The room fell into tense silence after Amon's avatar dissolved into tendrils of golden mist, vanishing as if it had never existed. Only the lingering pressure remained — a spiritual weight that refused to dissipate, like an invisible stain on the fabric of reality.
Azazel sat heavily on a couch in the temporary diplomatic quarters within the Underworld. His eyes flicked toward Michael, who stood tall and composed, though the Archangel's gaze was tighter than usual.
"So, that… that was an avatar," Azazel muttered, voice laced with unease. "A real one this time."
Michael slowly nodded. "Indeed. That manifestation bore the unmistakable characteristics of the Error — reality fracturing, logic bending… and truth becoming uncertain."
Kokabiel, of all people, was the first to speak. "A creature that shouldn't exist. Yahweh never created something like that."
"And yet," Michael said, looking toward the glowing remnants of Amon's trace, "Amon was born alongside me, crafted by the same divine hand. If what we suspect is true… Yahweh attempted to create something beyond the Choirs of Heaven — an embodiment of contradiction."
Azazel ran a hand down his face. "A god of trickery and revelation. The bastard tried to rewrite reality just now. If he stayed any longer, I don't think this dimension would've held up."
Across the room, Sirzechs Lucifer and Serafall Leviathan stood near Rias and her peerage, who were shaken but mostly unharmed. Issei had been hit with a wave of nausea during the avatar's presence but managed to recover quickly. Rias gripped his shoulder tightly — more for her own stability than his.
"Why now?" Rias asked, her voice low. "Why show himself now after all this time?"
"He didn't show himself," Azazel corrected her. "That wasn't Amon — not fully. That was merely a sliver of his consciousness shaped by one of his many avatars."
"But the intent was clear," Sirzechs said, his tone unusually grim. "He's staking a claim. This isn't just a manipulation of devils or a game with fallen angels. This is a declaration of presence."
Issei clenched his fists. "He called me the 'fork of fate.' Why the hell does he care about me?"
Michael exchanged a glance with Azazel. The Governor-General sighed.
"Because, kid, you're going to be the one who decides whether this world stays balanced — or becomes the new plaything of a mad god. He doesn't just want control. He wants your potential. Your soul."
Kiba narrowed his eyes. "That's assuming he can get to Issei."
"No," Akeno said, shaking her head. "That's assuming we can stop him."
Elsewhere — far from the Underworld — in a quiet, darkened monastery hidden beneath the catacombs of Vatican territory, Xenovia and Irina knelt before a projection of Cardinal Tosca, who had received word of the avatar's descent.
"Our worst fears are confirmed," Tosca said, her voice trembling slightly. "The Error has manifested in this world."
"Wasn't it sealed during the ancient times?" Xenovia asked, her tone hard but not disrespectful.
Irina frowned. "Only partially. The scripture speaks of a being that slipped through Yahweh's grasp — an intelligence so elusive it faked obedience for millennia."
"The Lord believed He could control it," Tosca said, her eyes darkening. "He was wrong."
The two exorcists looked at one another.
"What should we do?" Irina asked. "This goes beyond our jurisdiction."
"Not entirely," Tosca replied. "You are assigned to Japan for a reason. We believe the Red Dragon Emperor is at the center of this. Your mission remains: observe, defend… and if necessary, eliminate threats. Even divine ones."
Xenovia smirked. "Sounds like we'll be dancing with demons."
"Or worse," Tosca said grimly. "With errors."
Back in the Underworld, Sirzechs met privately with Azazel and Michael in a sealed chamber reinforced with ancient magic circles. Floating between them was a small crystalline sphere that captured Amon's avatar's final words, distorted and echoing.
"…You gaze into the mirror expecting truth… but I am what reflects when there is none."
Michael closed his eyes. "Those words aren't just for intimidation. They're prophecy."
Azazel grunted. "Amon's avatars always leave riddles. It's how he fragments causality. He says things that infect timelines. In other words… he's turning even words into weapons."
"We'll need to prepare," Sirzechs said. "I want increased surveillance on all interdimensional portals. No summonings without our direct clearance."
Azazel nodded. "I'll tighten the defenses at Grigori. Vali might be next."
Michael's expression shifted at the mention of the White Dragon Emperor.
"You suspect Amon will move for him?"
"I suspect he already has," Azazel muttered. "He knows Vali's part-devil, part-human, and part-Lucifer blood. He's bait, and a weapon. Amon won't ignore that."
Within the depths of a shifting dreamscape — neither real nor entirely imaginary — a fragment of Amon's consciousness floated freely. It was the same avatar that had appeared earlier, though now it writhed like ink in water, unraveling and reforming.
"He resists," Amon muttered to no one. "The host cracked but did not break. Still… cracks are enough."
A second voice spoke from the darkness. It was another of his avatars — this one adorned in an ecclesiastical mask, its surface inscribed with ever-changing glyphs.
"They prepare. The Archangel. The Governor. The Lucifer."
"They fear inevitability," the original Amon said with a soft laugh. "They fear the breaking of truth. But I am not here for destruction."
The second avatar tilted its head. "Then what?"
"I am here to show them that their truths were always lies."
The dream shattered into thousands of mirror shards — each reflecting a different timeline, a different fate. And in every one of them, Amon smiled.
In Kuoh Academy, the atmosphere was tense. Rias sat in the Occult Club room, reviewing defense patterns with her peerage. Gasper trembled slightly at the aura that had briefly descended during the avatar's manifestation. Even now, the room still had a chill.
"I'm sorry, Buchou," he whispered. "I couldn't stop my powers from reacting."
Rias gave him a soft smile. "No one blames you, Gasper. What we faced wasn't something normal."
"Damn right," Issei said, punching his palm. "Next time that golden freak shows up, I'll blast him with everything I've got."
Rias's smile faded, but she nodded. "Yes… but not alone."
Koneko, seated near the window, suddenly looked up.
"We'll need help from everyone. Even those we wouldn't normally trust."
Akeno raised an eyebrow. "You mean… Vali?"
"No," Rias said firmly. "I mean the Vatican."
Silence followed.
Far above the Earth, beyond the visible realm, Amon opened another mirror. Through it, he watched as a man with silver hair trained in isolation — his blows creating shockwaves.
"Soon, White Dragon," Amon whispered. "Your fate, like Issei's, is a melody in my composition."
The mirror closed. The puppet strings tightened.
The game had only just begun.