December 14th, 2029.
Snow blanketed the world outside in an unbroken expanse of white, settling heavily across rooftops, clinging to the branches of trees, and swallowing entire streets beneath its quiet, suffocating stillness, until it seemed as though the world itself had been buried beneath winter's weight.
Amid that frozen silence, one house stood faintly illuminated, its windows unobstructed by blinds, allowing the warm glow of interior light to spill outward into the cold day, a fragile defiance against the endless frost. Within, a fireplace burned steadily, its flames crackling softly as they cast shifting shadows along the walls, painting the room in hues of amber and gold.
Yet despite the warmth, the house felt empty.
No one occupied the living room, where the fire continued its lonely vigil. The kitchen remained abandoned as well, its counters cluttered with dishes left unattended, remnants of meals that had long since gone cold. Even the hallway, lined with a modest, waist-high bookshelf, stood undisturbed, as though time itself had slowed within those walls.
Then, from deeper within the house—a cough.
Faint, strained, and unmistakably fragile.
Inside the master bedroom, an old woman lay beneath layers of heavy blankets, her frail form barely rising beneath their weight. A warm, white rag rested across her forehead, dampened in an effort to soothe a fever that had long since refused to break.
"It doesn't look like you're getting any better..." Ora True said quietly from beside the bed, his voice weighed down by concern. At twenty years old, he stood at her side with a bucket of steaming water resting on the brown wooden nightstand, thin trails of vapor rising lazily into the air.
"Oh, honey..." the old woman replied, her voice brittle and exhausted, each word carried on a breath that sounded as though it might be her last. "It never will."
"Please," she continued, her frail hand reaching out to grasp his, her fingers trembling as they wrapped around his own, "don't place your faith into an old woman like me. My time has come."
"No!" Ora's voice rose sharply—not directed at her, but at the meaning behind her words, at the inevitability they carried. "As long as you're still breathing... I will never lose my faith in your recovery. I never will..."
"Honey, you already have enough worries," she said gently, her gaze faint yet steady as it met his. "I do not want to be among them."
"But if you are not someone's worry, who will care? What does it matter?" Ora asked, his voice tightening as tears threatened to spill over.
"You don't always have to show your affection through bad situations," she replied softly. "What are those worth?"
Ora lowered his head, unable to answer.
A brief silence passed between them before she spoke again, her tone shifting ever so slightly.
"How's that amnesia girl doing?"
A faint smile touched Ora's lips.
"It's Anastasia, grandma, and she's doing alright," he said.
"Oh, right, that's good. A real beautiful woman. How are you two getting along? Has she asked for sex, yet?"
"Grandma!" Ora exclaimed, his face flushing with embarrassment as she let out a weak, amused chuckle.
"Oh, what's so wrong with that? It's an honest question."
"Some questions are meant to never be asked," Ora muttered, exhaling in mild frustration.
"Good thing mine wasn't one of them."
Another sigh escaped him.
"No, she hasn't. And honestly... I don't know if I want that," he admitted, his voice lowering slightly. "Quite yet."
"Are things still tense between you two?"
He nodded.
"Ah, that girl is foolish," she said with quiet certainty. "You're a handsome young man, with a good heart and pure intentions. You're way better than the men during my time."
Ora smiled faintly.
"Thank you, but Anastasia doesn't see it that way. What happened between us, that is."
"What happened between you two again? Something about you screwing her best friend?"
"No, her best friend screwed me," Ora said, his embarrassment deepening. "She put a plastic bag over her head, used Anastasia's phone to text me, and set herself up like that—and the whole time, I thought it was Anastasia..."
His grandmother burst into laughter.
"And now she hates me for it," he finished.
"That situation could run a comedy show for a lifetime!" she laughed, though the laughter quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing, her hand rising weakly to cover her mouth.
Ora was at her side instantly, steadying her.
"Breathe, Grandma. Breathe."
After several strained moments, the coughing subsided.
"I don't get it," she muttered. "How dumb can a girl be?"
"It's not about being dumb," Ora said quietly. "I understand where her anger comes from. I messed up. I should have checked beforehand. It is my fault."
She nodded slowly.
"It is your fault, but her best friend is the one who staged the whole thing! She should be more mad at her, not equally at you both," she insisted. "If it were me in that position, I'd slap the shit out of my best friend. But I wouldn't ignore my boyfriend who screwed her. I would be mad—definitely would put him in the doghouse—but I wouldn't ignore him and make him feel hopeless."
"Well, she is. And I can't blame her," Ora replied. "If she did something with my best friend, I would be hurt, sad, and angry at them both. I wouldn't even know what to do."
"I would not worry about her right now," she said dismissively. "How I'm sure she isn't, too. You're both Monicks or something like that."
"Monarchs."
"Yeah, what I said. You both have your problems. Deal with your relationship afterward. As long as you prevail over your current problem, there will always be another time for another problem. One at a time."
They shared a quiet smile.
Then, suddenly, Ora's phone—resting on the nightstand—began to ring.
"The Whitehouse..." he muttered, hesitating for a moment as he looked at it, uncertain.
"Go," his grandmother said.
His eyes widened slightly.
"What? But you're sick. You can hardly move your hands, let alone walk. You need me. How will you eat?" he protested immediately.
"I can always tell the robot person on that speaker to call you when I need you," she replied with a soft smile. "Those people out there don't have such easy access. Go."
"But—"
"They need you more than me. Go. Or I'll get out of this bed and throw you out the door."
He hesitated, caught between duty and fear. Then, slowly, he picked up his phone and answered.
"This is Ora True, the Cerberus Monarch."
He stood.
"On my way."
Without another word, he left the room.
Behind him, his grandmother smiled faintly as she closed her eyes. "Good job, Ora... you've made me proud. So proud."
---
December 15th, 2029.
Ora stood before the open grave of his grandmother, his figure unmoving against the cold expanse of the cemetery as snow continued to fall in slow, silent descent around him.
Below, the casket rested within the earth, gradually disappearing beneath the steady rhythm of falling dirt.
His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his entire body rigid as tears streamed freely down his face, unrestrained and unhidden. Every part of him strained against the urge to break—to scream, to collapse, to lose himself completely in front of the one person who had shown him unwavering compassion throughout his life.
His head lifted toward the sky, his eyes squeezing shut as that internal battle intensified, as though he could force the grief back into himself through sheer will alone.
He failed.
Hours passed. The people left. Only he remained.
From the dimming light of afternoon to the deep stillness of night, Ora remained there, standing before the grave as though rooted in place, his mind refusing to accept what lay before him. The idea of her absence felt unreal, distant, as though reality itself had made a mistake he simply had not yet corrected.
But time did not bend for him.
At last, his strength gave way.
He collapsed to his knees, the impact muted by the thick layer of snow as his hands plunged downward, fingers digging past the cold surface and into the frozen dirt beneath. The earth resisted him, unyielding, just as reality had.
