A voice, indistinct and low, echoed from a speaker in a darkened room.
"Yes, sir."
"I understand, sir."
The door creaked open, casting a narrow beam of light into the darkness. Four figures stepped inside. As they entered, lights flickered on one by one, leading from the doorway to the far end of the room. The newcomers were Inanagi, Graviel, Nebeliel, and Epher.
Kneeling before a computer was a massive man clad in heavy, bronze-colored armor. He did not rise at their approach.
"General…" Inanagi spoke firmly.
The General turned his head slightly, just enough to reveal the shaven side of his face.
"I presume the mission was a failure?" His voice was deep, steady, and controlled.
"Yes. The boy's power is escalating faster than we anticipated," Inanagi replied.
The General turned fully now, allowing only those four to see his face.
"Graviel. Nebeliel. You were injured?" he asked. Before they could answer, he cut them off. "You two of all people?" The weight of his words left them silent and ashamed.
"That boy destroyed one of my Rice Puppets using a technique called 'Spear,'" Inanagi continued.
"'Spear'? You're telling me a javelin did that much damage?" the General asked, serious despite the blunt phrasing.
"No, it was worse. He survived the collapse of Graviel's wormhole," she said. At that, the General's expression changed—sharpened.
"Ah… you don't say?"
She nodded. "The Founder has ordered us to eliminate Alma Alastor. His existence is too dangerous. You've all seen what the future holds."
They nodded, unified in understanding.
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"Today we end him—and the threat he poses to modernity. To humanity itself. Get in touch with Kojo and…"
---
November 19th, 1955.
A day had passed since that devastating encounter. Alma sat quietly in a house tucked deep in the woods. It was the last building in the abandoned sector of the city—and the only one left without a Power Core. Being the furthest from the others, he had planned to deal with it last.
And they knew that.
The attack still puzzled him. It wasn't just the ambush. It was the woman—those "Rice Puppets." That detail lingered in his mind like a headache.
They must have predicted his route. Or maybe… something inside Jirbil had changed. But what really gnawed at him was the lack of agents. No backup. No enhanced soldiers. Just four. It felt underwhelming—almost insulting to his strength and skill.
That thought stuck with him. Maybe it was all misdirection. Or maybe it was the truth. Maybe Alma was just overthinking it all.
Still, even in the most stressful moments, Alma kept a level head. The only exception had been the day his parents died—when he broke down in that mall. Since then, though… something had shifted.
Something had been set into motion.
Emotions tangled inside him. Ever since the tragedy with his parents last year, Alma had been a storm of raw feelings. The most dominant was desperation. Beneath that: determination. And buried deeper, unease.
No matter the day—bright, cheerful, or calm—those three emotions remained.
Constant. Unchanging. Permanent.
Tomorrow, Alma would turn sixteen. And for the first time in his life, he would spend it completely alone. Maybe he was too focused on destroying Jirbil to notice the date. Maybe nothing else mattered anymore. But one thing was certain:
He didn't care.
Every facility he had marked was gone—crossed off his list. No more leads. No more targets. He had no evidence of other Jirbil operations—nothing beyond North Carolina.
The only clue suggesting more existed came from Simon. But Alma couldn't trust that traitor.
The day had just begun. Gray clouds hung overhead, smothering the sun above the North Carolina capital.
And that's when Alma realized: none of the facilities had been in, or even near, Raleigh.
Not one.
There had to be something hidden there. At least one.
He drove toward the capital, determined to uncover what Jirbil was still hiding—and, with any luck, to find the truth.
---
Hours later, Alma arrived in the heart of Raleigh. It had been a long time since he'd walked among people. As he moved through the city, headlines caught his eye.
"The Tragedy of '54."
"Killer Teen on the Run After Killing His Parents and Close Ones."
As he suspected, they had blamed him. It hurt—but he understood how they came to that conclusion. Maybe if he'd stayed. Maybe if he'd explained things to the police or the school.
But that was the past.
Jirbil still needed to be destroyed.
There was just one problem: Alma didn't know what he was looking for. This hidden facility—if it existed—could be disguised as anything. A food stand. An apartment complex. Hell, even a shoe, on the more ridiculous end of possibilities.
Still, he pushed forward. Cautiously.
Anyone he passed could recognize him. One wrong move, and he'd have law enforcement chasing him on top of Jirbil.
But that didn't matter.
He wasn't going to stop.
After hours of searching the city, Alma found nothing. No sign of Jibril. No evidence to support his theory. Nothing. Everything appeared normal.
