Deep within a hidden facility in Japan, a lone woman sat in the dim glow of flickering pink flames. The room was lavish yet intimate—a sanctuary dedicated to her devotion. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and faint incense, mingling with something more unnatural, something unspoken.

  The bed, adorned in crimson silk sheets, stood at the room’s center, surrounded by numerous tall candles, each flame burning in a haunting shade of pink. Their glow reflected off the hundreds of photographs plastered across the walls, each featuring the same person.

  Michello.

  Some were candid shots, clearly taken without his knowledge—images of him walking, fighting, even covered in blood. Others were of his rare moments of stillness, his face caught in moments of unreadable contemplation.

  At the center of the display was a handwritten note, framed in ornate gold, preserved like a sacred relic.

  “For my Lady Shrine Maiden, With Devotion – Michello”

  A soft sigh escaped the woman's lips as she approached the wall, her long, manicured fingers tracing the edges of one particular photo—one of Michello mid-battle, drenched in the blood of his enemies, a grin of unfiltered joy stretched across his face.

  Her deep orange eyes, speckled with golden flecks, glimmered with adoration as she blew a gentle kiss to the image.

  She wore a long red dress, the fabric clinging to her graceful form like flowing blood. Freckles dusted her pale complexion, though they were slightly obscured by the soft shadows cast by the candlelight.

  Her hair, a cascading wave of white streaked with red, fell down her back like painted silk. Two white ribbon-like earrings adorned her ears, delicate yet strangely ominous in their resemblance to ceremonial bindings.

  And then, there was her scar—a thin, precise line running around her head like a crown of old wounds.

  With a final, affectionate glance at the photo, she stepped away from her shrine, her expression shifting from wistful longing to serene authority.

  She pushed open the door, stepping into the dimly lit corridor, where a meeting chamber awaited her.

  Inside, her Cardinals stood in disciplined silence, waiting for her arrival.

  The moment she entered, all five of them bowed in unison.

  “We greet you, Madame Shrine Maiden,” they intoned in perfect synchronization, their voices a harmonious blend of reverence and devotion.

  But the woman—Lucille—only chuckled lightly, waving her hand with a fond, almost playful dismissal.

  “There’s no need to lower yourselves,” she said, her voice warm, yet carrying an undertone of quiet power. Her gaze softened as she turned to one Cardinal in particular. “Especially not you, my dear Michello.”

  Michello stood at the center of the group, his grin widening as he straightened his posture, the others still remaining in their respectful stance.

  “What seems to be the issue, my Lady?” Michello asked, tilting his head slightly, curiosity glinting in his pink eye.

  Lucille stepped forward gracefully, her hands clasped together in a manner that mirrored a prayer—but was something far more dangerous.

  “The world of the dead is about to change greatly,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of something inevitable. “Our goddess has foreseen it. The balance is shifting, and soon, those who have perished with wicked hearts shall bear the reflection of their corruption upon their very forms.”

  Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

  “Many of the dead will suffer.”

  A hush fell over the room, the weight of her words sinking into each of the Cardinals. Even the ever-carefree Mio lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening around the portable console in her hands.

  Michello, however, only exhaled softly, his amusement dimming, replaced by something far sharper.

  “My Lady, as someone who can freely interact with the dead, what shall I do?” he asked, his voice unwavering.

  Lucille smiled, though there was something almost sorrowful in the way she looked at him.

  “I hear you’ve become acquainted with a particular group,” she said, her voice laced with knowing. “Do your best to defend them.”

  Michello blinked, before a chuckle rumbled from his throat. “You mean the lost lambs?” he mused. “A strange assignment, but I suppose I enjoy the occasional act of charity.”

  Lucille’s smile remained, but there was something deeper in her gaze—something unreadable.

  “That is your mission,” she said softly. “You will be spending more time in the United States from now on.”

  Lucille’s head tilted slightly, her long, silken hair cascading over her shoulder as she let out a breath, a mixture of affection and disappointment entwined.

  Lucille exhaled softly, her fingers trailing against the polished wood of the table before her. The candlelight flickered around her, casting long, elegant shadows that made her presence feel all the more ethereal—almost dreamlike.

  “It’s truly a shame, we will forced to be separated” she murmured, her voice laced with a distant lament, as though she were mourning something not yet lost, but slipping away nonetheless.

  Her smile remained, but it carried the weight of sorrow.

  As though she was sending away something she cherished.

  Michello, for once, did not grin.