Memories flooded him then—fragmented, vivid, relentless.
Her voice.
Her laughter.
Her warmth.
And in that moment, the battle to hold back his tears was lost completely. But as that battle ended—another began.
The fight for purpose.
"WHY…!" Ora's voice tore through the stillness as his hands slammed violently into the frozen earth, sending small clumps of snow and dirt scattering outward from the force of the impact.
"MUST I SUFFER!!??"
His voice fractured under the weight of the question, splintering into something raw and uncontained before his strength gave out beneath him. His body collapsed backward into the snow, writhing as though seized by an invisible agony, his limbs twitching and curling as if trying to escape something buried deep within him rather than anything external.
"WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?! TO RECEIVE THIS PUNISHMENT!!!!"
The words ripped from his throat as he curled into himself, drawing his knees tightly to his chest while his hands clutched desperately at his head, fingers tangling into his hair as though he could physically restrain the thoughts tearing through his mind. His cries echoed across the empty graveyard, unchallenged, unanswered, swallowed only by the cold.
Time passed—how much, even he did not know.
Minutes stretched and distorted, losing meaning as his voice weakened, the intensity of his grief burning itself down into something quieter, but no less consuming.
"…end me… please…" he murmured at last, his voice reduced to something fragile and hollow, barely rising above a whisper.
"GOD! END ME, PLEASE!!"
The plea came louder, but not stronger—desperation replacing rage, his body remaining curled tightly in the fetal position as if instinct alone sought comfort where none could be found.
Again, silence answered him.
More minutes slipped by, unnoticed and uncaring, until at last Ora's body began to still.
Slowly—painfully—he forced himself upward.
His movements lacked strength, driven not by will, but by something deeper, something more stubborn. His gaze lifted, settling upon the gravestone before him, and there it remained, fixed and unblinking as his eyes traced the engraved letters again and again, committing every curve and line to memory as if repetition alone could anchor her existence in the world.
He drew in a long, unsteady breath, the cold air filling his lungs sharply.
"I must prevail."
The words came low, almost inaudible, yet they carried a weight far greater than his earlier screams—no longer a question, nor a protest, but a decision.
---
February 5th, 2034 — 6:00 A.M.
The world had changed, but the grave had not.
Ora stood before it once more, the early morning light casting a pale glow over the cemetery as frost clung stubbornly to the ground. In his hands, he held a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers, their color standing in quiet defiance against the muted tones of winter. His eyes rested on the engraved name, reading it in silence, not because he needed to—but because he chose to.
After a moment, he crouched, lowering the bouquet with deliberate care, placing it gently at the base of the tombstone as though even now he feared disturbing her rest.
"Well… you haven't changed since your last birthday, at least…" he said, a small smile tugging faintly at his lips. "Yeah, I know. Bad joke."
A quiet chuckle followed, soft and brief, fading almost as soon as it appeared.
"Happy birthday, grandma. I love you."
His hand rose, resting against the top of the tombstone, fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary before he finally stood.
He gave the grave one last look—not lingering, not hesitant—just enough to acknowledge it, before turning away.
---
The engine of his car hummed to life shortly after, the sleek, modern vehicle cutting through the quiet morning roads as he drove without urgency, yet without pause.
He stopped at a nearby coffee shop, the need for routine pulling him in more than any real desire for caffeine.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Recognition spread quickly.
Some patrons averted their eyes, shrinking slightly in their seats as if hoping to avoid drawing attention. Others stared openly, their gazes lingering on him—on his build, his presence, the weight of what he represented. Some of those looks carried admiration. Others, something less innocent.
Ora ignored all of it.
He ordered his coffee—simple black, a few cubes of sugar—and a plain bagel, his voice steady, uninterested in conversation. Once he had his food, he chose a seat by the window, settling into it with a quiet exhale as he allowed himself, for a brief moment, something resembling peace.
He ate slowly.
Drank quietly.
Let the world exist without him, if only for a moment.
Or so he thought.
The sharp vibration against his wrist broke that illusion.
His watch lit up.
The White House rang.
Ora wiped his hands clean with a napkin before swiping across the screen, lifting his wrist slightly as he answered.
"The Cerberus Monarch, responding."
"Ora, there's been a signal located in the Ruin Zone," the female voice said, urgency threading through her tone.
"Understood. However, you do realize that the Ruin Zone is off-limits? Even to Monarchs."
"Yes, we're the ones who established that restriction," she replied. "But this signal is the most powerful one we've ever recorded. The last time we detected something of this magnitude was in 1934, during the Stampede. This one is twice as strong."
A pause.
"If strength is any indication… it will be worse."
Ora leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose.
"So you want me to investigate something that could potentially wipe me out?"
"Yes. But do not engage under any circumstances. This is strictly reconnaissance. We're assigning you because of your Demon Projection—it should allow you to withstand the Ruin Zone's effects."
She continued without hesitation.
"You won't be going alone. Montana Bristol—the Cetus Monarch—will accompany you. Her Scatter Shot can temporarily nullify the Ruin, and her barrier constructs are resistant to it. She's your best support for this situation."
Ora nodded once and smirked, though she couldn't see it. Calling Montana's bubbles "barrier constructs" was funny to him.
"Understood. When do I depart?"
"Thirty minutes. Good luck."
The line went dead.
Ora stared at the screen for a moment before lowering his arm.
'Great… so much for a peaceful morning.' He thought before he stood, disposing of his trash with practiced ease before heading toward the exit.
'Oh, well,' he thought, pushing the door open. 'At least I was able to celebrate her birthday.'
---
The White House loomed ahead not long after.
Ora parked, stepped out, and moved inside without hesitation.
In the Oval Office, Montana Bristol stood already at attention, her posture rigid and composed as she faced President Emmanuel Thatcher, who sat behind his desk with his hands clasped together, his expression grave.
"Be careful, Montana," Emmanuel said, his voice measured. "We still have no idea what's out there."
"We understand, sir. We'll proceed with maximum caution," Montana replied.
"Yeah," Ora added as he entered fully into the room, "first sign of danger, we're gone."
"Good," Emmanuel said with a nod. "Your objective is simple—locate the source of the signal. And as Ora said, if anything poses a threat to either of you, you retreat immediately."
Both Monarchs nodded.
"Now go. Complete your mission."
"Sir, yes sir!" They both said at the same time, moving instantly.
As the door shut behind them, Emmanuel turned toward one of the phones on his desk, pressing a button without hesitation.
"Get me the Dragon Monarch," he said. "I want him on standby."
---
The sky tore open beneath them as Ora flew.
Montana clung to the back of his Demon Projection as they approached the Ruin Zone, the very air growing heavier, thicker, resisting their entry as if the world itself rejected their presence.
