Aesop's Scorpion

An hour earlier — Kyoto, Higashiyama Ward.

Inside an old ramen shop, a man with grayish-white hair sat alone in a corner. He was dressed in a gray suit befitting a seasoned assassin, while a long sword of peculiar design was strapped to his back.

He glanced at his watch and sighed in frustration.
“Where the hell are you, Kurose?”

Uneventful minutes passed, and impatience began flooding his veins.
“I guess no Hōtō soup for me today.”

He stretched his arms and back, yawning.

Suddenly, his eyes flickered as he recalled something tied to the recent world events.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and produced an envelope.

From Osaka, November 14. His gaze raced across the external writing.

He slid the envelope open and pulled out a piece of parchment.

He read the contents aloud.

“Kill the Devil of the Fallen Triune.”

“Sender: Kazu Ryuji.”

…

Meanwhile — Osaka, Chūō Ward.

Retch! Retch!

Sarai vomited and screamed at the blasphemous sight of Mitsu’s eyes.

Retch! Retch!

He wished—profoundly—to die.

Retch! Retch!

Preferably, to have never been born at all.

Either way, the young man screamed, slammed his forehead against the ground, vomited, and repeated the cycle.

Sitting at his desk and reading an old, dusty journal, Scarnetti pitied him. Having endured the exact same despair during his own early days as a beacon of hope, he sympathized deeply.

So deeply, in fact, that he rose from his comfortable chair, retrieved a gun from his desk, handed it to Sarai, and gently said,
“You can try to kill yourself.”

Scarnetti returned to his desk. As his boots thudded against the marble floor, the sound of gunfire synchronized with each step, merging into a grotesque symphony.

Thud.

BANG!

Thud.

BANG!

Thud.

BANG!

Scarnetti sat down and gazed toward Sarai.

The young man’s face, head, and neck were partially covered in crumbling scorpion skin.

“As I expected,” he sighed. “He won’t allow you to die yet.”

Thump. Sarai dropped the gun.

Thump. Then his body followed.

As the cold marble kissed his cheekbones, Sarai lost consciousness and relinquished control to the Scorpion.

He had surpassed his human limits.

He had given up.

His hair bloomed into a muted violet as the Scorpion invaded every sensation.

He rose—proud and composed.

“Finally got rid of the kid,” he said, stretching his arms. “He’s quite stubborn.”

“You surely tortured him, Scorpion-sama.” Scarnetti stood and bowed.

The Scorpion scanned the room.
“Did Eclipse reach Russia?”

“She’s nearly there.”

“Good. With the help of her ability—Dawning Eclipse—we can easily overpower Mirror.” He grinned. “It’s almost absurd that the very thing he forgot was this ability of hers.”

“Indeed,” Scarnetti muttered.

“I do wonder what we forgot—”

!!

From a dusty mirror to the left of the desk, purple eyes illuminated the room as Mirror emerged like a phantom.

“Scorpion! The millennia-long conflict ends here and now!”

He roared.

…

…

…

Inside the same cave where faint threads of light seeped through narrow cracks—pulsing briefly before being devoured by darkness—Sarai lay cast at its center.

This time, only a shallow pool of blood formed beneath him.

He had chosen slumber.

He had chosen to surrender his body to what he believed in.

Just as the slave he had always despised being—he complied.

And now, that same mind which processed those choices projected one final cascade of memories.

FLASH! — Osaka City crumbled beneath the grudge of two ancient beings: one embodying false reflection, the other death in its own form. As crimson eclipse rays dawned upon them, the mirror shattered beneath the scorpion’s fists, surrounded by the sea.

FLASH! — The pharaoh—the Scorpion—crawled toward the cave where its name had been buried longer than any fragile age. Amid hooded figures applauding the birth of Satan, it tore itself from its slave’s back. Having attained a freedom it had craved since its inception, it walked the world beneath an impostor’s façade. Little did Satan know—God awaited him at the tunnel’s end.

FLASH! — The slave dreamed. A dream of freedom. A dream of meaning beyond the Scorpion. A dream he kept for himself.

…

Surrounded by woods, the Atheist of Dawn stood heavily, missing an entire arm. Opposite him stood the Devil of the Fallen Triune—the Scorpion—unharmed.

Encased in armor harder than steel, immeasurable tails erupted from its back as it advanced deliberately. The tails swayed hungrily, yearning for a final strike—one that would allow their master to finally grasp the humanity he had sought since before time.

Until—

Its beacon of hope appeared.

Its slave.

Sarai.

It was the same forest he had once dreamed of running through with fellow orphans—those who had perished beneath the weight of his hands.

Sarai spoke.

“When a deity manipulates its believers’ Faith, it forgets one truth that leads to its doom.”

“I have just dreamed of what you forgot.”

“The reason you entered this age.”

“And the reason I am here.”

“When the believers of a concept cease to exist—”
He pulled a gun from his back pocket.
“—the concept no longer remains in reality.”

He shot himself.

Silently, the Scorpion crumbled and dispersed into the air.

The two sides of the same coin—the exoskeleton and the tail—died together.

And an atheist bore witness to the dawn of a new age.