A God That Doesn't Exist

Kyoto—Higashiyama Ward.

Resting his head on the dusty desk before him, Kurose was yet again in a session of imprisonment inside his dying office.

With his ear pressed against the wooden surface of the desk, he felt the vibration of the radio as words crackled from its speakers.

“TCHHH—Br-Breaking news! Oh dear god, the fatalities aren’t stopping! Uh, t-the international circus holiday t-ZSSST—in no time to a mass massacre across all the nations! A swarm of terrorists dress like clowns are slaughtering people and military soldiers like flies… And—KHCHHH—even worse, other Faithful organizations are adding to the chaos! Is this a conspiracy against God himself?!”

“Paris and New York are sinking in their own blood, having undergone the biggest damage! P-Please—TCHHH—we need your prayers for Japan… KHCHHH—Lilith has already established herself in Tokyo in the past 24 hours—”

Kurose turned off the radio.

So this is what Kitsune meant. He sighed.

We haven’t received any orders to attack Lilith and her offspring yet.

I get to rest longer.

His eyelids were slowly cradling his pupils until—

Knock.

Knock.

The noise made him rise abruptly, his knotted hair slipping down to the nape of his neck.

He, in no time, was drenched in sweat. This man hadn’t been visited in a decade.

Kurose pondered for a second. He eventually approached the door in slow steps, without making a sound with his boots.

He reached out for the handle, hesitated, but finally gripped it anyway.

After twisting it to the right, he pulled the door open with an eerie creak.

There was no one. Nothing greeted him other than a dusty lantern casting a soft light, hanging on the corridor’s wall.

But once his gaze fell to the ground, he was greeted with a large, charcoal gray briefcase with a winged, inverted cross carved on its surface.

This is… BND’s symbol.

Wait, there is no way…

Kurose stifled a swallow as he grabbed the briefcase, retreated to his room, and closed the door.

He pushed the curtains of his office window aside, allowing the moon rays to rest on his desk and cast a faint illumination through the gloom.

Suddenly, he began gasping at a strange smell that seeped into his nostrils.

It was a smell his senses had memorized long ago.

The smell of filth.

After overcoming a great wave of hesitation, Kurose finally opened the case.

Thump.

His heart pounded.

Thump!

It hammered.

THUMP!

Then jolted.

A severed head—that of a woman—sat inside the case, staring at him.

The eyes were dark red like those of a demon. The hair, a mix of delicate strands and dead snakes, was dark green. The face was pale, and the dark lips were crowned with two devilish fangs.

No way… No way… He just can’t be this—

Kurose’s gaze caught a piece of paper beside the severed head.

He immediately seized it.

Slowly and gently, he unfolded the paper and allowed his eyes to scan its contents.

“Here is Lilith’s head. I also killed many of her infants, which should make your job easier. Looking forward to that Hōtō soup.”

Retch!

Retch!

Kurose vomited. Not because of the disgusting sight of Lilith’s severed head, but because it was Lilith’s severed head.

After requesting her death, the Demoness of the 20th century lay dead before him in one week.

Kurose crashed his forehead against the ground and began thanking a God he didn’t even believe in.

Thank God…

Thank God… I will never doubt the fate you bestow upon me.

This was one of the few times Kurose, who absolutely loathed his job, appreciated being a BND agent.

He was utterly happy that, if things didn’t miraculously go wrong, he would never end up facing that man.

The strongest.

The Atheist of Dawn.

…

Two hours later, Osaka—Umeda district, north of Dotonbori.

Under the moonlight’s mesmerizing spell of beauty, the clown Scarnetti leapt through the air of Osaka, where screams, evacuation, and death reeked foully.

From one rooftop to another, he vaulted, carrying his beloved unconscious Sarai—who bore minimal injuries—over his shoulder like a mother cradling her child.

Eventually, after a gravity-defying virtual run, his feet had stumbled upon his destination: the very top of the Umeda Sky Building.

Standing by the edge, Scarnetti gazed down on the hellish state Osaka City was in. Smoke and fire rose from every corner of the endless view, while police and ambulance sirens formed a grotesque symphony to his ears.

He felt a profound sense of relief, as if a burden weighing on his shoulders had vanished.

He drew a very deep breath and closed his eyes.

“The only way to fix what’s already bad is to make it even worse.”

“I don’t agree,” a nearby voice echoed. “At all.”

Taken by slight surprise, Scarnetti looked over his shoulder.

An orange-haired man crouched by the edge to Scarnetti’s left, his head and face bleeding. His clothes were unscathed, merely dust-covered.

Scarnetti stared at him sharply.

“Unfortunate.”

Without even looking at him, Enji warned Scarnetti. “I’m taking the boy. Or else, things will get worse for you.”

He then waved with his left hand, which had been hidden behind his thigh.

The sigils on its palm were torn as blood gushed forth.

Then—Fwooosh!

It ignited, and with a snap of his fingers, he manifested a swarm of embers around the two of them.

“Burn.”

Like wrathful insects, the scattered embers hissed and crackled through the atmosphere.

With immaculate skill, Scarnetti hurled Sarai high into the air, loosened his stance, and dodged the thrusting embers in a series of backflips.

With one arm, he caught Sarai exactly where he stood.

I envy his ability to stay asleep even after a move like this, Scarnetti thought.

He raised his head and stared at the approaching Enji, whose hair had mutated into wild flames.

In my research, Tatsuki Enji was said to be the least emotionally stable in the agency. Why is he now showing such extreme mental strength? I cannot read his emotions or movements.

There is no reason to take unnecessary risks.

He suddenly stared at his faint shadow and whispered, “Take care of him, Eclipse. Let’s meet where we agreed.”

Scarnetti placed Sarai on the ground. He opened his mouth wide and crammed his hand into it.

Within seconds, he roughly pulled out a black fool’s cap and slapped it onto his head, its bells jiggling with a dull, muted sound.

From his pocket, Scarnetti pulled a piece of paper and, with a swift motion, shaped it into a sword.

With a snap of his fingers, the paper blade expanded instantly, its handle gripped tightly in Scarnetti’s right palm.

Suddenly, with one sharp cut, Scarnetti cleaved off his left hand.

It struck the ground and melted into enchanted paint, pooling before pulling itself into the shape of a circus clown.

A clone.

The clone swiftly grabbed Sarai, hoisted him over its shoulder, and leapt off the skyscraper.

Scarnetti—if that was what he remained—stared at Enji, who had already begun advancing toward him.

In a moment of composure collapse, he smiled—a very wide smile.

“Shall I witness a great performance by you?”

“Human.” A mocking grin spread across his face.