"Are you sure that you should be in this form?" Montana asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I can use this form twice a day, been working on increasing the amount, but this will have to do for now." Ora said, making Montana sigh.
"Well now you have only one more form left before you're maxed out. I could've just created us a bubble, instead." Montana said, Ora ignoring her.
They had to break through the air, requiring tremendous force—effort—and the moment they crossed into its boundaries, Montana reacted instantly, expanding a massive, translucent bubble around them.
The environment shifted.
Darkness clung to everything. Decay lingered in the air. Ora deactivated his Demon Projection. "Wait, what?"
Montana's head snapped toward him. "What are you doing? You could die outside that form!"
Ora waved off her concern, his expression calm. "It's fine. I've realized something—since my body heals automatically, the Ruin shouldn't affect me too much… as long as I don't get too close to the signal like this."
Montana exhaled sharply, clearly unconvinced.
"Fine. But if you die, that's on you. Stay focused—we're about ten minutes out."
"Got it." Ora said with a goofy smile.
Silence followed.
Not comfortable silence—but the kind filled with tension, with awareness, with the unspoken understanding that this could very well be their last mission.
Neither spoke again.
"There!" Montana pointed.
Below them, scattered rock formations broke up the terrain.
Ora frowned. "That?"
"Yeah. The signal's strongest there," she said, holding up a small, white, box-shaped device that emitted a slow, rhythmic beeping—the only sound in the deadened world around them.
"Alright… take us down. Slowly." Ora said.
They descended carefully, the bubble lowering with them. The moment it touched the ground, the surface began to blacken. Corrode.
Decay spread upward from the point of contact, eating away at the barrier itself.
"Be… careful," Ora said quietly.
And then—something struck.
Fast. Violent.
The bubble shuddered under the impact, rippling dangerously as if on the verge of rupture. Montana reacted instantly, raising her hands as more layers of energy formed, reinforcing the barrier again and again.
Whatever was out there—It had already found them.
"What was that thing?" Ora asked, his voice sharp with alertness as his eyes scanned the surrounding terrain, searching for even the slightest disturbance.
Beside him, Montana struggled to maintain the integrity of the barrier, her arms trembling slightly now as beads of sweat formed along her brow, her focus entirely consumed by keeping the bubble intact against an unseen force.
The answer came not in words—but in motion.
Something struck the barrier again.
Then again.
And again.
The impacts came faster now, no longer singular or spaced apart, but layered—overlapping—until the surface of the bubble rippled violently under the relentless assault. Distortions spread across it like fractures in glass, each hit pushing it closer to collapse, until it seemed inevitable that it would shatter at any second.
"Demon…!" Ora began, instinctively preparing to react—but he was too late.
Something pierced through.
Clean. Precise.
The barrier ruptured in an instant as a figure broke through its weakened surface, seizing Montana by the throat before vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind nothing but a violent displacement of air.
The bubble collapsed entirely. It didn't shatter—it simply ceased to exist.
Ora was left exposed to whatever was out there.
"Montana!!" he shouted, his arm extending forward instinctively, fingers grasping at empty space as he watched her vanish into the distance, taken before he could even comprehend what had happened.
A gunshot cracked through the air behind him.
Ora turned instantly.
His arm snapped up, intercepting the incoming bullet with precise force, deflecting it downward into the ground where it embedded itself with a dull impact. His eyes tracked the projectile for a fraction of a second—and that moment cost him.
Another shot.
He reacted again, knocking it aside—but something else followed.
A fist.
It crashed into his face with overwhelming force, the impact distorting the air itself as Ora's body was launched backward, tearing through the ground beneath him as if it were nothing more than loose soil. The earth gave way, swallowing him as he crashed through layers of dirt and stone before finally landing within a hollow, darkened space below.
Ora moved immediately.
He rose to his feet without hesitation, his head snapping upward toward the opening above as debris continued to fall around him in small, scattered fragments.
A figure stood there.
Silhouetted against the light above.
A man.
Cowboy hat resting low over his brow. A pancho over his torso. A revolver in each hand, held loosely yet with unmistakable familiarity. "You're a long ways away from home... ain't ya, partner?" The man said.
"Who are you?!" Ora shouted, his fists tightening at his sides, tension coiling through his entire body. "And what did you do with Montana!?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question.
"I'm afraid… that little gal…" he began, his tone slow, almost casual, before he stepped forward and dropped through the opening, landing lightly roughly ten feet away from Ora, his boots barely making a sound despite the height.
"Shouldn't be your main concern."
Ora's gaze hardened, his posture lowering ever so slightly as his fists clenched tighter, every muscle in his body preparing for what was to come.
---
6:34 A.M.—Minutes before the arrival of the Cerberus and Cetus Monarchs
The room was empty.
Not simply devoid of furniture or decoration—but stripped of anything that could define space itself. No walls, no texture, no depth—only a blank, endless expanse that seemed to exist outside of reality.
Within it stood two figures.
Cannon, Chelsea, and before them—something else. An aspect of Avallon.
Its form was unnatural in its simplicity. A completely black body, featureless in shape, contrasted only by a stark white face devoid of expression—no eyes, but a mouth, no indication of thought or emotion. It did not move. It did not breathe.
Yet it watched.
"So what are we suppose to do, exactly?" Chelsea asked, her voice carrying a faint edge of unease despite her attempt to remain composed.
"Kill both Monarchs, or die. It is as simple as that." The words were delivered without inflection. Without hesitation. Without care.
Chelsea and Cannon exchanged a glance—brief, but heavy with unspoken concern.
"The power that has imbued itself within you has doubled what was before. You should be at their level," the aspect continued after a short, suffocating silence. "Do not betray or disgrace the power Avallon has so gracefully given you by failing. It will not be tolerated."
Its final words lingered.
Cold and absolute, and then—it was gone.
The room faded with it, dissolving piece by piece until nothing remained, leaving Cannon and Chelsea standing beneath an open sky as though they had never left the world at all.
They looked at each other.
"So, what should we do? They'll be here pretty soon," Chelsea asked.
Cannon exhaled slowly, running a hand briefly along the grip of one of his revolvers.
"I don't know? How do we greet our sworn enemies after literally alerting them to our positions?" he said, a faint, humorless smirk crossing his face. "We hide until they get close, then strike."
Chelsea nodded.
Without another word, she raised her hand, weaving energy through the air as a cloak of invisibility wrapped itself around both of them, bending light and presence alike until they vanished completely from sight.
And so they waited.
Minutes passed.
Then—the Monarchs arrived.
From their concealed position, Cannon and Chelsea watched as the Cerberus and Cetus Monarchs descended, observing carefully as the lower portion of Montana's barrier began to corrode upon contact with the ground.
"So they can't interact with the Ruin, after all," Cannon whispered.
"Yeah. That means if we pierce that thing, then they'll both die in a matter of seconds," Chelsea replied.