He was about to leave—unwilling to risk being seen in public—when a church in the center of the capital caught his eye. It was larger than most he'd seen, though not cathedral-sized. Still, its size set it apart.
A sign stood beside it: Witnesses of Archangel Gabriel.
He had no evidence this was the hidden facility he was looking for. But deep down, he knew. This was it.
Alma parked nearby and approached on foot. The parking lot was empty. A small notice said the church only opened on Sundays.
"Only one day to praise the Lord?" Alma muttered, then pushed the thought aside.
He tried the front doors—locked. He circled the building, checking for open windows or an unlocked entrance. Nothing. Finally, he smashed a window.
"If this church is truly innocent, forgive me, Father," Alma whispered sincerely before climbing through the jagged opening.
Inside, it was dark. The stained glass let in no light. Strange—no one was here. Not even to prepare for Sunday service. The unease in his gut deepened. This was the place.
He searched the building from top to bottom, flicking on wall-mounted lights as he went. Minutes passed. No hidden levers. No secret doors. Just another dead end.
But the feeling only grew stronger. Something was here.
He walked up to the pulpit. Using his machete, he pried open the wooden panels of the lectern. Tucked among a tangled mess of wires was a lever.
Alma pulled it.
He heard the heavy clunk of released mechanisms and the grinding of unseen gears. The pulpit—minus the steps—sank slowly into the floor.
An elevator.
It descended into a sterile hallway of seamless white walls, floor, and ceiling—pristine and unnaturally spotless. Alma had never seen material like this. Not even the wealthy had anything comparable. It was futuristic. Out of place.
He passed several identical doors. He needed to secure the area before investigating further. Ahead, the hallway split—right to another door like those behind him, left to a pair of opaque glass doors.
His gut pulled him left.
He walked forward. The glass doors slid open. The lights inside flickered on.
What he saw stopped him cold—nostalgia, fear, and confusion crashing into him all at once.
There it stood: his Pulse Driver. The very device he had built as a child to send Jack test answers in elementary school, back when their teacher had caught on to their usual tricks.
"I built this when I was nine… Gave Jack a Pulse Terminal to receive the signals," Alma said, almost laughing. "He still managed to miss the easiest question on that test."
But his amusement faded into dread.
How was the machine here?
Jack hadn't needed it since fifth grade. Alma had destroyed it—no blueprints, no digital backups. It had existed solely in his mind.
And yet, here it was. Not just a similar device—an exact replica. Every screw, every weld, every joint identical.
But... there were mistakes. Slight imperfections, like someone had followed a blueprint they didn't fully understand.
The implications were chilling.
Jibril had been watching him. Maybe not from birth—but for a very long time.
Alma left the room and took the other path. Through the next door, he entered a massive server chamber, humming with power.
Under his feet: a glass floor revealing three more subterranean levels filled with endless rows of servers and computers.
In the room's center hovered a large display above a circular console. The system was unlocked.
He looked for a map. A name. Anything to guide him.
The church above sat atop a hidden complex vast enough to fit twenty Air Force hangars. That was the closest comparison Alma could make. And beneath this very room was that sprawling expanse—home to every member of Jibril.
If they discovered him here… he'd face all of them.
He moved the cursor. Opened the file directory.
There were more files than he could count—more than even the massive archive Simon had unlocked for him.
Thinking of Simon, Alma typed his name into the search bar. Nothing.
No matches.
Either Simon was an alias… or he was far more dangerous than Alma had realized.
Next, he searched Kojo.
One file appeared. He clicked it.
---
SUBJECT: KOJO SURIN NUUR
Name: Kojo Surin Nuur
Alias(es): "The Conductor," "Ionstorm," "The Fourth Spark"
Age: 18
Date of Birth: January 23, 1937
Status: Active
Classification: Tier 5 Chemical – Elemental-Type Variant
Primary Ability: Electro-Plasma Manipulation
— Generates, channels, and weaponizes hyper-ionized energy
— Capable of magnetizing fields, disrupting signals, and melting reinforced alloys within seconds
— Unstable under emotional distress; requires regulator gear or meditative discipline
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 5-WO
Designation: Plasmonucleic Compound (Codename: Nova Thread)
Effect: Induces cellular overcharge and restructures nervous energy patterns
Compatibility Rate: 97% (exceptionally high)
Side Effects:
— Temporary nerve desensitization
— Emotional suppression
— Phantom limb sensation during surge episodes
Background Summary:
Kojo Surin Nuur is of Jamaican descent. His parents immigrated to the United States in 1944. In a failed containment breach at Sector Delta, Kojo was exposed to Chemical 4-WO. While most—including his parents—either perished or mutated, Kojo adapted, becoming the only stable host of the compound. His powers emerged days later—violent, unpredictable.
