kojo's cloak shifted, its color bleeding back into blue and white.
"It changed?" Alma muttered, his senses sharpening.
"A Thousand Suns," Kojo called again. The cloak morphed once more, this time to a light pink — the edges barely visible.
Alma slashed at him, but Kojo's katana blocked the blow with ease.
"Soul Reach," Kojo whispered.
The cloak turned fully invisible. Alma's machete bounced off a force he couldn't see, his arm recoiling violently.
Kojo moved—impossibly fast—and drove his fist into Alma's gut.
Air fled his lungs. Something inside tore.
Alma was launched backward, tearing through trees and boulders for hundreds of yards before crumpling to a stop. His vision swam.
Kojo appeared again, katana already poised overhead.
Alma barely raised his machete in time—
But the blade passed through it.
His eyes widened in shock. He twisted, barely dodging as the katana glided through his arm, exiting cleanly at the elbow.
There was no blood.
No pain.
Just a ghostly smudge where his arm should have been—severed.
The katana hadn't cut his body.
It had cut his soul.
Panic flickered through Alma's chest.
Kojo pressed the attack. Faster than Ilene at full speed.
Alma was amazed—and terrified.
He could still track Kojo's movements. Somehow, but it was slowly becoming hard to do.
But the true horror was what that katana could do.
The power to cut souls stemmed from the katana, and Kojo had said words to make it stronger? How had Kojo gained a power that cut souls?
And what would happen if his soul was shredded to pieces?
He didn't want to find out.
The Beast was out of the question now—the soul wound had crippled his connection to it.
Ilene, recovered, sprinted toward the battle.
Seeing Kojo's cloak — invisible and rippling—she activated her electromagnetic field.
Now Alma faced two faster-than-lightning opponents at their ultimate peaks, while he was the weakest he'd ever been.
Unable to physically track their movements, he relied on being able to see the smudges—what he assumed were their souls—and because of that, was able to react ahead of time, compensating for the gap in speed.
He barely dodged the final slash of Kojo's furious onslaught.
Alma struck back—his blade repelled by Kojo's unseen barrier.
Ilene appeared at Kojo's side, fist cocked.
Alma threw his arms up instinctively.
Her punch collided.
Shockwaves rippled outward, electricity tearing through his body.
Alma was blasted hundreds of feet back, crashing through more trees.
He staggered to his feet, gasping, the pain relentless.
Summoning the Beast now was impossible.
Kojo and Ilene closed in, faster than ever—katana raised, fist drawn back.
Alma dodged both strikes, his vision a haze of pain and blur. Their souls began to disappear...
However...
Throughout the battle...
No matter how hard they struck...
No matter how fast they moved...
No matter how desperately they pushed their bodies beyond their limits...
They could not touch Alma. Not even once.
Each missed blow chipped away at their spirits.
Each evasive step Alma took cracked the foundations of their hope.
The gap between them was not skill, nor power alone—it was inevitability.
Kojo's arms grew heavier, even at full power, his breathing became harsher. His katana felt like dead weight, no longer a weapon but a reminder of helplessness. Each strike that glanced off empty air was another nail in the coffin of his resolve.
Ilene, faster than a bolt of lightning, could not even brush the hem of Alma's clothes. Her body, supercharged to the max by her electromagnetic field, had once made her feel invincible. Now, it only made her realize how slow she truly was. Her fists met nothing but phantom space, her heart pounding louder than any impact she could land.
Panic began to seep in, subtle at first, then consuming.
Their attacks grew wilder.
Their focus frayed.
Precision gave way to desperation.
And desperation collapsed into despair.
In a place deeper than thought, deeper than instinct, they knew:
They could not win.
And somehow, that knowledge was far more crushing than any wound Alma could inflict.
It wasn't just their bodies that faltered. It was their very will to fight.
Inside Alma's mind—something surfaced.
It wasn't instinct.
It wasn't thought.
It wasn't reflex.
It was a memory—ancient and forgotten. Recently restored.
Just as Kojo and Illene were about to strike Alma again, he twisted his body, putting his hand next to his chest.
"The Greatest Defense: Shield," Alma whispered.