"Right. Can you do it?" Cannon asked.
Chelsea hesitated. "I don't know. It's easier said than done, but I think I can. If I hit it enough times, it should burst."
Cannon nodded. "Okay. I'll take the Cerberus Monarch, you take the Cetus. We can't fail here. Not because of what that thing said, but because of Kristella's plans."
Chelsea gave a firm nod in return.
"Alright, here goes…" She raised her arms. "Mystical Cadence: Boost."
The world seemed to fracture around her.
She vanished—or rather, she moved so fast that the distinction no longer mattered.
In an instant, she appeared beside the barrier, striking it dead center before disappearing again in a blur of motion. She reappeared at another angle, striking again. Then again. And again.
Each impact compounded the last. They were relentless, precise, and extremely powerful—until the barrier gave way.
It burst open, water pooling around them as the bubble collapsed into what it was made from.
Chelsea surged forward before that, without hesitation, her hand snapping around Montana's throat as she tore her free from the collapsing field, carrying her away at an impossible speed.
At the same moment, Cannon moved.
The enhancement from Chelsea's Boost propelled him forward, his body cutting through the air as he drew both revolvers in a single fluid motion. He aimed then fired.
Ora turned, deflecting the first bullet into the ground. Another shot followed—deflected again. And then—Cannon was already there.
His fist collided with Ora's face, launching him downward through the earth and into the hollow chamber below.
The battle began.
And neither side intended to lose it.
Ora tilted his head upward, his gaze locking onto Cannon's figure as he stood at the edge of the opening above, framed by the dim light filtering down into the hollow space. For a brief moment, neither of them moved—then Cannon stepped forward and dropped through the hole without hesitation, descending in a controlled fall before landing cleanly on the ground below. He straightened to his full height, posture relaxed but deliberate, as if the act itself required no effort.
Ora did not give him time to settle.
He burst forward in a sudden dash, closing the distance with explosive speed—but Cannon had already made his move. Two shots rang out in quick succession, not aimed at Ora himself, but at the ground beneath his feet. The bullets struck and ricocheted instantly, rebounding at precise angles as they redirected toward Ora from below. Ora reacted on instinct, knocking them aside with sharp, controlled movements—yet the moment they passed his defense, they detonated.
A violent explosion erupted directly in front of him.
"Dynamite," Cannon whispered.
The blast struck with concussive force, sending Ora hurtling backward into the far wall, his body colliding hard enough to fracture the surface behind him as debris scattered outward. For a moment, the air stilled—then Ora pushed himself upright, letting out a low grunt as he brushed dust from his clothes as though the impact had been little more than a minor inconvenience.
His eyes narrowed as they fixed onto Cannon.
'Judging by his natural instinct, he can not only ricochet his bullets off of any surface accurately, but they also can explode.'
Across from him, Cannon studied Ora just as intensely, his thoughts turning with equal speed.
'I don't see even a mark on his body. What kind of monster shrugs off a point blank explosion like that?' His grip tightened slightly around his revolvers. 'He most likely will be able to survive the majority of my attacks, even in my enhanced state. I'll have to use "that".'
Without warning, the tension between them snapped.
Both moved at once.
Ora surged forward with aggressive intent, while Cannon slid backward, maintaining distance with calculated precision as he raised his revolvers and took aim.
"Six Iron: Dozen-A-Bullet."
He pulled the trigger—and in the same instant, smashed the hammer forward with his palm at a speed beyond perception. The result was immediate and overwhelming: seventy-two bullets erupted from the barrel in a single thunderous discharge, the sound compressing into one deafening blast as the storm of metal tore toward Ora.
Ora's eyes widened at the sheer density of the attack.
He leaped.
His body shot upward, narrowly avoiding the entire barrage—but before he could recover midair, another shot echoed through the space. He turned just in time to see seventy-two more bullets, fired from Cannon's second revolver, racing toward him and sealing off any remaining escape.
There was no room left to dodge.
So instead, he reached out.
A projection of claws enveloped his right hand in an instant, forming around it as he intercepted the incoming storm—and caught it. Every single bullet halted within his grasp, held in place by sheer force.
Cannon smiled.
The metal began to glow.
Then—it exploded.
A massive detonation tore through the air, the force of it shaking the ground itself as fire and pressure erupted outward from Ora's position. Smoke flooded the space, thick and impenetrable, swallowing the aftermath entirely.
---
Cannon's primary ability, known as "Six-Cylinder," manifested as two pristine revolvers that required no reloading, each capable of generating an effectively infinite supply of ammunition. However, despite that limitless capacity, each weapon still operated on a six-round cylinder; once all six shots were expended, the revolver would temporarily burn out, rendering it unable to fire for a brief period.
One of its aspects—"Six Iron: Dozen-A-Bullet"—altered that limitation by doubling the number of bullets within the cylinder itself, releasing all of them in a single trigger pull and producing an overwhelming burst of firepower in a single moment.
Another aspect—"Dynamite"—allowed Cannon to convert any fired bullet into an explosive projectile simply by invoking the word, with the scale and intensity of the explosion increasing based on the number of bullets discharged from a single revolver.
Used in tandem with Dozen-A-Bullet, the result was not merely an attack—but a concentrated form of destruction capable of overwhelming even the most durable opponents.
The smoke lingered, heavy and unmoving.
Cannon's expression tightened as a quiet unease began to settle in.
Something was wrong.
As the haze slowly began to thin, revealing the space beyond—Ora was nowhere to be seen.
The realization had barely formed before—impact.
Ora appeared behind him without warning, his fist already in motion as it slammed into the side of Cannon's head with devastating force.
"Bite of a Thousand Teeth:"
The strike sent Cannon crashing downward into the ground, the impact tearing through the surface as his body blasted back up through the opening above. He was launched across the terrain outside, skidding and tumbling for several yards before finally coming to a stop against the earth.
"Mark of the Dreaded Dog."
And just like that—the momentum of the fight shifted.
Ora leaped from the hole and landed directly before Cannon, the force of his descent cracking the ground beneath his feet, before his fist drove downward a fraction of a second later, punching a crater into the earth where Cannon had been standing—only for the man to have already thrown himself backward at the last possible moment.
'Holy shit, that was close,' Cannon thought, his body twisting midair before landing, boots skidding slightly across the ground. 'What the hell is this guy's durability? Surviving a sextupled explosion right to the face… are we being serious right now?'
He barely had time to steady himself before Ora was already on him again.
Cannon fired repeatedly, each shot timed to create space, to force distance between them—but Ora refused to allow it. Every attempt to retreat was suffocated before it could take form. Cannon gritted his teeth, then suddenly shifted tactics, dashing forward instead of away.
Ora slipped to the side of the charge with precise efficiency and drove an elbow into Cannon's back, the impact sending him stumbling forward several feet.
'Now!!' Cannon screamed internally, a grin stretching across his face as his body flipped upside down in midair.
