The stars over Kuoh Town flickered dimly, as if uncertain whether they should shine in the presence of something far older, far more dreadful, than themselves. In the quiet suburbs, the world moved on obliviously — humans laughing, cars humming along, faint music drifting from open windows. Ordinary life. Blissfully ignorant.
Yet tonight, an ancient shadow drifted among them.
Amon, the fallen archangel, the Blasphemer who had once deceived even Yahweh himself, moved without sound. His polished monocle caught the glint of a distant streetlamp, a singular, elegant imperfection in an otherwise perfect disguise. His cane tapped lightly on the concrete, yet no ear could hear it. His tailored black suit, gloves, and tie all seemed immaculate, untouched by the mundane filth of the mortal world.
Amon wasn't just passing through. He was hunting.
And his prey was a human boy — Issei Hyoudou. The Red Dragon Emperor.
He watched Issei from afar, perched atop a rooftop like a solitary star refusing to fade. The boy was painfully average on the surface — lecherous, immature, obsessed with women — but hidden within him was power, ancient and cosmic. A Sacred Gear like no other. A perfect vessel for Amon's plans.
Amon didn't intend to claim Issei in a flash of violence or overt magic. No, his methods were subtler. He would embed a piece of himself, a parasitic fragment, inside the boy's soul, manipulating him from within. Silent. Unseen.
For Amon, it was like breathing.
As Issei slept, dreaming of oppai and nonsense, Amon whispered ancient rites under his breath. A golden thread of light, invisible to normal senses, slipped from Amon's gloved hand and snaked toward the sleeping boy, weaving itself into Issei's very being.
And it would have succeeded — had Amon's name not already become a living nightmare to the supernatural world.
Unbeknownst to him, Azazel — Governor-General of the Fallen Angels, his brother in the ancient hierarchy — had long been preparing for this. Ever since the first rumors spread — tales of a figure with a monocle, leaving gods broken, kings weeping, fates twisted beyond repair — Azazel had known.
Only one being could match those terrifying whispers: Amon.
Azazel had feared this day. His own "brother," the angel born alongside Michael and himself, now roamed the earth once more. Amon, the Error. The Blasphemer.The one who had once fooled even Yahweh — the source of the heavens themselves — into believing a lie so perfect that it led to the collapse of entire realms.
Azazel's technology was state-of-the-art, mixing science and magic. A detection system designed not for demons, not for devils, but for something infinitely worse: a being who could deceive reality itself.
And when Azazel's device triggered earlier that night — flashing red, screaming about "Reality Distortion Anomaly: Error Entity Detected" — he had grabbed his gear without hesitation.
Now, hidden across the street, Azazel watched through a specialized lens. His heart pounded.
He saw him.
The monocle glint. The cane. The unearthly precision of his every move.
There could be no mistake.
"Amon..." Azazel whispered under his breath, feeling the old, buried dread crawl up his spine.
He had always admired Amon once. Back when they had both sung Yahweh's praises. Back when the Throne of Heaven had seemed unbreakable. But when Yahweh fell silent — murdered or vanished after the Great War — Azazel had pieced it together: Amon had been the fault line, the error in the divine architecture.
Amon had not rebelled with anger, like Lucifer. He had smiled. And the heavens had cracked.
Azazel clutched a small metallic cube in his palm — his failsafe. A parasite extractor, designed for exactly this scenario. He could not afford hesitation.
Waiting for the perfect moment, Azazel focused his will.
A thin pulse of anti-parasitic magic, masked under layers of normal mana, lanced toward Issei's bedroom.
Inside, the golden thread that Amon had so carefully woven began to vibrate unnaturally. It wavered. Unraveled.
Amon's eyes narrowed.
He sensed it immediately.
Someone was interfering.
Amon adjusted his monocle with the faintest smile. Of course, it would be Azazel. His brother had always been one step behind — never ignorant, but never quick enough to truly match Amon's wits.
Still, Amon had not expected intervention so soon. He underestimated how deeply the fear of him had etched itself into the surviving archangels' bones.
The thread of light snapped in a flash.
Issei stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about "big oppai" and rolling over, unharmed — oblivious to how close he had come to becoming the avatar of a deceiver.
Amon stepped back into the shadows, calm, composed. Failure was a word he did not recognize. Every move, every loss, was part of a larger design.
Tonight had been a test.
Now he knew the resistance he faced. Now he knew Azazel had prepared.
Good.
It would make the eventual victory sweeter.
From across the street, Azazel saw Amon disappear into the night — not teleporting, not vanishing by spell. It was as if reality itself gently folded around him, allowing him to slip between the seams of existence.
Azazel exhaled slowly, lowering his device.
He had stopped the immediate threat, but it was a hollow victory.
Amon would return. He always did. And the next time, he would be ready for Azazel's tricks.
Azazel touched the cross-shaped pendant under his shirt — a relic from the old days, a reminder of when things were simpler, when betrayal wasn't an inevitable conclusion.
"Why, brother?" Azazel whispered into the empty street. "Why do you keep walking this path?"
There was no answer.
There never would be.
Only the whisper of the night, and the faint memory of a smile that had deceived the heavens themselves.