“Wallace,” Jonathan began, his tone clipped but edged with urgency, “I assume we don’t have any stronger ability suppressants to limit her?” His sharp gaze remained fixed on the court, where the energy of the game threatened to spiral into something uncontrollable.
Wallace leaned back in his seat, exhaling heavily. “I gave her the same type we provide to low-level inmates at Area 51. Anything stronger, and we run the risk of killing her outright. It’s already a gamble with what she’s on now. If we’re going to push beyond that, we’ll need to request help from the Bookkeeper.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “You’re already in debt to him. Could you ask for the favor?”
A resigned groan escaped Wallace’s lips. “You people never want me to get out of this damn debt, do you? It’s always something.”
“If we can just hold off until she’s older,” Jonathan muttered, his words tinged with an odd mix of hope and apprehension, “then the boss’s seals will be safe for her.”
“Safe?” Wallace snapped, his frustration evident in the sudden sharpness of his voice. “Markus had those seals placed on him when he was thirteen. Were they not safe for him?”
Jonathan’s expression darkened, his shoulders tensing as if carrying a heavy burden. “Markus is a special case. The boss couldn’t afford to take any risks with him. If he had gone out of control…” He paused, his voice dropping to a grim murmur. “…he could have cleaved the world in half.”
Wallace scoffed, crossing his arms. “And you think this girl is any less dangerous? The energy she’s putting out right now is enough to destroy this entire facility, and she’s only getting stronger.”
Jonathan didn’t reply, his attention drawn back to the match as the game's final moments began to unfold. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the unrelenting pressure of mounting stakes.
On the court, Maxwell shifted his strategy, his keen eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Alice. To him, she was the biggest remaining threat—a quiet, unassuming powerhouse whose Authority of Reality had already proven devastating. His throws became more calculated, each dodgeball a precisely aimed missile meant to eliminate her.
But Maxwell’s assault was met with fierce resistance. Anya, ever mischievous and unpredictable, animated stray dodgeballs to intercept his throws, her creations colliding mid-air with his. Iris, her fiery determination burning hotter than ever, burned away projectiles with arcs of flame that sizzled and popped in the gymnasium’s echoing air. And Alice, with the faint glow of her Authority, flickering in her tired eyes, turned the remaining balls into bubbles that drifted harmlessly above the court.
Despite the overwhelming odds, Maxwell remained undeterred. His wings flared behind him, the glow of his radiant feathers casting shifting shadows across the gym. He was relentless, his strikes growing sharper, faster, and more precise.
Meanwhile, hope flickered in Iris’s chest. For the first time, she began to believe they had a chance. With most of the Beta Facility’s team eliminated, only Maxwell posed a true threat. Cynthia, though still technically in the game, had contributed little since her earlier surge of dark energy. Her presence on the court seemed almost spectral, as though she were clinging to the edges of relevance, lucky to have evaded elimination thus far.
Iris tightened her grip on her flame-forged sword, her eyes darting between Maxwell and her remaining teammates. They had to end this—and soon—before Maxwell’s relentless assault shattered the fragile balance they had managed to maintain.
The bubbles hovered above Alice, shimmering faintly in the gym’s fluorescent lights like fragile dreams waiting to be shattered. She focused intently on maintaining their integrity, her breath steady but strained. In the ethereal silence of the Library of Fate, Pandora leaned back with a wicked grin etched across his face, his golden eyes glinting with malevolence.
“Now, my dear siblings,” Pandora began, his voice a smooth melody of malice, “it’s time I set my plan in motion. Let’s start by killing the Demon King’s daughter, shall we?”
Eden shot to her feet, her fiery aura flaring. “Don’t you dare, Pandora! She isn’t part of this game, and you know it!”
“Oh, but she is now,” Pandora replied, his tone almost gleeful. “The gods who aren’t of this world have chosen to meddle in our little game. Did you honestly think I would settle for removing only the immediate competition? No, no. Every one of those interlopers will perish, Eden.”
Fate’s calm demeanor didn’t waver, though a subtle smirk tugged at his lips as he sipped his tea. “I thought your raid sometime ago was already daring. Two targets seemed ambitious enough, brother. But going after five at once? That’s sheer lunacy.”