Both revolvers slipped from his hands, dropping toward the ground below and sinking into it as though the earth itself had swallowed them whole.
Ora saw it—and immediately reacted.
Weston's traps flashed through his mind.
Without hesitation, he jumped back, creating distance, granting Cannon exactly what he had been trying to take.
A miscalculation.
A mistake.
Because Cannon had never needed space for traps.
He needed it for accuracy.
"Six Iron:" Cannon said with a smirk, as the ground ruptured around him and twelve turrets emerged—six to his left, six to his right—each mounted on rough wooden poles, their black barrels already turning, already aligning. "Automated Trigger."
Gunfire erupted instantly.
The turrets moved with unnatural fluidity, tracking Ora with pinpoint precision as bullets tore through the air toward him. Even as they stood on crude wooden supports, their aim never faltered, never drifted.
Ora's eyes sharpened as realization struck.
He moved.
His hand was encased in a projection of a claw as he reached forward, intending to catch the incoming bullets, to intercept them, to turn Cannon's own attack against him once the explosions triggered—but the moment his claw met them, his eyes widened.
The bullets phased straight through it.
They passed through the projection as though it wasn't there at all, continuing their path directly toward his body.
In an instant, Ora bent backward, spine arching as the bullets narrowly missed his face, one grazing dangerously close to his eye before streaking past. He snapped upright again immediately, feet digging into the ground as he launched himself toward Cannon without hesitation.
But the attack wasn't over.
More bullets fired.
Ora flipped forward over the next wave, his body rotating cleanly through the air—only to catch sight of the first volley curving back, reversing direction, joined by the second.
They were coming back. They tracked him, and would do so until they struck him.
Relentless.
Before the turrets suddenly sank back into the ground.
Cannon's revolvers rose once more from beneath the surface, pristine as ever, settling into his hands as though they had never left.
"Six Iron: Dozen-A-Bullet." His smirk widened.
The hammer and trigger blurred under his hands as he struck them in rapid succession—first one revolver, then the other—far faster than the eye could follow.
The result was immediate.
Ora's eyes widened again—this time in genuine fear.
Ahead of him, one hundred and forty-two bullets tore through the air in a dense, unavoidable storm. Behind him, twelve more closed in.
All of them ready to explode.
For a fraction of a second, suspended in midair, there was no escape.
Ora crossed his arms over his chest, his nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"Hell Guardian… Demon Projection."
A massive, dog-like maw manifested behind him, its jagged teeth parting as thick strands of saliva dripped downward—each drop hissing as it struck the ground, somehow corroding it further.
Then—a bright light.
A blinding flash consumed the immediate area, swallowing everything in white as the bullets reached him.
And then they detonated.
A massive explosion erupted outward, towering into the sky like a rising pillar, its force shaking the earth, its heat warping the air as a cloud of smoke billowed upward, dense and violent.
Cannon stood at a distance, chest rising and falling as he watched. Waiting. 'Did I get him before he could transform…?'
Then—a roar.
It tore through the battlefield, deep and monstrous, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
From within the dissipating smoke, something emerged.
Something vast.
Something terrible.
The fully manifested form of Demon Projection stood revealed, its immense body radiating power, arcs of lightning cascading off of it in violent waves, spreading throughout the sky and striking the ground and charring it black with every impact.
Cannon took a step back despite himself, the sheer density of spiritual energy pressing against him.
And then he smiled.
Apparently not.
"Come on! You don't scare me! You and that girl will die all the same!" The words had barely left his mouth before the beast moved.
It vanished.
Then reappeared in front of him like a bolt of lightning, a clawed strike slamming into Cannon and launching him skyward before he could react. His body dipped, then crashed back into the ground, carving out a crater on impact.
He stood immediately, firing upward at the descending form.
It didn't matter.
The bullets struck—but the beast didn't feel them.
Ora crashed down, driving Cannon into the earth and dragging him through it, tearing a trench through stone and soil before hurling him outward. Cannon spun violently through the air before slamming into the side of a mountain.
He clawed his way out of the rock.
Still standing.
He looked up—and saw it.
Ora hovered above, massive and godlike, suspended in the sky as if the world itself bent to accommodate his presence.
Cannon smiled again.
Then raised his revolvers.
"Alright, then…" he said, as the weapons dissolved into light. "Let's turn up… the electricity!"
Ora struck.
The impact mimicked thunder.
A deafening boom split the air as he slammed into Cannon, dragging him through the mountain in a violent burst of force before launching him upward through its peak. Ora followed instantly, striking him again midair—then again—and again—each blow echoing like thunderclaps, his form circling, striking from every angle.
Relentless and overwhelming.
Until—the final strike.
Ora brought both claws together and slammed Cannon downward, driving him through the mountain as lightning followed, erupting in a blinding cascade of energy that tore through the structure and detonated in a magnificent explosion of light.
Silence followed.
Ora hovered above, watching. Waiting.
The smoke began to fade.
And what he saw—stopped him.
Cannon was still standing. Damaged—but intact. Alive.
'What…? How did he…?' Before the thought could finish, Cannon's arms shot upward, and his revolvers reformed in his hands.
But they had changed.
No longer silver.
Now they burned with a radiant yellow glow.
"Six Iron… DEVASTATION!!" He slammed them together, the weapons merging into a single, larger firearm as energy gathered within the barrel, swelling, intensifying—then firing.
A beam of pure light erupted outward, screaming through the air like something unnatural, something alien, as it tore upward and struck Ora directly.
The sound it produced was wrong. Loud. Unsettling. Otherworldly.
The beam continued for ten full seconds, unrelenting, before finally dissipating into nothing.
Ora fell from the sky.
His form burned. Broken.
Below, Cannon's weapon shattered, the fragments falling from his hands and sinking back into the ground.
The battlefield fell quiet once more.
The final aspect of Six-Cylinder, called, "Six Iron: Devastation," is a charge-required move, one that demands both time and sacrifice, as for exactly a minute and a half Cannon relinquishes his ability to use his revolvers entirely, rendering himself vulnerable while they accumulate an overwhelming amount of energy, condensing it into a single, catastrophic beam of light capable of tearing through any surface—no matter how durable—before unleashing it in a continuous blast that lasts for ten full seconds, making it, without question, his most powerful and most dangerous aspect.
And what Devastation did to Demon Projection was not to kill it—because it could not—but rather to forcibly rip it away from Ora, tearing the manifestation from his being and leaving behind only his true body, exposed, defenseless, and positioned directly at the forefront of the attack with nothing left to shield him from its full force.
Cannon collapsed to one knee the moment the beam faded, his body trembling under the accumulated strain he had endured while charging Devastation, every second of vulnerability having cost him dearly, the barrage he had suffered carving into him to such an extent that even remaining conscious felt less like endurance and more like an outright miracle.