Since then, he has been monitored, trained, and kept out of official records. It is believed Kojo's existence may hold the key to the "Fourth Chain Reaction," a theorized event that could connect all chemical anomalies to a single ignition point.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: High
EMP: Suppressed
Loyalty Index: 74%
Instability Risk: Moderate
Notes: "Kojo's mind operates like a storm: calm above, chaos underneath. He feels everything, even when he pretends not to."
Alma stared at Kojo's file, stunned. This information hadn't appeared on the previous terminal—not even a trace. Kojo was invisible in the system until now. Even the files on Elias and Ilene hadn't revealed this much.
But Alma smiled.
Kojo had a weakness.
He began scrolling through the rest of the database. Most of the profiles meant nothing to him—defeated, irrelevant. All except one.
SUBJECT: ELINOR FINLEY
Name: Elinor Finley
Alias(es): "Verdant Warden," "Bloomwitch"
Age: 20
Date of Birth: May 19th, 1935
Status: Under Surveillance
Classification: Tier 7 Chemical: Organic-Type Variant
Primary Ability: Vegetation Manipulation
Full biome control over plant life within a 30-meter radius.
Can accelerate growth, animate vines, and sprout flora from inorganic surfaces.
Exhibits empathic resonance with surrounding plant ecosystems.
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 7-SB
Designation: Sylvibiotic Strain Beta (Codename: Verdant Pulse)
Effect: Induces neuro-symbiosis with botanical lifeforms.
Compatibility Rate: 89%
Side Effects:
Mild photosensitivity
Chlorophyll pigmentation along arms and neck
Brief loss of consciousness after extreme overgrowth events
Background Summary:
Elinor was discovered after a freak wildfire left an entire hillside untouched—except for a spiraling grove of unnatural vegetation at its heart. Witnesses described vines "moving like serpents" and "flowers blooming mid-air." She was later linked to a tree found growing through a car in 1941 and subsequently brought in for containment. She refuses to speak of her past. Mutation time unknown—possibly exposed to Chemical 8-SB.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: Above Average
EMP: Very High
Loyalty Index: 58%
Instability Risk: Low
Notes: "Elinor doesn't trust easily, but her control is surgical. She treats every root and seed like it's alive—and maybe, under her, it is."
Secondary Ability: Regeneration
Rapid cellular reconstruction of damaged tissue, including limbs, organs, and bone.
Can survive otherwise fatal wounds and recover within minutes.
Possible immortality under study.
Alma narrowed his eyes. Would regeneration still work if her brains were blown out? A question worth testing.
He moved on.
SUBJECT: GRAVIEL
Name: Graviel Specter
Alias(es): "Eventfall," "The Voidwalker," "Subject 4-RX"
Age: 21
Date of Birth: December 21st, 1934
Status: Black-Level Clearance Only
Classification: Tier 4 Chemical: Spatial-Type Variant
Primary Ability: Gravity Manipulation & Dimensional Tearing
Alters gravitational intensity in localized or wide zones (compression, inversion, suspension).
Can summon micro singularities to destabilize terrain or targets.
Capable of opening wormholes—ranging from subatomic portals to large-scale gates.
Offensive Use: Collapses matter into dimensional rifts.
Utility: Instant teleportation across line-of-sight or memorized coordinates.
Exhibits quantum-level spatial awareness.
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 3-RX
Designation: Graviton Reactive Extract (Codename: Void Pulse)
Effect: Binds to neural centers responsible for depth perception and spatial orientation, altering physical interaction with gravitational fields. Usage requires advanced comprehension of mathematics and astronomy.
Compatibility Rate: 92%
Side Effects:
Dizziness, spatial dissociation after extended teleportation
Nosebleeds, ocular pressure spikes
Time-lag hallucinations during extreme wormhole manipulation
Rumored to "see places that don't exist yet"
Background Summary:
Graviel emerged after the Eventfall Incident in Quadrant 9—where gravity reversed across three city blocks, crushing 118 civilians against the sky. Surveillance showed a calm, barefoot figure walking amid the devastation before vanishing into a wormhole.