Eden’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Five? I only count three, Iris, Maxwell, and Alice. What are you talking about?”
Fate set his teacup down delicately, his voice steady as he explained, “There are six gods involved in this game, each with their champions. The Cosmos, in their meddling, chose two champions, he chose to divide his power into two individuals.”
Eden’s jaw clenched as she processed his words. “Who are these other champions?”
“Frank Stein and Lovecraft,” Fate replied smoothly, his smirk growing wider. “The pawns of the Cosmos.”
“Of course, you’d figure it out,” Pandora interjected, his voice laced with mockery. “But why stop there? Let’s watch as Alice meets her end, shall we?” He raised his hand, his Authority igniting like a sinister flame. “Authority of Error: Error of Reality.”
Back in the gym, the air around Alice’s shimmering bubbles warped and twisted unnaturally. In an instant, the translucent spheres solidified into jagged, weighty rocks. Without warning, they began to plummet toward her. To everyone else, it appeared as though she had completely lost control of her ability.
Gasps and shouts erupted from the bleachers as the stones descended, but before anyone could react, a streak of motion blurred across the court.
Baal moved.
In a heartbeat, he was beside Alice, his massive frame shielding her from the descending rocks. One particularly large stone struck his leg, crushing it with a sickening crunch. The pain was excruciating, but he didn’t falter. His demonic physiology worked swiftly, knitting the shattered bones back together even as he crouched over Alice protectively.
The rocks thudded heavily around them, the sound echoing ominously through the stunned gymnasium. The last stone landed with a deafening crash, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
Alice, overwhelmed by the sudden chaos, fainted in Baal’s arms. Her small frame seemed even more delicate as he scooped her up, carrying her to the bleachers with uncharacteristic gentleness.
Wallace rushed over, his face etched with frustration. “She’s stable,” he muttered after a quick examination, his voice tight with concern. “But this is exactly why I was worried. Her ability isn’t under control.”
Baal sighed, his draconic eyes narrowing. “She’s alive, that’s what matters. But there’s something… off.” He sniffed the air, his lips curling in annoyance. “Something smells awful. Rotten.”
Wallace frowned, glancing around. “What do you mean?”
Baal didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the crushed rocks and the faint, almost imperceptible aura of Pandora’s interference. “It’s nothing,” he muttered at last, his expression hardening. “Just keep an eye on her.”
The gym’s atmosphere remained tense, the other students and teachers shaken by the near-tragedy. But for Baal, the deeper implications were clear—this wasn’t just a game anymore.
In the future, Future Iris leaned back, a triumphant smile spreading across her face as the timeline unfolded exactly as she had predicted. “Well, then,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding, “let’s not waste time. I need to send the message to my past self before this opportunity slips away.”
Superbia smirked, his draconic eyes glowing with malevolent amusement. “Of course, my dear. I am, after all, a man of my word. But don’t get too comfortable. This won’t be the last bet we make. Mark my words—as the sole god of this wretched world, I will make you submit to me.”
Future Iris’s eyes narrowed, her expression dripping with disdain. “You’re such a walking contradiction, it’s almost laughable. You detest how the gods looked down on you, yet you have an insatiable fetish for lording over everyone else. Just listen to yourself—calling yourself a god, as if that title means anything. Honestly? You’re pathetic.”
Superbia’s grin widened, his pride feeding off her fury. “Oh, my dear Iris, that fiery tongue of yours is one of the reasons I find you so delightful. Sticks and stones. Say whatever you want—it doesn’t matter. I’ve already won. This is nothing more than a victory lap for me.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a sinister whisper. “I’m ten steps ahead of you, and you haven’t even figured out what game we’re playing. Go ahead—send your message. But be warned, the other Authority users will see you as well.”
In the present, the gymnasium fell silent as time itself froze. Only those with Authority-type abilities could move. Iris, Maxwell, Baal, and the unconscious Alice remained unaffected by the temporal stasis. The stillness was suffocating, the air heavy with anticipation. Then, in the center of the court, a shimmering figure began to take shape.
Future Iris manifested as an astral projection, her form glowing faintly with temporal energy. Her presence was commanding, her gaze sharp and knowing. To the bystanders frozen in time, she was an enigma. To the Authority users, she was a revelation.