Still, he smiled.
Through labored breaths, he watched Ora's body fall from the sky, his expression twisting into something almost eager, almost desperate, as the Cerberus Monarch struck the ground with enough force to send a cloud of dirt and debris rising into the air.
Slowly—painfully—Cannon forced himself to stand, each step toward the crash site deliberate, unsteady, yet driven by a will that refused to falter now that victory stood within reach.
What greeted him there was not a corpse, but something far more frustrating.
Ora's body lay at the center of the impact, burned, broken, and yet—recovering.
Even now.
Even after that.
Cannon's expression snapped.
He surged forward, dropping onto Ora's chest and driving his fist into his face with brutal force, the impact denting the ground beneath them as if the earth itself yielded to his anger.
Then again.
And again.
Each strike forced Ora's head deeper into the dirt, each blow heavier than the last, each one fueled not just by rage—but by confusion.
"WHY. WON'T. YOU. DIE!!??"
His voice cracked through the air as his fists continued to fall, until, with a final roar, he raised both hands and brought them down in a single, crushing strike—mirroring the very attack Ora had once used against him in his Demon Projection form.
Ora struggled to breathe, his chest tightening with every shallow inhale, while above him Cannon swayed where he stood, his own body nearing collapse as consciousness threatened to slip away entirely.
Both of them had reached their limits.
Both of them stood on the edge of death.
And both of them, given just a little more time—just a little more persistence—could end the other.
The drawback of Cannon's Devastation aspect now revealed itself fully.
For two and a half minutes after its use, he could not access Six-Cylinder at all.
And with half of that recovery time already spent simply reaching Ora's position, it meant that the moment was rapidly approaching when his ability would return.
And when it did—the end of Ora True would no longer be a possibility.
It would be inevitable.
---
Ora stood upon a narrow wooden bridge that arched gently over a still, glass-like pond, its surface reflecting a sky that seemed too perfect to be real, as though untouched by time or consequence, existing solely for the sake of serenity; the bridge itself served as a quiet convenience for those who wished to cross without circling the water, though in this place, such practicality felt almost unnecessary. Behind him, his grandmother stood near the pond's edge, scattering small pieces of bread with careful, deliberate motions, feeding a cluster of ducklings that eagerly gathered around their mother, their soft chirps blending into the calm of the environment in a way that felt both natural and distant.
Drawn by a presence he both longed for and feared to acknowledge, Ora turned slowly, his eyes already beginning to water before they even settled on her, as though his body had recognized her before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.
She offered the last piece of bread to the mother duck, watching it be taken before she straightened her posture with a faint, practiced effort, her age evident in the subtle stiffness of her movement, and then turned toward him with a warmth that had never once diminished. "Hello, dear, how you've grown." She said warmly.
"Grandmother..." Ora whispered, his voice trembling as tears slipped free and traced down his face without restraint. "It's been... so long..."
"I know, I know. Don't tell me I've gotten new wrinkles." She said, lifting a hand to her forehead as if genuinely inspecting herself.
"No, you haven't." Ora replied, a small, fragile smile forming as he wiped at his eyes, trying to compose himself in her presence.
"Very good. It seems I was right." She said, pointing to herself with her thumb in a familiar, playful gesture. "This beauty is eternal."
Ora's smile deepened, not because of the words themselves, but because of how unchanged she was, how effortlessly she slipped back into the same mannerisms that had once grounded him, offering a sense of normalcy that felt almost surreal after everything he had endured.
"So, what have you been up to? Have you and Amnesia finally hit it off?" She asked, her tone carrying that same teasing curiosity that had always accompanied her questions.
"Anastasia, grandma. And no, we haven't. We've made up since then, but we haven't tried anything." Ora said, his shoulders lowering slightly as a quiet sigh escaped him, the weight of that unresolved connection lingering beneath his words.
"Really? After all these years, you still haven't tried to advance your relationship with that girl?" She asked, her disappointment clear, though softened by familiarity rather than judgment.
"It isn't that easy, grandma. I don't want to have sex with her just because." Ora replied, though his expression shifted almost immediately as memory caught up with him, his words trailing into uneasy realization. "Yikes... I really implied that..."
"Implying is a pussy's move. If you ain't got the balls to tell, then you ain't got them to breed." She said without hesitation, her bluntness unchanged by time or circumstance, striking him with the same force it always had.
Ora raised a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly in a quiet facepalm, caught somewhere between embarrassment and reluctant amusement.
Somewhere beyond the stillness, something violent echoed—a fist colliding with flesh, the force of it carrying a body through dirt and launching it upward into unseen space—yet the sound felt distant, muffled, as though reality itself were struggling to reach him.
Ora turned his head sharply, only to find nothing but an endless expanse of white stretching outward in every direction, featureless and silent, yet suffocating in its vastness.
"Where are we?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more uncertain, as he turned back toward her before gesturing toward the blank horizon. "What's over there?"
"I don't know, I've never tried crossing the bridge to find out." She said simply, as if the answer held no real importance, before continuing with a calm certainty that defined the space around them. "All I know is that this place is true peace. I don't have no ailments or sickness, I'm relaxed all the time, and I bear no worries at all." She said, turning away from him as she moved toward a nearby bench, lowering herself onto it with slow, deliberate care.
Again, the sound intruded—another strike, then another, followed by a relentless barrage of blows landing over and over again—each impact carrying a weight that felt far more real than the world he stood in, as though something outside this place refused to let him forget.
"There it is again... that feeling." Ora said, remaining where he stood at the center of the bridge, his voice laced with unease as his awareness split between two realities.
"What kind of feeling?" his grandmother asked, her gaze settling on him with quiet attentiveness.
"A disturbance. Like something wants to get my attention, or something. I honestly don't know." Ora admitted, struggling to articulate something that existed beyond his understanding.
"Let me ask you something." She said, her tone shifting just enough to draw his full attention back to her. "What did you think the day I died?"
The question struck him with a force greater than anything he had heard beyond the white expanse, leaving him completely still as silence settled in, heavy and suffocating, forcing him to confront something he had never truly resolved.
"I... was heart broken. I couldn't believe, I couldn't rationalize with reality. I could not... would never accept that you were... gone." Ora said at last, his voice uneven, each word pulled from a place he rarely allowed himself to revisit, as his grandmother leaned her head back against the bench, her gaze lifting toward the sky above.
"Oh, Ora." She said softly, before turning her head toward him once more. "You've always worried about others, but never yourself."
"Of course I did. You died, grandma! How am I supposed to care about anyone else other than you in that moment??" Ora replied, his composure breaking as tears welled again, his voice rising with the intensity of everything he had held back. "You were the only family I had. When you were gone, I lost a piece of me. I can never get it back."