  Instead, he took a knee before her, the fabric of his coat pooling around him as he bowed his head in reverence. The usual mischief that danced in his pink eye was gone—replaced by something solemn. Devoted. Absolute.

  “Of course, my lady,” he intoned, his voice unwavering. “Whatever you desire, I will carry it out. Use me as your chess piece in whatever move you wish—whether I must be sacrificed for your victory, or be the one to slay the king on your behalf.”

  He looked up at her then, his expression one of fierce loyalty, unwavering faith.

  “I will accomplish your will.”

  Lucille tilted her head, watching him with something between amusement and genuine fondness.

  Then, she leaned in slightly, lowering herself just enough for her breath to ghost against the top of his bowed head.

  “You truly are my most loyal follower…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, after a brief pause—“Can I get a kiss before you go?”

  Michello stiffened, his entire body freezing in place.

  “My—My lady, I could never—”

  A violent flush spread across his face, his usual confidence crumbling in an instant. He scrambled to compose himself, gripping his knees as if physically restraining his own embarrassment.

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  Lucille let out a soft, musical laugh, her deep orange eyes gleaming with mirth.

  “So easy to tease,” she cooed, straightening as she placed a finger against her lips in playful contemplation.

  The air shifted then—lighthearted amusement giving way to cold, calculated authority.

  Her expression sobered, and when she next spoke, her voice carried the weight of an empress, not a woman teasing her favored knight.

  “The rest of you,” she addressed the Cardinals, her gaze sweeping over them like an unshakable decree, “continue our operations within Japan. The country is nearly under our control. We’ve worked too hard for any disruptions.”

  She turned slightly, her red dress flowing with the motion. A queen commanding her court.

  “Once we have completed our hold here… we will begin expanding our influence to the rest of the world.”

  The room fell into silence.

  Then—

  “Yes, my lady,” the Cardinals answered in perfect unison, bowing once more.

  Their voices were not those of mere followers—but of a choir dedicated to her divine will.

  The Night Parade had always been a sanctuary—a fleeting reprieve for the dead, a single night where they could exist free from the terror of the Fallen. It was the one time of the year where they were safe.

  But that night—that fragile peace was shattered.

  Across the world, the wicked dead began to twist.

  Those whose souls had been blackened in life morphed into monstrosities, their spiritual bodies unraveling and reforming into grotesque, abhorrent shapes.

  The sky itself seemed to darken, the once-celebratory crimson glow of the Blood Moon now casting a shadow more ominous than festive.

  And within the heart of the Night Parade, where music and laughter had filled the air only moments ago, a nightmare unfolded.

  Satisiel’s brush froze mid-stroke, the unfinished painting before him forgotten. His piercing blue eyes flickered toward the disturbance, his gaze locking onto the scene unfolding in the distance.

  There—running through the chaos—he saw Arthur and Emelia.

  And behind them, a monstrous entity that had once been a man.

  Arthur’s father—Oscar—his body now twisted, his flesh a writhing nightmare of pulsating eyes and shifting, living wood, chasing after his son with unrelenting hunger.

  Satisiel exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment before turning toward the others.

  Hugo, Eliza, and Roxanne had noticed the chaos as well.

  “What the hell is going on?!” Hugo shouted, his voice rising in panic as the world spiraled into madness around them.

  “I don’t know!” Arthur yelled back, his breath ragged as he clutched Emelia close. But we need to run!

  His grip tightened around her as he whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, Emelia. Just don’t let go.”

  And then—the world fell apart.

  All around them, the dead began to change.

  Their spiritual forms warped and fractured, shifting like grotesque sculptures melting and reshaping—some growing additional limbs, others losing their human features altogether.

  Torsos split open to reveal rows of jagged teeth, fingers elongated into claws, and hollowed-out eyes glowed with an unnatural, malignant light.

  A twisted symphony of agonized wails and guttural growls filled the air, drowning out the once-festive sounds of the Night Parade.

  Satisiel’s expression darkened as he took in the scene. “What a horrid sight,” he murmured. His fingers twitched slightly as he gripped his paintbrush, the blue paint glowing faintly in response.

  “I knew it was possible for the dead to become monsters—but only under very specific conditions.” His sharp gaze flickered across the chaos, analyzing, calculating. “This… this is unnatural.”

  “What do you mean?” Roxanne asked, panic creeping into her voice. Her fingers curled into trembling fists. “Am I going to become a monster too?!”