Classified records confirm he was the final subject injected with Chemical 3-RX—an unstable substance originally developed for planetary defense. Graviel is deemed a strategic threat on a continental scale. Monitoring is to be conducted solely via AI drones or remote agents.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: Exceptionally High — egotism frequently obstructs higher reasoning
EMP: Low
Loyalty Index: 80%
Instability Risk: Critical
Notes:
"Graviel doesn't think in terms of floors, walls, or directions. To him, everything is a surface—or a door."
"He doesn't kill out of cruelty. He just enjoys removing you from the equation."
Alma hadn't given Graviel enough credit.
He knew Graviel was smart—too smart, in fact—but the boy's ego constantly tripped over his own genius. Still, Alma couldn't help the creeping thought that Graviel might actually be dumber than him. Whether that was truth or vanity whispering, he didn't know.
What disturbed him more than Graviel's intellect, though, were the A.I. drones in these files.
Real-time surveillance. Pattern recognition. Algorithmic behavioral tracking... in 1954?
Alma narrowed his eyes. These weren't the crude machines he was used to—these were elegant, quiet sentinels hovering in the dark like ghosts with wires. Machines that didn't hum. That didn't blink. That didn't sleep.
How far ahead was J.I.B.R.I.L.?
He shook the thought and opened the next file.
"SUBJECT: EPHER VONNEL
Name: Epher Vonnel
Alias(es): "Stonewake," "The Faultline"
Age: 19
Date of Birth: September 3rd, 1936
Status: Active
Classification: Tier 6 Chemical – Geokinetic-Type Variant
Primary Ability: Earth Manipulation & Structural Reconstruction
Total control over soil, stone, clay, sand, and metals from natural ore.
Able to shift terrain instantly—trap, crush, or shield.
Weapon and armor generation from ground matter.
Can harden her skin into a stony exoskeleton under duress.
Localized seismic pulses and targeted tremors.
Shows early signs of geo-sensory vision—perceives density and vibration through terrain.
---
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 5-FK
Designation: Ferro-Kinetic Serum (Codename: Tectonic Vein)
Effect: Mineral-reactive fibers bind to muscular and skeletal systems. Enables direct neural interface with earth-based materials.
Compatibility Rate: 89%
Side Effects: Increased bone density—pain during sudden geological output.
Background Summary:
Epher emerged during a blackout in a mining sector beneath Highway 41. When a rupture revealed a long-buried test facility, survivors reported being "buried alive"—until the earth moved upward to free them. Surveillance showed her rising on a jagged platform of stone.
Since then, she's interfered with convoys, disrupted extractions, and defended sacred ground. Now reportedly under containment and "training," but compliance seems conditional—so long as it doesn't hurt the Earth.
Epher is suspected of sympathizing with radical geo-environmentalist factions opposed to further chemical mining.
---
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: Moderate
EMP: High
Loyalty Index: Unknown
Instability Risk: Moderate
Notes:
"She doesn't just bend earth—she listens to it."
"Epher treats the planet like a wounded animal. She doesn't fight to win. She fights to protect."
"Dangerous only when cornered."
Alma clicked to the next file without blinking.
"SUBJECT: NEBELIEL THORNE
Name: Nebeliel Thorne
Alias(es): "Ghostglass," "The Untouchable"
Age: 19
Date of Birth: October 30th, 1936
Status: Active
Classification: Tier 3 Intangibility-Type Variant
Primary Ability: Total Phase-State Manipulation
Passes through all matter—solid, liquid, energy, and even active chemical compounds.
Immune to gravitational collapse, rendering Chemical 3-RX ineffective.
Can erase matter (and people) while phased.
Phases through wormholes and warps untouched.
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 3-IR
Designation: Iridial Reflex Serum (Codename: Specter Flux)
Effect: Allows atomic disassociation, enabling the subject to enter a suspended vibrational state beyond standard molecular limits.
Compatibility Rate: 97%
Side Effects:
Identity drift: occasional loss of sense of self or form.
"Ghosting" symptoms—partial invisibility, delay in rematerialization.
Extreme dissociation: growing belief she is no longer human.
Background Summary:
Found homeless at age 10, Nebeliel was taken in by J.I.B.R.I.L. and exposed to Chemical 3-IR. She repeatedly exited sealed testing zones, appearing in locked rooms and observation towers. Graviel himself attempted containment once. He failed.
Wormholes didn't affect her. She passed through spacetime itself like mist through fingers.
She's since become myth among the staff: the girl who isn't anywhere.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: Very High
EMP: Low
Loyalty Index: Unknown
Instability Risk: High
Notes:
"She speaks like she's remembering the present."
"She doesn't slip through cracks—she is the crack."