“Iris,” Future Iris said, her voice calm yet urgent, “it’s good to finally meet you.”
Iris blinked, her flames flickering uncertainly. “Are you… me?”
“Yes,” Future Iris replied. “But there’s no time for pleasantries. We need to act quickly.”
Baal’s non-existent eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, his towering presence radiating suspicion. “Who are you, really? I know there’s an Authority of Time, but even its user wouldn’t allow someone to manipulate the past so recklessly.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Maxwell nodded, his swords of light dissipating as he analyzed the situation. “I agree. Superbia isn’t the type to hand over that kind of power.”
Future Iris glanced at them both, a flicker of warmth crossing her face. “Baal, Avaritia—it’s good to see you again. Although, I suppose for you, this is the first time we’re meeting. Time is… complicated.” Her expression hardened as she turned toward Cynthia. “Superbia and I made a deal—not by choice. His plan is about to unfold.”
In the Library of Fate, Pandora slammed his hand on the table, his eyes blazing with fury. “What the hell is this? First Baal interrupts, and now this astral interference? Fate, is this your doing?”
Fate’s usually serene expression faltered, a rare tremor of unease creeping into his voice. “N-no, it’s not me. I… I genuinely have no idea what’s happening. For the first time, I’m completely in the dark.”
Pandora sneered, leaning forward. “Don’t lie to me, brother. If you’re trying to pull some last-minute trick—”
“Enough!” Eden snapped, silencing the argument. Her gaze remained fixed on the shimmering image of Future Iris, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and desperation. “Just listen to what she has to say.”
“The man who attacked this facility has set another plan into motion,” Future Iris said, her voice carrying an edge of exhaustion. “Superbia’s interference has turned what should have been a normal event into utter chaos.”
Iris clenched her fists, her flames flaring brighter. “I knew Anya would ruin everything.”
Future Iris gave a faint, tired smile. “Though she’s untrustworthy, she’s not the cause of the disaster. The true culprit is Cynthia.”
Maxwell’s eyes widened in shock as he turned to his trembling classmate. “Cynthia? What does she have to do with this?”
Future Iris’s projection began to flicker, cracks forming across her astral form. She winced, her time running out. “I don’t have much longer. Be ready—a fight is coming. And to those watching…” Her gaze shifted, piercing through the dimensions to meet the eyes of the gods in the Library. “Don’t delude yourselves into thinking this plan is yours alone. You’re playing his game.”
With that, the projection shattered into countless fragments of light, leaving the gym in stunned silence. The frozen time resumed its flow, the weight of Future Iris’s warning settling heavily over those who understood its implications.
Pandora grinned wickedly, his eyes glinting with malicious delight. “I was going to give a nice, detailed explanation on how to create a Dead Face,” he sneered. “But where’s the fun in that? Everyone panics when a bomb drops unexpectedly. So let’s skip the theatrics and unleash the horror.”
In the gymnasium, all eyes turned toward Cynthia. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp as if trying to pull something unseen out of her mind. Blood trickled from her nose and eyes, the crimson streaks carving paths down her pale, trembling face.
“Cynthia!” Maxwell shouted, rushing toward her, but an invisible force pushed him back. He stumbled, his wings flaring instinctively, unable to get closer.
Within Cynthia’s mind, the torment reached a crescendo. A voice echoed, sharp and cruel, reverberating like shattered glass.
“You pitiful fool,” Caleb’s voice hissed, laced with venom. The ghostly figure of the decapitated boy manifested before her, his lifeless eyes glinting with a sinister glee. “All this time, I’ve tormented you, and you never realized the truth.”
“Why?” Cynthia gasped, her voice raw with desperation. Tears mixed with blood streaked her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Please… just stop.”
Caleb’s form twisted, warping grotesquely until it mirrored Cynthia herself. But this doppelgänger was nightmarish, her skin was gray and rotting, her lips pulled back in a perpetual, decayed grin, her hands clutching her head as if in agony.
“This is the truth,” Caleb—or the figure that now embodied her fears—spoke, its voice distorted. “I’m not the dead one, Cynthia. You are, I never even existed.”