  Satisiel hummed thoughtfully, as if considering the possibility. “No, of course not…” He paused. “I hope.”

  Roxanne’s eyes widened. “You hope?!”

  Satisiel sighed. “If a ghost haunts a specific location long enough, they can be warped by rumors—their bodies shifting to match the stories told about them. However, outside of Japan, such things are extremely rare.”

  “Fascinating,” he added, even though monsters were actively devouring the Night Parade behind him.

  Eliza clicked her tongue, visibly trying to suppress the growing anxiety in her chest. “Less talking, more moving,” she snapped. “Can you defend us, angel?”

  Satisiel let out a breathy chuckle, the usual serenity returning to his face. “Of course.” He twirled his paintbrush between his fingers, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “You dare doubt me?”

  Arthur suddenly stopped running.

  Carefully, he lowered Emelia to the ground.

  “Arthur?” Emelia’s voice wavered, her eyes widening in concern.

  Arthur’s hands curled into fists.

  “…I have to be the one to end this.”

  Eliza whipped around, eyes blazing with fury. “That’s suicide, you idiot!”

  Arthur didn’t look at her. His shoulders were rigid, his breath steady.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  His voice was quiet—but it carried the weight of something final.

  Arthur lifted his gaze, staring at the monstrous figure of his father.

  “I have to do this,” he said.

  “That’s my father.”

  His eyes burned with something fierce.

  “I will be the one to end the cycle of pain he’s caused.”

  And before anyone could stop him—

  Arthur reached out and snatched Satisiel’s paintbrush.

  Satisiel blinked.

  “…What?”

  “You can’t just use my paintbrush,” Satisiel said, his expression flickering with mild confusion. “You’re human—it won’t work.”

  Arthur smiled.

  It was small—subtle—but filled with unshaken certainty.

  “…I have a feeling it will.”

  And with that—he stepped forward.

  Toward the monster.

  Toward his father.

  Toward the end of the cycle.

  Arthur strode forward, his footsteps steady despite the chaos unraveling around him.

  His father—no, the monster that had once been his father—stood before him, a grotesque monument of corruption, shifting and writhing with every step. A mass of twisting, unblinking eyes, his flesh resembling something between rotting wood and the writhing bodies of maggots.

  Arthur twirled Satisiel’s paintbrush in his fingers, feeling the weight of it, the power it contained. It pulsed in his grasp, glowing faintly—an artifact meant only for the hands of an angel. A divine treasure.

  And yet—it obeyed him.

  Arthur gazed at his father with nothing but cold disdain.

  A manipulative drunk.

  A parasite.

  A bastard who had done nothing but destroy.

  His grip tightened.

  The soft glow of the paintbrush shifted—from tranquil blue to a violent, searing red.

  The color of rage.

  The color of retribution.

  Arthur’s breath was even, controlled. His voice, however, was cold.

  “Goodbye…”

  He barely whispered it—

  “Father.”

  Oscar lunged.

  A monstrous blur of shifting, pulsating horror launched itself at him, tendrils of twisted flesh stretching forward, claws reaching, mouths within the mass gnashing hungrily.

  Arthur didn’t flinch.

  With a single, precise stroke of the paintbrush—

  Crimson blades erupted forth.

  A storm of violent, burning red.

  The paint slashed through Oscar’s monstrous form, each stroke severing and tearing away chunks of his body, the divine energy burning away the corruption like acid against diseased flesh.

  Oscar screamed.

  A guttural, rage-filled, dying wail.

  His limbs shredded apart, his writhing, grotesque form collapsing inward, breaking piece by piece.

  And still—Arthur didn’t stop.

  Another stroke. Another. Another.

  Each painting a cut into existence, each severing another piece of the monster who had once haunted him.

  By the end of it—there was barely anything left.

  Oscar collapsed, his body a broken mess of slashed corruption, his many eyes wide, filled with something strange—not fear. Not sorrow. Just… emptiness.

  His grotesque form began to disintegrate, black smoke curling from his wounds, consuming what little remained of him.

  Arthur stepped forward, his expression unmoving.

  He stood over what was left of his father, watching the last shreds of his body fade into nothingness.

  Arthur exhaled softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Goodnight.”

  His eyes darkened.

  “Wherever you’re going—I hope you suffer for all your sins.”

  Then—without hesitation, without remorse—

  Arthur stomped on his fading skull.

  The last piece of Oscar disintegrated, vanishing into a wisp of black smoke.

  And just like that—

  It was over.