"The only thing she hasn't passed through yet… is her own past."
Alma leaned back, mind swimming.
These weren't just enhanced individuals. They were anomalies. Disruptions in the natural order. Ghosts. Gods. Weapons that bled, and dreams that walked.
And the A.I. was watching them all—without blinking, without mercy.
What the hell was this era?
And why did he feel like he wasn't reading files anymore—but premonitions?
There were two more files. The first read:
"SUBJECT: INANAGI KUGUMA
Name: Inanagi Kuguma
Alias(es): "Harvest Widow," "The Marionette Queen"
Age: 38
Date of Birth: December 15, 1902
Status: Lethal-Class Entity – DO NOT APPROACH UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES
Classification: Tier 2 Necrosynthetic – Type Variant
Primary Ability: Corpse Reanimation & Transference via Rice Constructs
Inanagi can harvest abilities from corpses or Variants and bind them into autonomous, permanent constructs called Rice Puppets.
Each Puppet retains a warped version of the original's powers—amplified for brutality and precision.
They are functionally immortal. Even total dismemberment only delays them unless Inanagi is neutralized.
The reanimation process involves blackened rice grains that spread over corpses like spores, consuming them from the inside. She also mutters unknown chants during the ritual.
She can command dozens at once through silent thought-link but prefers to deploy two brown Puppets of unknown origin.
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 2-TB
Designation: Thanabind Trophic Binder
Codename: Black Sowing
Effect: Fuses metabolic grain spores with neural harvesting enzymes, converting corpses into combat-capable husks.
The rice acts as both conduit and anchor—feeding on death energy and reshaping flesh into soldiers.
Compatibility Rate: 92%
Side Effects:
Gradual loss of body heat; skin appears bloodless and cold.
Reports of sleepwalking through "fields only she can see."
Background Summary:
Initially a field medic for the Japanese government in 1941, during the Pacific War, Inanagi moved into the United States of America in 1948, she moved throughout the country unnoticed—until dead bodies from morgue sites began to disappear. Surveillance drones recorded fields of black rice sprouting from blood-soaked soil or concrete from crime scenes… followed by movement.
She has since led several assaults using the corpses of fallen Variants against America—turning entire squads against themselves. Her objective remains unclear, though her patterns suggest she's building an army of undying remnants.
The General has made her cooperative and hid her from any governments—and, for once, she fights on J.I.B.R.I.L.'s side.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: High
EMP: Very Low
Loyalty Index: Severed
Instability Risk: Severe
Notes:
"She never speaks to her puppets—but they nod when she stares."
"Inanagi doesn't just raise the dead. She cultivates them."
"The battlefield is her garden."
Engagement Protocol:
Avoid close combat. Do not abandon fallen allies—immediate incineration required.
Exposure to 2-TB spores may lead to infection or hallucinations.
Mandatory quarantine of affected zones.
Long-range thermal or holy-radiant payloads authorized for Puppet elimination.
This was the final file in the category:
"SUBJECT: THE GENERAL
Name: Unknown
Alias(es): "The Apex," "The Superhuman"
Age: 67
Date of Birth: August 25, 1873
Status: Active – Global-Level Contingency Required
Classification: Chemical Alpha-Origin / Absolute Chemical
Title: The One.
Primary Ability: Total Biological Supremacy
Augmented beyond all known thresholds in every category—strength, speed, stamina, reflexes, regeneration, only beaten by Elinor, intellect, perception, durability, and adaptability.
Immune to every known Chemical strain and all psychological, temporal, spatial, or conceptual threats.
Adapts instantly to hostile phenomena, evolving in real time.
Possesses flawless muscle memory, perfect tactical instinct, and a command presence so overwhelming it compels loyalty and incites fear.
The General can take other Variants' abilities on demand without contact, or seen before abilities—surpassing most chemically altered Subjects.
Exhibits a trait called Absolute Will, nullifying psychic interference and fear-based effects.
Chemical Affinity: Chemical 1-AY
Designation: Apex Yield Compound
Codename: Genesis Core
Effect: Unlocked dormant human potential far beyond modern Variant thresholds.
Administered at age 26, he was the first successful chemical-human fusion—from which all other Chemicals were reverse-engineered.
His body is both the origin and the answer to what became known as the Nightmare of Modernity.
Compatibility Rate: 100% — By design.
Side Effects: None.
The subject is the scale. He is the reason the chart exists.
Background Summary:
The General is the only result of a secret military operation to create a perfect superhuman—conducted in the early days of the Cataclysmic Nightmare Project.