The weight of the revelation crushed her. Memories flooded her mind, the walls of her psyche crumbling under the assault.
A few days before Cynthia entered the Beta Facility.
Cynthia’s world was idyllic, a snapshot of innocence and happiness. She strolled down a nighttime street with her parents, a double-scoop strawberry ice cream cone clutched in her small hands. Her dad held one of her hands while her mom walked alongside them, laughing at a joke her husband had just told. Cynthia beamed, her cheeks flushed with joy as she licked her ice cream.
She didn’t see the man until it was too late.
Bumping into him, she spilled her ice cream onto his chest. Her wide, startled eyes darted up to meet his face. He was strikingly handsome, with medium-length blonde hair framing his face like a movie star. His maroon hoodie with fur trim and his black pants gave him an air of casual sophistication. But it was his eyes—blood-red and filled with disdain—that rooted her in place.
“I’m so sorry,” Cynthia’s mother said quickly, stepping forward with a napkin to clean the man’s hoodie. “Here, let me help.”
The man’s lips curled into a lazy smile, but his gaze was cold and predatory. “Oh, no need to worry about it,” he said, his voice dripping with mock kindness. “Just do me a favor.”
Cynthia’s parents froze, sensing the shift in the air.
“Of course,” her mother said nervously. “What can we do?”
The man’s smile widened into something feral. “Die.”
In a heartbeat, his arm lashed out. His fist collided with Cynthia’s father’s face, tearing his jaw clean off. Blood sprayed across the sidewalk as her dad crumpled, his body convulsing.
“Dad!” Cynthia screamed, frozen in place, her ice cream cone dropping to the ground.
Her mother acted on instinct, scooping Cynthia into her arms and running. “Don’t look back, sweetheart,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “Look at Mom. Just look at Mom.”
Cynthia’s sobs wracked her small frame as she clutched at her mother’s shirt. “Is Dad okay? Mom, is Dad okay?”
Her mother didn’t answer, her breath coming in frantic gasps as she ran.
Behind them, the man—Faker, the embodiment of fear, the Boogeyman, licked the blood from his knuckles, his expression one of pure ecstasy. “Oh, I do love it when they run,” he said, his voice a chilling sing-song. His boot came down on Cynthia’s father’s head with a sickening crunch, the sound echoing in Cynthia’s ears.
Cynthia’s mother sprinted through the dimly lit streets, clutching her child as though her very life depended on it—because it did. Her legs burned, her breath came in ragged gasps, but she dared not stop. Behind her, she could feel the looming presence of something no human could outrun. Faker was a predator, a monster who thrived on fear and despair, and no amount of distance could separate them from his inevitable pursuit.
She rounded a corner, darting past an alleyway, but before she could take another step, a vice-like grip seized her arm. In an instant, she was yanked backward, the force sending her tumbling to the cold, unforgiving ground. Her body shielded Cynthia’s, her arms instinctively wrapping around her daughter in a desperate attempt to protect her.
“Please!” she cried, her voice trembling with raw desperation. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched her child tightly. “Please don’t hurt my daughter. Do whatever you want to me, just leave her alone!”
Faker crouched before them, his expression a grotesque mockery of sympathy. He tilted his head, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as he reached out, gripping Cynthia’s mother by the chin. His touch was cold, inhuman, and she shivered under his gaze.
“Oh, those sweet, sweet words,” Faker cooed, his voice dripping with malice. “You’re not the first to beg like this, you know. Mothers say the same thing every time, as if it’ll change anything. Let me show you how much it doesn’t.”
His arm began to bubble and writhe, the flesh twisting unnaturally until it formed a grotesque totem pole of miniature, decapitated heads. Each face was that of a crying woman, their frozen expressions twisted in anguish. There were at least twenty-five of them, their dead eyes staring blankly ahead.
In a sickeningly harmonious chorus, the heads spoke: “Please don’t hurt my daughter. Do whatever you want to me, just leave her alone.”
The sound was like nails scraping against glass, an echo of despair so profound it chilled her to her core. Cynthia’s mother recoiled in horror, her wide eyes locked on the abomination before her. Her mind screamed that this was a nightmare, but no waking would come.