He calmly pressed his forefinger and thumb together.
A brown, rocky dome erupted around him—a sphere of fused stones.
Seeing this occur, that despair they felt had crystallized.
Ilene's punch connected with the shield, not even leaving a dent.
Kojo's soul-cleaving blade was repelled without so much as a scratch. It couldn't even chip off a piece of a rock.
That's when they realized, that they truly understood:
They were not fighting a man...
They were fighting inevitability itself.
And inevitability...
does not lose.
They reeled back in shock.
They thought Alma had bought himself a moment to breathe.
They were wrong.
From within the stone bubble, Alma's machete phased outward — and plunged into Ilene's chest.
He had meant to strike Kojo.
But with how weak he was, on the verge of passing out...
There was no distinguishing between them.
Ilene gasped, blood bubbling from the corner of her mouth.
Her body collapsed backward, eyes glazing over.
Kojo's heart seized with horror.
"Ilene!!" he cried, rushing to her side.
The rocky dome crumbled into dust, revealing Alma standing silently behind Kojo. His silhouette was framed by the drifting haze of stone and smoke, his machete low at his side, coiled with the living darkness of the Beast. Only his glowering, malevolent eyes were visible, orbiting Kojo like predators in the mist.
Kojo felt it—a suffocating presence washing over him, cold and merciless. His instincts screamed, but his heart faltered as he glanced back. Alma didn't move, didn't speak. He simply was, an immovable shadow, patient and lethal.
Kojo's soul wavered. Between Ilene's fading heartbeat and Alma's silent threat, a terrible choice lay before him. His trembling hands hovered over Ilene's broken body for a moment longer... then, heavy with shame, he turned and fled into the forest.
Alma watched him go, his expression unreadable. He had no intention of chasing. His body was too broken, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat. Allowing Kojo to escape wasn't mercy—it was necessity.
Still, Alma had one last loose end to tie.
Without hesitation, he leveled the shotgun at Ilene's head.
A single shot echoed through the trees.
One threat eliminated.
Limping, wounded, he made his way to his truck.
Every step a scream of pain.
He took backroads, thick woods — anything to avoid possible surveillance.
Hours later, Alma stumbled into his hidden cave.
He collapsed onto his bed, the pain overwhelming.
It was over.
This was the most brutal battle he had fought since the night of June 11th, 1954.
As he drifted toward unconsciousness, Alma thought about the memory that had surfaced—the "Shield."
The gesture had come naturally, like breathing.
It hadn't been needed...
But it had felt right.
Sleep consumed him.
And for once, he welcomed the darkness.
The injury Kojo dealt to Alma's arm had rendered it completely immobile. Days turned into weeks, then into a full month.
Kojo informed J.I.B.R.I.L. of Ilene's death—and of Alma's new ability. It was then that a few high-ranking members began to regret their decisions. Some feared they had not denied the prophecy, but accelerated it.
Others were frustrated with the organization's convoluted approach. What should've been a simple matter had become tangled in bureaucracy and second-guessing.
Yet, despite their constant bickering and blame-shifting, there was one thing they all agreed on:
Alma Daedulus Alastor was becoming a threat.
And without proper action, he would be the end of them all.
Alma was merciless. He struck as many facilities in a single day as he could.
He was relentless.
But despite his efforts, it all felt too slow—
as if nothing had truly changed.
It was demoralizing. But Alma's resolve didn't waver.
He no longer cared about Kojo or any unknown enemies.
The month-long grace period he had given them… ended now.
Facility after facility fell, destroyed with brutal force and precision.
No one was spared.
No one would be saved from his wrath.
October 25th, 1955.
Alma's arm had fully recovered. At last, he could move with 100% efficiency.
He woke in the cave he now called home.
The eradication of J.I.B.R.I.L. still felt far from complete—but not out of reach.
A wall within the cave bore a map, each location crossed out with a giant red X.
Only fifteen remained.
Alma grabbed his toothbrush. A small stream of water trickled down one wall. He didn't trust it enough to drink, but it sufficed for brushing his teeth.
Afterward, he bathed in a pond inside the cave. The water was fresh, constantly circulating—never stagnant.