"And that's the problem, honey." She said, rising from the bench and walking toward him with steady, deliberate steps, closing the distance until she stood before him once more. "You always try to limit yourself to others. If you put a piece of yourself inside everyone, then there will be nothing of you remaining. You can't always live in fear of losing." She said, lifting her hand to gently rest it against the side of his face, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
"But... that would mean that I never cared..." Ora said softly, his hand coming up to hold hers, clinging to the warmth as though it might vanish if he loosened his grip.
She met his gaze with a quiet, knowing smile, one that carried both understanding and something deeper—something final.
"You don't have to erase yourself to prove that you love someone." She said, her words settling into him with a clarity that left him momentarily breathless, his eyes widening as the meaning took hold.
Again, the violence broke through—another impact, sharper this time, followed by the sound of blood striking the ground—closer now, louder, impossible to ignore.
Ora turned, staring into the endless white that remained outwardly silent yet inwardly oppressive, as though it concealed something waiting just beyond perception.
When he turned back to her, there was hesitation in his movement, a quiet resistance to what he already knew.
"You know what I'm going to say next, don't you?" She asked.
Ora nodded slowly, the motion reluctant, burdened with understanding he did not want to accept. "I have to go."
"Not this time." She said.
The words struck him instantly, cutting through expectation and leaving him momentarily unsteady. "What? I don't understand." Ora said, as she gently removed her hand from his face and stepped back, creating a distance that felt far greater than the space between them.
"I was there when you visited me on the night of my death. You said so many things that just was not like you." She said, her voice carrying a quiet sorrow, touched with disappointment that lingered beneath the surface. "But there was a few words that stuck with me. Ones that you need to live by."
"I must prevail..." Ora whispered, the phrase surfacing from memory with a weight that felt heavier now than it ever had before.
She nodded, her expression softening as she spoke. "Over anything, Ora, as long as it means your survival. Show not me, or the world what you can do, but yourself. Prevail so that you may live in your own right. Prevail, so that you can win."
A bright, genuine smile broke across Ora's face, something unburdened, something real, as he turned away from her and took several steps forward along the bridge, each step carrying him closer to the endless white that waited ahead; then, as if pulled back by something he could not ignore, he stopped and turned once more to face her.
"But what about you?" he asked.
"I will always be here, waiting for you, honey. So do not worry about me." She said, returning to the bench and lowering herself into it once more with quiet ease. "I love you. So, so much."
"Prevail, Ora. Prevail over it all." She said, her voice reaching him one final time.
Ora smiled, holding onto that moment for as long as he could, before turning fully toward the white expanse ahead and breaking into a run, his figure moving forward without hesitation, carrying her words with him as he disappeared into the unknown.
Ora's eyes snapped open in an instant, awareness crashing back into him just as Cannon fired a bullet straight toward his head, the shot cutting through the air with lethal precision; yet Ora reacted just as quickly, his hand rising without hesitation to catch the projectile between his fingers before it could reach him, the force of it dispersing harmlessly as he flicked it away like an afterthought. Cannon's eyes widened in response, his own instincts kicking in as he surged forward immediately, throwing a punch meant to capitalize on that split second—but his fist never landed, halted mid-motion as Ora caught it just as effortlessly.
Then the air shifted.
A surge of energy erupted from Ora's body, not explosive, but suffocating in its density, pressing outward in waves that distorted the space around him and sent a clear, undeniable signal through Cannon's entire being. Ora released his grip, and Cannon didn't hesitate, jumping back to create distance, his expression tightening as unease took hold.
'This spike in spiritual energy… Don't tell me… he has one of those!' Cannon thought, the realization settling in faster than he wanted it to.
Ora's hands began to rise slowly, deliberately, as if guided by something deeper than instinct.
'I must… prevail.' he thought, the words anchoring themselves within him as his hands moved to his neck, fingers curling as though grasping at something unseen yet ever-present.
"Dimension Creation: Three-way Defeat of Death." His voice was calm—too calm.
Reality cracked behind him.
It wasn't a metaphor, nor an illusion; the fabric of existence itself fractured with a jagged split, the opening widening into something that defied comprehension before violently pulling both Ora and Cannon into its depths, sealing shut behind them with a sharp, final snap.
Cannon found himself standing—no, fixed—upon a stark white platform that stretched forward in a long, rectangular path, leading directly toward Ora, who stood waiting at the far end. The surrounding space was consumed by darkness, broken only by a faint, oppressive light filtering through thick, gray clouds above, casting a dull, lifeless glow over everything. Behind Ora stood three towering black gates, positioned left, center, and right, each elevated by a set of pale stairs and accompanied by a solitary podium placed just behind them.
Cannon tried to move.
Nothing responded.
His body refused him entirely—no motion, no resistance, no sensation—nothing but the ability to see, to think, and to understand.
Ora turned and walked toward the leftmost gate, his movements steady, controlled, as if he knew what everything inside did, despite not seeing it before. And in truth, he knew exactly what he was doing.
Before manifesting a Dimension, the Monarch goes through their life all at once, everything good and bad in an instant, expediting it exactly to create their Dimension. Upon a full manifestation, the cheat sheet of their Dimension is ingrained upon their mind, resulting in the 100% efficiency use of it.
However, unlike other Dimensions, which imposed rules or overwhelming force, the Dimension of Ora True operated with a cheat sheet disguised as structured intent, something closer to a system than a battlefield—yet within that system lay something far more dangerous than a simple cheat sheet. On his and his opponent's end.
A certainty.
A decision.
Chains wrapped around the gate began to loosen at his approach, metal clinking softly as tension released, before the lock fell away entirely and the gate creaked open with a slow, dreadful sound that seemed to echo far longer than it should have.
Behind it, resting upon the podium, was a card.
Ora picked it up without hesitation, turning it once in his hand before flicking it toward Cannon, the card slicing through the air and stopping just short of him, suspended in place as though held by the Dimension itself.
In regards to Liminal Bonds that every Monarch required to use their abilities, and in regard to the extreme charge of them in order to cast a Dimension... the cost of Three-way Defeat of Death was an exact... zero.
The cost was entirely dependant on which card Ora chose. And the card he chose was the least costly.
It was split diagonally—one half depicting a clenched fist against a red background, the other a boot against a deep purple.
"Domination."
The moment Cannon saw it, the information forced itself into his mind, flooding his thoughts with clarity he hadn't asked for but couldn't resist.
Domination effectively increased Ora's physical strength and speed to the power of two instantly. But, it was only for ten seconds—yet each successful strike extended both its duration and its power, stacking upon itself until it reached a maximum power of ten, lasting up to one full minute.
Cannon processed it all in an instant.
And then the Dimension shattered.
Reality collapsed around them again, reforming just as quickly, the transition violent yet seamless, offering no time to adjust.