The General is the closest friend of the Founder, and helped him found J.I.B.R.I.L. in 1920. He is the reason why the organization exists.
Chemical 1-AY was meant to be the origin… but instead, it became the conclusion. No further tests were needed. No enhancements. He was complete.
Psychological Evaluation:
INT: Peak
EMP: Measured / Charismatic
Loyalty Index: Untrackable
Instability Risk: Null
Notes:
"He doesn't fight because he must. He fights because no one else can."
"Every battle becomes a lesson. Every enemy becomes a warning."
"He is the origin… and perhaps, the intended end."
"Subject 1-AY is not a soldier. He is the answer to the question: 'What if one man was everything?'"
Alma stood back in shock.
The General wasn't just a soldier—he was his soul's counterweight.
A being forged specifically to kill him.
Why was Alma the target?
Why was he made to suffer like this?
If what Simon said was true—that every Chemical became weaker the further it was from Chemical 1-AY—then what did that mean for him?
The General was the only one who could truly end Alma. Sure, he had fought others—Elinor, Kojo, Ilene, and those other four—but this? This was something else entirely. A different beast.
Especially that one particular segment in the file—the part that said The General could use and control the powers of other Chemical Subjects. Could he copy Shield? Or worse… Spear?
But the file also stated all Chemicals originated from 1-AY. And as far as Alma knew, he wasn't bound to any Chemical. So what explained his powers? Shield and Spear still felt alien to him, even after all the training.
As he scrolled through the database, eyes scanning one document after another, he prepared to log off—until one file stopped him cold.
"Nightmare of Modernity," Alma whispered.
If the files on this system were more detailed than those on the other computer, there had to be more about him here. Why he was chosen. Why his parents had to die.
He hovered the cursor over the file. Inhaled. Exhaled. Then clicked.
SUBJECT: ALMA D. ALASTOR
Name: Alma Daedalus Alastor
Alias(es): "The Truest Sin," "The Root of Ending," "The Consequence"
Age: 15
Date of Birth: November 20th, 1940
Status: Active – Non-Chemical Variant (Trans-Existential Classification)
Classification: Unbound Entity / Anomalous Origin
Unique Factor: Alma is not chemically enhanced, yet surpasses all known Variants—including those tied to high-tier Chemicals. His soul-based capabilities reject conventional logic, operating under pre-conceptual law and spiritual reality.
Primary Ability:
The Greatest Defense: Shield
Classification: Absolute Barrier / Conceptual Defense (?)
Nature: Soul-Fortified Manifestation
Description:
"The Greatest Defense: Shield" is a total defensive construct, not born of Chemical manipulation but forged from will and soul. It is not merely a wall—it is the concept of protection, made manifest through Alma's essence.
The dome appears as a layered sphere of fused brown stone, like a natural fortress.
It blocks everything: physical strikes, Chemical attacks, spiritual force. Gravity distortions, soul-piercing strikes, phasing anomalies—all stopped cold.
Teleportation fails. Phasing fails. Even spatial slicing fails. Graviel's wormholes, Nebeliel's intangibility, [REDACTED]'s molecular control—all of them fail.
It forms instantly, triggered the moment Alma invokes its name.
Key Property:
The Shield does not just endure—it rejects harm. To wound Alma through it, one must deny the concept of protection across all levels of existence and extract Shield from Alma's soul.
Spiritual Context:
It appears in Alma's most vulnerable moments—when he refuses to fall.
Note:
This is not a power born from training or experimentation.
It is inevitability—the armor of a soul that chose never to break again.
Origin and Nature
Alma's existence defies known Chemicals, events, or deities. He was born human—but a catastrophic spiritual revelation shattered the veil around him.
He is no chosen one. No savior.
He is what remains when hope burns away and every god falls silent.
He is not judgment.
He is consequence.
His birth date—November 20th, 1940—is considered an anomaly. Some reports speak of vivid dreams: a burning house, Hell invoked on a helpless being, a void where divinity once stood.
Psychological Evaluation
INT: Far Beyond Peak
EMP: Paradoxical—profound empathy, detached from human morality
Loyalty Index: To himself
Instability Risk: Undefined
Notes: [REDACTED]
Engagement Protocol
Standard engagement procedures do not apply.
Alma cannot be captured, restrained, negated, or reasoned with.
If Alma declares you his target, your death is inevitable—whether by power or comprehension.
Observe from a distance. Do not engage spiritually.
If he speaks your name—pray you were aligned with God."