Realizing the futility of reason, she did the only thing she could. “Cynthia, run!” she shouted, her voice breaking as she released her grip on her daughter. “Run, baby, please run!”
Tears streamed down Cynthia’s cheeks as she stumbled to her feet, her small legs carrying her as far and as fast as they could. She glanced back only once, her mother’s desperate cries urging her forward.
Faker let out a theatrical sigh, his voice tinged with mock disappointment. “What a shame,” he said, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his maroon hoodie. “They always say the same thing. But sometimes, the kids fight back. It’s adorable, really.”
The heads on his grotesque arm shifted, morphing into the faces of children, their expressions twisted with fear and defiance. In eerie unison, they spoke: “Leave my mother alone. Get away, you monster.”
Cynthia’s mother screamed, her desperation turning to fury as she threw herself at Faker. She clawed, punched, and kicked, each movement fueled by a primal instinct to protect her child. Faker didn’t even flinch. With a bored expression, he raised his hands and clapped them together with a deafening crack.
Her head exploded between his palms, the sound akin to a watermelon smashed with sledgehammers. Blood sprayed in every direction, painting the walls and ground in crimson. Her lifeless body crumpled to the ground, a grotesque testament to her love and sacrifice.
Cynthia’s legs gave out as she tripped on the uneven pavement. Before she could rise, Faker was upon her. He grabbed her by the collar of her dress, lifting her off the ground effortlessly. She dangled like a broken doll, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“Sweet dreams,” Faker whispered, his voice soft and mocking. “Goodnight.”
In one swift, brutal motion, his hand blurred. Cynthia’s head fell to the ground with a dull thud, her body collapsing moments later. Blood pooled around her small frame, soaking into the cracks of the concrete.
Faker stood over the lifeless bodies, his smile as wide as ever. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of death and despair. “They aren’t even worth eating,” he mused, flicking a speck of blood from his sleeve. “But they’ll make for a lovely little message. The public should be properly terrified.”
With that, Faker turned and walked away, leaving behind a scene of unimaginable horror. His laughter echoed through the empty streets, a chilling reminder of the monster that had taken everything from Cynthia in the span of mere moments.
Cynthia fell to her knees, clutching her head as if trying to physically hold herself together. Blood streamed from her nose and eyes, mingling with her tears. Her breathing turned ragged, each gasp carrying the weight of her fractured psyche. Around her, the gym seemed to darken, the fluorescent lights dimming as if consumed by the encroaching shadow of her unraveling self.
A flicker of darkness danced across her face, an eerie light that twisted and churned like a living thing. Her veins pulsed with a sickly purple glow, creeping across her pale skin like cracks in porcelain. Her body convulsed as the energy within her built to a crescendo, uncontainable and desperate for release.
“Help me!” Cynthia cried, her voice a fractured wail that reverberated across the court.
The surrounding air grew heavy, oppressive, filled with the overwhelming stench of rot and decay. Then, with a bone-rattling roar, a barrier erupted from her. The dark energy surged outward, forming a dome that enclosed the court in an impenetrable shroud of death energy. The barrier hissed and crackled, its surface swirling with black tendrils that lashed out like serpents.
Inside the barrier, Maxwell, Iris, and Anya froze, their instincts screaming at them to prepare for the worst. The energy was suffocating, oppressive in its malevolence.
“Cynthia, no!” Maxwell shouted, his wings flaring as he stepped toward her.
But it was too late.
Cynthia rose to her feet, her movements jerky and unnatural. Her face was obscured by the darkness, her features consumed by the shadowy mass that writhed and twisted around her like a living void. Her once-kind eyes were gone, replaced by empty, glowing voids that oozed malice. The veins on her arms glowed brighter, her hands now claw-like, dripping with black energy that seemed to devour the very air around them.
Tendrils of death energy shot out from her, writhing like snakes, leaving trails of decay wherever they touched. The floor beneath her feet blackened and cracked, the gymnasium creaking ominously, as if the structure itself were recoiling from her presence.
From the infinite expanse of the library, Pandora leaned forward in his chair, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Now this is what I was waiting for. Watch closely, siblings. Watch as your precious children drop dead, one by one.”