He geared up, fastening a belt that held his pants, machete holster, and a leather pouch of shotgun shells.
Then, he wrapped a chain around his torso diagonally, securing his single-barrel shotgun to his back.
Before he could exit the cave, he found someone standing at the entrance.
A man, clad in a pristine white lab coat, stood before him. Black-rimmed reading glasses masked his bright blue eyes. Brown hair framed his face.
He was just an inch shorter than Alma—but something about him felt… off.
That lab coat. Those glasses. It all seemed too familiar.
Then Alma remembered:
The man from the computer terminal.
Alma drew his shotgun and aimed it at him, finger tight on the trigger.
The man slowly raised his hands, clearly showing he was unarmed.
"Woah, woah. Relax, buddy," he said calmly—but Alma could hear the faint edge of fear beneath it.
Alma didn't lower the weapon.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice sharp and watchful.
"I want to talk."
Alma's brow lifted. A J.I.B.R.I.L. agent, wanting to talk? After everything?
His finger curled tighter on the trigger.
"Talk... Talk!?" Alma fired—just inches from the man's head. The shot echoed through the cave.
The man flinched. "I know it may seem rude, but—"
"Rude!?Do you have any idea what J.I.B.R.I.L. has done to me!? To my family!?" Alma shouted, cutting him off.
His voice trembled with a fury bordering on hatred.
"Please… just one minute. Hear me out," the man said, voice shaky.
Silence followed. He looked down at the cave floor, eyes shut, bracing for death.
Alma hesitated—then, reluctantly, lowered his weapon. But his eyes never left the man.
With a heavy sigh, Alma spoke.
"Fine. Say what you need to. But if I sense one lie, this cave will be your tomb."
The man looked up, a faint smile crossing his lips.
"Of course. I will only speak the truth—for that is all I know." He sat down, legs crossed.
"I started out as a regular scientist. Still am, really—until I found J.I.B.R.I.L. They never explained what they were truly about. Everything was a mystery."
"I applied, and eventually got a job there. My clearance wasn't—and still isn't—high enough for classified intel. But the day I joined, I saw how advanced their tech was. I'd say even beyond the U.S. itself."
"The systems processed data at lightning speed. Billions of lines in microseconds. It was insane."
"But then I found something dark. The contract I signed... stated that once hired, you couldn't leave. Anyone who tried died within a day."
"I didn't know about the experiments—horrible experiments on innocent people. These test subjects had families. They ranged from toddlers to the elderly. Each was exposed to different Chemicals. If they weren't compatible... they died painfully, slowly."
Alma's eyebrow twitched.
He had read about that. In the very files this man left open.
"My first question," Alma said coldly, "How did you find me?"
"J.I.B.R.I.L. constantly tracks your location. Even low-clearance employees know where you are."
Alma stiffened.
"They knew… this whole time? And they didn't kill me?"
"I know. It's strange. They're planning something big. But I don't know what..."
After a tense pause, Alma asked,
"My second question: Did you see me in that computer room?"
The man nodded. "I did, yes. I knew who you were—your threat level gave it away. A fifteen-year-old labeled a national threat? Outrageous."
Alma's eyes narrowed.
That phrase—national threat—hadn't appeared anywhere in the files. And if this man had low clearance, how could he know?
Why didn't he open with: "I know you saw those files"?
It didn't add up.
Still… Alma wanted to believe. Maybe the man had overheard a conversation, pieced things together.
"Alright. Third question: Why are you telling me all of this?"
"Because I want to stop this. Innocent people are dying in those facilities. It disgusts me. I regret ever joining..."
"And my final question: Why are you here?"
The man smiled faintly. "Isn't it obvious? I need your help—no, they need your help. The ones being tested on. I can provide time schedules for every officer. I have a security card that opens most facility doors. If we move quickly, we can bring J.I.B.R.I.L. down today."
Alma stared at him. The man radiated suspicion.
His gut screamed not to trust him.
But he was the only one who came with words instead of weapons.
Kindness instead of blood.
"...One last question. What's your name?"
The man extended his hand. Alma grasped it, shaking it firmly.
"Simon."