Alma took a step back, shaken. This file painted him as a monster.
This was why they killed his parents? This was why he was called the "Nightmare of Modernity"? What did they do to earn this fate? Was he always meant to become this nightmare? A force to end all lies?
An unfamiliar rage consumed him. The reasons in this file, the explanations Jibril's people gave—none of it made sense. It was a lie. It IS a lie.
They understood Shield… but not Spear? They could foresee the future, but what future were they even talking about?
Alma paced the room, trying to smother the storm inside him. But all he wanted to do was break through the floors and slaughter everyone below. Each one of those pigs. Those murderers.
Was he better than them, morally? He didn't care. It was a stupid question.
He wanted to see them all die.
He kept pacing. The more he thought, the angrier he got. He wanted to scream, to let loose all of his fury—but he couldn't risk blowing his cover.
Outrage didn't even begin to describe what he felt.
What Alma felt now was pure, undiluted hate.
Alma knew those thoughts—how he would torture them before killing them, how satisfying it would feel to end every last one—weren't truly his own. That joy, that thrill, that desire to bathe in their blood... it was the Devil whispering. These were not his feelings. Not his beliefs. Not what he wanted.
But the hate—God, the hate—it drowned everything else out. It filled every corner of his mind, heavy and thick like smoke. He wanted them gone. Needed them gone. And whether he liked it or not, he was the only one who could do it.
Or maybe… the only one who wanted to.
After countless minutes pacing the room, he finally forced his emotions into check. Alma stepped out. His expression was unreadable, his stride straight and deliberate. Every movement spoke of purpose. Of certainty.
All this time, he thought J.I.B.R.I.L. had some grand, airtight reason for what they did to him. Some divine logic. Some unavoidable necessity.
But no.
Their reasons were held together with cheap glue and self-justified lies.
Bullshit.
He found the elevator that led to the lower floors. His mindset had changed.
Before: Don't get caught.
Now: Don't let a single one escape.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. He stepped inside, pressed the lowest floor, and watched the doors close.
He would kill them all.
One by one.
He'd look into their eyes as the light left them. Their cries for mercy? He'd hear them.
He'd just choose not to care.
They weren't people.
They were fat pigs squealing at the slaughterhouse.
And all the while, the elevator played soft, calming music—gentle piano and strings—as Alma imagined their deaths.
The chime rang again. The elevator doors parted. Before him stretched the lowest floor—an immense, sterile expanse. Just as the map had shown.
No stairwells. No escape routes.
This was it. The only way in. The only way out.
And now, he was standing in it.
Alma drew his machete. Without hesitation, he stabbed it into the elevator controls, sparks flying as the panel short-circuited and the lights glitched. The elevator was dead. The only way out was to climb out of the elevator.
They were trapped down here with him.
Their executioner.
Alma stepped out of the elevator, his pace just shy of normal. His posture radiated calm. Only those fluent in body language could see the truth beneath the surface—his hidden rage, his all-consuming hate.
The superhumans continued training, unaware that they were living their final moments. Unaware that death had just entered the room.
Alma descended the steps slowly, each heavy bootstep echoing through the chamber. Finally, they noticed. They turned to face him—the man they had been trained to fight, the reason they had been injected with Chemical 1-AY. They didn't know it yet, but they were staring death in the eyes.
Suddenly, Alma vanished.
He reappeared behind one of the front-line superhumans. Her head was already severed, blood gushing from her neck. Her body crumpled forward. She was dead.
The others reacted instantly—so did Alma. His eyes were wide, unblinking. For the first time, he saw their souls with perfect clarity. No longer smudged white shadows—he saw them truly.
His arm swung through several bodies, cleaving them diagonally with monstrous force. Each blow powered by raw hatred. The first deaths were swift, painless. That, he despised.
Mercy. Why was that even? Who earned it? Cowards? Certainly not these people. Never these people.
He began slicing through legs, rendering them defenseless and immobile while fending off and parrying the desperate counterattacks. The more they fought, the angrier he became. Survival was for the innocent—not these monsters in human skin.
A thought crept into his mind: their deaths here, on Earth, would be painless, but in Hell, they'd suffer forever.
A sinister smile twisted across his face. He began to laugh—a deep, unhinged cackle—as he tore through them. He wasn't erasing their souls with Spear, that would have been merciful. He didn't bother using Shield to block their attacks. They were too insignificant for that. Just insects was all they were to him, and all they would ever be. As valuable as a piece of shit at your doorstep.
They began to fear.
