Chapter 15 Reverse: The Orc Lord's True Intent

Allen's boots squelched through muck and memory.

The sewer tunnel narrowed as he climbed, each step scraping against stone slick with rot. The air grew colder, thinner—less decay, more ruin. He didn’t look back. There was nothing behind him worth remembering. Only what lay ahead.

He emerged into the outskirts of the shattered city, bathed in moonlight. The stench of sewage gave way to the scent of dust and silence. Broken statues leaned like forgotten gods, their faces eroded by time and neglect. The wind whispered through cracked stone, carrying stories no one had asked to hear.

He didn't stop.

His legs burned. His lungs pleaded. But his mind was louder.

Monica is out there.

Somewhere beyond the silence. Beyond the lies. Beyond the game.

Then he saw her.

A girl stood in the clearing ahead, framed by pale moonlight. Her shrine maiden robes fluttered gently, impossibly clean against the grime of the world. Fox ears twitched atop her head, and her amber eyes—ancient, amused—watched him with unsettling calm.

Allen froze.

His heart, already hammering from the climb, now thudded with a new kind of fear. She didn’t look dangerous. But the stillness in her gaze was more terrifying than any monster he’d faced.

“So you’re the infamous Kon,” he said, voice low, cautious.

She smiled. “It’s good to finally speak with you. Though I suppose the last time I saw you, you were still unconscious—freshly summoned, still dreaming.”

Allen didn’t move closer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said, stepping forward. Her voice was soft, but it carried. “You and your friends. But Khaos… he’s made that difficult.”

Allen’s jaw tightened. “Are you here to cause trouble like your friend?”

Kon tilted her head. “We may be gods, but we are not allies.”

He studied her. No aura. No thunder. Just a girl with fox ears and a gaze that felt like it had seen centuries.

“Why us?” he asked, the question heavy with desperation. “Why were we summoned to this world?”

Kon blinked, puzzled. “Didn’t Monica tell you?”

"That goofball..." Allen sighed. “She was too busy geeking out over being isekai’d. I doubt she read the fine print.”

Kon chuckled. “I guessed as much.”

She turned, gesturing toward the horizon where the ruins met the stars. “In this world, ‘god’ is a title. Not a truth. Khaos found your world’s stories amusing—especially the fictional tales from your so-called Bible. So he decided to make them real. To become God.”

Allen’s stomach dropped.

The cold dread that settled in his gut wasn’t the kind born of monsters or magic. It was something deeper. Something personal.

Kon continued, her voice steady. “The Council of Twelve sealed him long ago. Restricted his power. But he’s clever. Patient. He’s been searching for people who can break the seal.”

Allen’s thoughts raced, but his feet stayed planted.

“The Orc Lord… he’s one of them?” he asked, voice low.

Kon nodded, her expression unreadable. “One of Khaos’s pawns. Just like what he wants to do to Protag-kun.”

The words hit harder than he expected. Allen’s fists clenched, his breath sharp and shallow. He’d suspected something was wrong—something bigger than monsters and magic. But this was worse. This was personal.

“Khaos decided to become God,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Kon stepped closer, her fox ears twitching. “Not just become. Recreate. He saw your world’s stories—your myths, your fiction—and chose one. The Bible. Not as faith. As blueprint.”

Allen scoffed, but it was hollow. “So this war, this world… it’s all because some lunatic wanted to play divine dress-up?”

Kon’s gaze didn’t waver. “He admired the structure. The drama. The power. He wanted to write his own version—with summoned souls as his cast.”

Allen’s stomach turned. “And the Council of Twelve just let him?”

“They sealed him,” Kon said, her voice growing solemn. “Stripped most of his power. But time erodes everything. Even divine chains. Khaos is patient. He’s been searching for keys.”

Allen’s voice cracked. “Keys?”

Kon looked at him, eyes glowing faintly. “People. Outsiders. Summoned ones. You’re not just visitors—you’re variables. Unwritten pages in his story.”

Allen stepped back, the weight of it pressing down. “Then why haven’t you stopped him?”

Kon’s gaze drifted toward the stars. “We tried. But gods fade here. We fracture. The only thing we could do was offer protection—charms to shield summoned souls from his influence.”

Allen reached instinctively for his locket, fingers brushing its cracked edges. “So Monica and I… we were protected?”

“To a degree,” Kon said. “But not all are so lucky.”

A cold dread settled over Allen. His eyes darkened. "Protag-kun."

Kon didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“Why him?” Allen asked. “Why not give him a charm?”

Kon’s voice softened. “Because magic is like planting crops. Some seeds flourish. Some rot. Khaos chooses the ones with the deepest roots—the ones most susceptible to his story.”

Allen’s mind flashed with images—Protag-kun’s awkward grin, his self-deprecating jokes, the way he always stood just a little behind the others.

“He was chosen to fall,” Allen whispered.

Kon nodded. “And the Orc Lord was chosen to rise.”

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of ash and old stone. Allen felt the weight of it all—fate, manipulation, betrayal—pressing into his chest.

He looked at Kon, his voice barely audible. “How do I fight that? How do I stop someone who rewrites reality?”

Kon turned to him, her gaze steady. “Magic here is formed by bonds. By belief. Imagination fuels it—but also limits it. What you think you are… is what you become.”

Allen stared at her, the gears turning behind his eyes.

Then, from the damaged locket, a flicker of static. A voice. Monica’s voice.