The Dimension of Ora True was unique from others in the aspect of it possessing a main cheat sheet, and two smaller, almost subject-like abilities. The only of its kind. The subject ability, known as Domination, appilied an immediate to the power of two to Ora's strength. With each successful strike, this would be raised to the power of 2, and then that power will be raised to the power of 2, going onward until it reaches the maximum of 10, while also adding time to eventually reach the maximum 1 minute limit.
Domination resides behind the left most gate.
And the final card that resides behind the right most gate, the subject known as "Final Choice."
An ability that transcended conventional combat entirely. Upon contact with the target, so long as they were inside the Dimension as this card was picked, would instantly die upon interaction, not limited to touch alone, but extending through presence, through movement, even through perception itself on extremely rare occasions.
But it carried a flaw.
A fatal one.
If the opponent made contact first, the one in the Dimension as Ora picked the card, he would surely die instantly instead.
Three-way Defeat of Death was not just power, it was risk, a decision. An avoidable obstacle. And Ora had already chosen.
His eyes focused intently, as he was now in front of Cannon before thought could catch up, his hand latching onto Cannon's ankle mid-movement and yanking him back with overwhelming force before driving his fist straight into his gut, the impact immediate and catastrophic as Cannon felt his consciousness flicker under the sheer weight of it.
The multiplier began.
Another strike followed—faster, heavier—driving into Cannon's ribs and lifting him off the ground entirely, his body reacting violently as the force carried through him, the timer extending, the power increasing.
Then another.
And another.
Each hit carried damage and escalation.
Cannon barely managed to break free, stumbling backward, but Ora was already there, already closing the distance, already striking again, each blow compounding the last as the invisible counter climbed higher and higher.
A punch to the chest sent Cannon crashing into the ground.
Ora followed instantly, grabbing him by the head and slamming him down again, then again, then again, before dropping onto his chest and unleashing a relentless barrage of strikes, each one cracking the ground beneath them, each one pushing the multiplier further, beyond reaching its peak.
To the power of 10. One full minute. Maximum output. Maximum power.
Ora rose slightly, then brought both fists down into Cannon's chest with crushing force before lifting him once more, then flinging him into the sky. Ora jumped, then met Cannon's back with his foot, creating a shockwave upon impact that hurled him into the ground, the impact sending tremors through the ground as Cannon's vision blurred beyond recovery.
Each hit threatened to end him.
Each second brought him closer to death.
Ora land, then kept punching, repeatedly, ruthlessly, over and over again, until the concept of time no longer existed for him.
And then—it stopped.
The power vanished. The timer was up.
For a brief moment, everything stilled.
And then Ora moved again.
His hands rose to his neck once more, fingers tightening with purpose as his voice echoed with the same calm certainty as before.
"Dimension Creation."
Reality fractured again, pulling both of them inside again.
Cannon stood on the edge of death, his body barely holding together, while Ora walked forward with measured steps, already selecting what would come next.
With Domination, the expenditure of Liminal Bonds was manageable, requiring few, enabling him to effectively repeat the process. It could be an infinite chain of casting his Dimension, over and over again, so as long as he never chose another card.
With Final Choice, he could end it instantly—at a risk.
But instead, he turned toward the center gate.
Behind the center gate is the cheat sheet of the Dimension known as, "The One." It grants absolute immortality from any and everything. It negates damage, and allows Ora to never be harmed. However, the limit to possessing immortality was a two minute duration. It could not be extended. It could not be countered or stripped away. There was no exception. However, after the timer went away, Ora could no longer use his Dimension for 10 minutes.
With The One, he became entirely immortal. And for the next two minutes, Ora True would become unstoppable. Nothing on the planet or off could kill him while in this state.
If you were to exclude Alma Alastor, that is.
The chains fell. The lock gave way. The gate opened. And Ora took the card.
He tossed it toward Cannon, the knowledge of "The One" embedding itself instantly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
And then the Dimension broke once more.
Ora didn't hesitate.
He drove Cannon into the ground again, mounting him as before, his fists crashing down repeatedly, each strike heavier than the last, the crater beneath them expanding with every impact as the earth itself gave way under the force. Cannon's essence spilled from his mouth, losing his life in a literal and spiritual sense. He tried to stop Ora, gripping his wrists with his hands, but he was too weak to stop him.
Ora planned on ending it all. To kill Cannon.
And as the concept of time escaped Ora, the punches fell into mere beats on a drum. Each second, each ruthless pounding, numbed Ora of what he was even doing. It became a natural instinct, something autonomous. An unknown amount of time passed before Ora's movements began to slow. He didn't stop immediately.
Having regained awareness of what was going on, Ora made sure that Cannon was dead, even long after his body stopped moving, stopped twitching, stopped breathing.
Only when he was certain—completely certain—that Cannon had died… did he finally stop.
Silence followed immediately after.
Ora's clothes were stained with the essence of Cannon, the yellow and white fluid dripping off of his hands, where it fell into the pool beneath them, expanding around them. Drops of essence scattered along his face, Ora panting as exhaustion hammered against his head. Unconsciousness was imminent, but he could not fall here. If Montana's fight was even half of what his was, she was fighting for her life, on the verge of death most likely, and he needed to help her. And if he did slip into unconsciousness, the possibility of him never waking up terrified him.
Ora remained there for a moment, on top of Cannon's chest, battling against the overwhelming desire to rest, to sleep, to give in and collapse, his chest rising and falling as the weight of everything settled into him, before he slowly lifted his gaze toward the ruined sky above.
It was a depressing sight. The sky was completely dark with a hint of brown mixed in. The sun could not be seen, as if everything was stuck in darkness, yet there was dim light in the sky.
Throughout the entire fight, the Ruin around them ate away at his body, but his unique regeneration kept him sustained, appearing as if it never affected him. Now... the affects of being inside the Ruin Zone, after battling for his life and exhausting his energy along with Liminal Bonds, began to show.
The requirement for regeneration was to supply his body with a constant, precise amount of Liminal Bonds, something that only Ora possesed. Having used Demon Projection twice, along with Dimension Creation, had left his reserves nearly empty. His survival, in the sense of existence, did not depend on Liminal Bonds. That was a type of energy comprised between Monarch and Mythical Beast that allowed for the usage of their abilities, not a sort of life force that, once fully depleted, would result in the Monarch's death.
The usual level of Liminal Bonds Ora supplies his body at is the baseline, or normal level to him. This, to him once more, is adequate enough, while to others, is a regeneration they have never seen before. And thus with his Liminal Bonds being low, the normal, constant stream he supplies his body with, while greatly above human, still submits to the Ruin Zone around him.
His skin began peeling off, nearly faster than what his body could replace. Blood turned brown at the wounds he suffered, and any that left his body immediately turned a dark black. It was almost an infection that had a hold over his body.
Through the severe pain and exhaustion, a smirk appeared on his face that grew into a wide smile. He had won. He had defeated his opponent. He had endured everything placed before him. He had thrived...
But most of all... He had... Prevailed.