This wasn't like The General. This... this was worse. Alma was worse. The way he smiled—the way he laughed—it was terrifying. Far beyond anything they had seen.
Some broke and ran, scrambling for the elevator. But it was disabled. They tried to pry open the top and climb out, but Alma was already behind them.
He sliced through their bodies like a searing blade through wax. These weren't ordinary humans. They were enhanced—hardened beyond the limits of flesh. These superhumans had time to grow their power, their connection with Chemical 1-AY. The only material comparable to their endurance was the strongest of metals.
And Alma was cutting through them like paper.
Even Evil Eyes hadn't allowed this. No—these strikes weren't powered by ability alone. They were powered by pure, unrelenting hatred.
Blood painted the elevator walls. More pooled at the center of the room. Over five thousand bodies littered the floor like discarded waste.
Every superhuman J.I.B.R.I.L. had ever created was dead.
Alma stood in the center, head bowed, surrounded by carnage. He had done it. He had killed them all.
Then his head lifted. Arms outstretched. A twisted smile broke across his face.
He wasn't asking God if He saw it. Nor of the Devil did, either. He was basking in it. The glory of slaughter. Reveling in what he had done—what he had become.
A murderer.
Before, he killed with guilt. With sorrow. Even with the faintest trace of regret. But this time was different. Vastly so.
He was happy. Euphoric. Not because he had saved others from these abominations, but because it pleased him.
Selfish. Sadistic.
Perversion.
He wanted to speak—to scream what he felt. But no words could capture it. No yell would explain it. What would he even say? "I killed them all, and I loved it"? That would barely scratch the surface.
Then, a voice stirred deep within his mind. Quiet. Steady.
Reason.
It told him the truth—what he had done was wrong. What he felt while doing it was wrong. What he felt now was wrong.
The high began to fade.
The Alma who had done this—was he truly himself? Could he blame it all on the Devil? He had clung to that excuse like a lifeline. "It wasn't me. It was him." As if divine absolution would come like rain and wash away the blood.
It was a lie.
The Devil had whispered to him, framed evil as good, told him that sacrifice justified slaughter. Save the many by killing the few. But what if there had been another way? What if this was preventable?
What if the massacre he had just committed—was his doing alone?
He had become the very monster J.I.B.R.I.L. wanted eliminated. The Nightmare of Modernity.
And for what?
To paint J.I.B.R.I.L. as the villain? He could've ended all this in days. But instead, he waited. Let himself burn in hatred until he couldn't see the difference between justice and vengeance. He was blind to who he had become.
And now—it was too late.
He had chosen this path. Willingly. Willfully. The signs were there, flashing in his face. He ignored them.
Alma collapsed to his knees. His blood-soaked machete clanged against the floor, still humming with the fury of its last strike. He covered his face, rubbing it with trembling hands.
"What have I done…?" he whispered.
"Father… Mother… God… forgive me…"
He looked up, eyes scanning the field of corpses.
"I did this."
"I am to blame."
"Do I deserve forgiveness? I knew what I was doing. I ignored it. I knew before, during, and after."
"I am to blame."
Suddenly, the alarms blared to life, red lights flashing violently across the sterile white walls. Alma rose to his feet, eyes sharp and unwavering. There would be no more retreat. No more illusions. No more lies. Today, the remaining agents—and their founder—would fall.
---
November 19th, 1955. 4:30 PM.
---
Alma stood at the heart of that vast chamber, still as stone, waiting for the enemy to come to him. He would not run. Not now. If anything, he welcomed the chance to add a few more names to the long list of the dead.
Without warning, the ceiling above him groaned and cracked—then gave way. Massive slabs of reinforced concrete crashed down, but Alma moved effortlessly through the debris, dodging ruin with the poise of a man who had stared death in the eye and laughed.
He looked up, and what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
Seven figures descended from the broken sky—seven enemies, one of whom he had already slain.
"Alma Daedulus Alastor..." The General intoned.
To his left stood Inanagi, Epher, and Nebeliel. To his right—Graviel, Kojo, and...
Elinor.
The same woman Alma had executed with his shotgun.
"You will die on this day," The General declared, voice cold and final.
Alma narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the seven figures before him—lingering with disbelief on Elinor. All six of his greatest obstacles… and now, with the General among them, the final hand had been dealt. For the first time in a long while, Alma couldn't predict who would survive.
But then he smirked.
His pride had been provoked. His ego stirred. And that was a challenge he would never walk away from.
The final seven agents of J.I.B.R.I.L…
The Sanctum Arc versus the Nightmare of Modernity.