Ranting. Rambling. Desperate.

Kon stepped back. “Oh, it looks like she’s trying to reach out.”

Allen’s heart surged. “Monica…”

The locket buzzed in Allen’s hand—erratic, flickering like a dying star.

Then, through the static, a voice broke through.

"Honestly, Locket-chan, what's a girl to do? I'm trapped between an Orc Lord and a burning village. You'd think being a villainess would be simpler."

Allen froze.

Her tone was familiar—snarky, theatrical—but beneath it, he heard something else. Fear. Loneliness. Regret.

Kon stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “The connection is unstable. The locket’s damaged.”

Allen gripped his own tighter. “Can she hear me?”

“Barely,” Kon said. “But she’s reaching out. That means the bond is still alive.”

The static surged again, Monica’s voice crackling in and out.

“Three days in…” buzz “…already tired of being a dark empress.”

Allen laughed softly, despite the tension. “Still Monica.”

Kon watched him carefully. “You care for her.”

“She’s my best friend,” Allen said. “We grew up together. She’s… complicated. But she’s an otaku. And she doesn’t deserve this.”

The locket pulsed again—fainter now. Monica’s voice faded into static.

Then, one last message.

Allen’s heart clenched.

“Monica,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I believe in you.”

The connection snapped.

Silence.

Kon didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Allen stared at the locket, then at the path ahead. The ruins stretched before him, jagged and endless. But something had shifted.

“You said magic is shaped by imagination,” he murmured. “By bonds.”

Kon nodded. “It is. What you believe defines what you become.”

Allen’s mind raced. Memories surged—Monica in her Magical Girl Yumeko cosplay, twirling in the school courtyard, declaring she would save the world with sparkles and sass. Until that day…

She had always believed in magic.

And now, she needed it to believe in him.

He looked up, eyes blazing. “Just like before, I’ll become the memory she needs.”

Kon’s fox ears twitched. “What are you going to do?”

Allen turned, already running. “I’m going to save her.”

Allen ran.

The ruins blurred past him—cracked stone, twisted trees, the remnants of a world rewritten by chaos. His boots pounded the earth, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere brighter.

She had dragged him into her fantasy worlds—made him play the villain, the sidekick, the prince. She’d called him “Onee-chan" with exaggerated anime flair and declared he was her destined rival. He’d rolled his eyes, but he’d always shown up.

Because Monica believed in magic.

And now, she needed magic to believe in him.

Kon’s words echoed in his mind: “Magic is formed by bonds. By belief. What you imagine is what you become.”

Allen’s breath hitched. If that was true—if imagination shaped reality—then there was only one image that mattered.

Yumeko.

The character Monica adored. The one she said saved her when she was at her lowest.

Allen closed his eyes, the memory burning behind his eyelids. Monica, crying in the nurse’s office after a fight.

He opened his eyes.

Light swirled around him—soft at first, then blinding. It wasn’t just magic. It was memory. It was Monica’s laughter, her stubbornness, her belief in sparkles and second chances. The warmth wrapped around him, reshaping not just his clothes, but his purpose.

His body lifted, spun, wrapped in ribbons of arcane energy. The air pulsed with conviction.

When the light faded, Allen stood transformed.

Not as a warrior.

Not as a knight.

But as Yumeko—frilled dress, ribbons, and star-tipped wand. His eyes burned with clarity. His heart beat with conviction.

The battlefield loomed ahead—obsidian and silence. Monica lay crumpled near the throne, her magical glow flickering like a dying ember. The Orc Lord towered over her, hand raised—not in rage, but in ritual. A final, crushing blow.

Then—

A burst of radiant light tore through the entrance.

Orga turned.

The sight was enough to make Orga's arm, raised for the killing blow, waver. He stared, not with rage, but with a deep, unsettling confusion.

Monica blinked through the haze, her mind struggling to make sense of the absurdity. "Yumeko...?" she whispered, her voice a fragile thing.

Allen’s voice, clear and strong, filled the cavern. "Hey Monica," he declared, his hand outstretched toward her. "I've come to take you back."

Orga’s confusion curdled into a low, guttural growl. “This not yours,” he rumbled. “This my world. My world, heroes fall.”

He charged.

A blur of muscle and rage. A fortress of flesh and bone.

Allen didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t a fighter. He didn’t know how to wield a sword. But he knew how to be what Monica needed him to be.

He pointed the wand.

“This world doesn’t belong to you!” he shouted—a direct quote from Monica’s favorite anime.

A wave of shimmering, rainbow-colored stars erupted from the wand, each one striking Orga’s chest like a magical battering ram. The force staggered him, knocking him back, stunned.

Allen turned to Monica, expecting awe. Gratitude. Maybe even a tearful hug.

Instead—

“Allen, what are you wearing?!” she shrieked, voice rising like a siren. “The dress is the wrong shade of blue! The ribbons are tied on the wrong side! And where is your brooch?! You can’t transform without a brooch!”

Allen’s triumphant pose wilted. “Monica, now’s not the time!”

“It’s always the time for proper aesthetics!” she snapped, gesturing wildly. “Did Kon give you the plans? I had plans! The original ones!”

Orga groaned, the stars dissolving from his chest. The confusion was gone. The rage was returning.

"Monica, he's getting back up!" Allen yelled, his voice strained.

But Monica was still focused on the fashion crimes. “The boots! They don’t match the dress! You look like a magical girl who lost a fight with a closet!”