“Shin, I want to know.” Nineteen’s voice echoed in the impenetrable darkness, light and ephemeral. There was a hint of deep sorrow and desperation in his voice. “Did you create Bael?”

Then, a symbol — radiant white and blazing — appeared in the darkness. It looked like a W, with a flame upon each peak. It was the Hebrew letter shin.

The symbol pulsed once, then, and overwhelmed the darkness with a surging wave of brilliant light.

As the brilliance waned and receded, the blackness it left behind was not completely black, but a few luminous points remained. Four at first, but then another twelve blinked into existence. Then more, until there were twenty-three stars in total, sprawled out across the sky.

Twenty-three stars. Arnel had seen them before. In every vision of Mars, the sky would only have twenty-three stars. Even though there were twenty-four AGMI, one was always missing. And he knew, for whatever reason — call it intuition — that those stars represented the AGMI as guiding lights of civilization.

Then, suddenly, another star appeared in the sky — in the very center — and a flaming halo threw its bounds across the night sky, burning with a dark-orange flame. Then the vacant hollow within the halo became filled with fire and turned into a massive fireball that consumed all.

___

The stars smeared out across the blackness, their glaring, distorted hexagonal shapes glimmering with points of light.

A distant explosion rattled the ground, and dust fell off the nearby wall, visible in the shafts of light passing through the bullet-shaped holes in the wall.

“Nineteen…” a weak voice called to Arnel. “Nine…”

As Arnel stared at the yawning abyss overhead, and the colors returned to paint that sky a more malevolent red — rather than a pure black — he slowly became aware of his surroundings. The sky was red because of the flames in the distance. The rattling bass and swell of machine-gun fire intermittently broke the peaceful quiet. Sometimes, it was the electric hum and powerful blast of sound that overwhelmed all the other explosions and gunfire.

But at that moment, all Arnel could hear was that voice calling to him, and — more alarmingly — the distant singing that he heard when he saw Bael.

Bael. That creature — that monstrous entity — was unlike anything Arnel had ever seen. It was not like a Machine Arsenal, and it was not like an AGMI. The feeling was different. Perhaps his impression was poisoned by Thomas’s words — calling Bael a Primal Virtue — but he could not help but think that his opinion would’ve been no different had he not heard that warning.

“Nineteen…” the voice called to him. The source was nearby. Right next to Arnel.

And yet, Arnel simply stared at the night sky, his mind flooded with thoughts and questions. Was this the afterlife? He was sure he died when he heard Bael’s name.

He chuckled then — he couldn’t hold it back. The absurdity of living in a world where hearing a name could kill someone was outrageous. How was that even possible?

< The Consolidation Virus. >

Leviathan’s voice came to Arnel’s mind clearer than he ever heard it before. Perhaps it was because he had not heard its voice in a long time, or perhaps because their synchronization was higher. Either way, now he could tell there was a masculine quality to that tone, and it was less distorted than before. It almost sounded human even. It sounded less threatening too.

“Wh…?” Arnel sighed the words out, his lungs still uncooperative.

“Nineteen…?” the voice came again.

With a great deal of effort, Arnel rolled over to one side, and then pushed himself to his knees. Every fiber of muscle in his body was trembling at that effort. His legs were shaky, and his sense of balance was completely off. He felt as if he was drunk and exhausted at the same time. He nearly threw up at the very thought of going the rest of the way and climbing to his feet.

He pressed his hand against the wall, and used it for support, eventually making it to the standing position. Then he slowly turned around.

“Nine…”

Arnel looked at the one calling out to him.

He was young — about Arnel’s age — with dark blond hair that was covered in dried blood. He wore a uniform, but unlike any Arnel had seen before. It certainly wasn’t the one that the Peacekeepers wore. The uniform was dark grey, for urban environments, with some camouflage patterns. The helmet and body armor were strange, and the latter had three bullet holes.

“Are you… are you all right?” Arnel whispered. His throat felt dry. His voice was raspy. He could barely breathe.

Just as he started to get a grip on his balance, the ground shook from a nearby explosion, which nearly caused him to fall.

“Help… me… Nineteen…”

“I am not… Nineteen,” Arnel whispered.

Even though the wounded — or dying — man stared vacantly at the night sky, he still managed to put on an expression of confusion.

“You are not… Nineteen?” the soldier asked. “I can’t… see you. Come… closer…”

Arnel pushed off the wall and took a few stumbling steps towards the fallen soldier, and then fell to his knees next to him. “How can I help you?”

The soldier looked at Arnel and then smiled. “I knew… it was you… Nineteen.”

Arnel furrowed his brows. “No,” he said. “Nineteen is…”

Nineteen is dead.

But Arnel could not say those words. This close, Arnel could see the number 19 on the soldier’s shoulder patch. Beneath the number, the words “Lost Battalion” further confirmed the boy’s identity.

“You are…” the soldier whispered. “Look…”

With shaky hands, the soldier opened his breast pouch and withdrew a card from within, which he then gave to Arnel.

It was unlike any card Arnel had seen before. It was a picture of him, holding a trumpet. At the top of the card, the roman numerals XX likely denoted the value of the card. At the bottom, the words Judgment likely named the card.

“It is… you. Code… Judgment,” the soldier whispered. “Only you… can save… us now.”

Arnel stared at the card. The number twenty. Nineteen. He felt like there was something important — some hidden meaning — that evaded his understanding. But the words the soldier spoke lingered in his mind like a bright, burning star.

“How do I save you?” Arnel asked — deciding to no longer argue with the soldier about his identity.

The soldier smiled and sighed. Without a word, the soldier — very slowly — pulled out his sidearm and pressed it into Arnel’s hand. Then he blinked, and at that moment, for the first time, the soldier seemed aware of his surroundings and alert.

“Let me go home,” the soldier spoke, with a clear tone, as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Take me to the others.”

Goosebumps formed constellations on Arnel’s exposed forearms. Just holding the gun, he could already smell the propellant and rusty tang of blood in the air.

As Arnel stared into the soldier’s eyes, a fuel-air bomb exploded overhead, lighting up the immediate surroundings with an eerie, hellish glow.

On the cusp of rejecting the soldier’s wish, Arnel heard the soldier speak once more.

“Thank you, Nineteen,” he whispered. “Before I met you, I was afraid of living in this world. Thanks to you, and Sai, and Hannah, and everyone else, I got to know what being happy was really like. Our home — the place you made for us — taught me how to belong to something greater than myself. Now I am no longer afraid of anything.”

Arnel swallowed the developing lump in his throat. “Maybe you don’t have to d—”

“Nnnhn,” the soldier emitted, closing his eyes. “Everyone has to die. I am already dead. I am trapped here. In Bael’s nightmare.”

Arnel narrowed his eyes when he heard the name. Yet, a dangerous thought began to surface in Arnel’s mind. If it was true that the soldier was trapped here, was Arnel also trapped?

“I want to go home, Nineteen.”

Arnel swallowed again and then nodded. “I am sorry,” he whispered, as he pushed himself to his feet. Slowly, he aimed at the soldier’s head. His hands trembled. His palms felt sweaty. It was so unlike the previous time when he had to shoot someone. Back then, he didn’t feel anything but righteous fury. Now, he could not even describe what he felt. He felt inhuman. He was disgusted with himself.

It was mercy, and yet it still felt so wrong.

“I am so sorry,” Arnel whispered, closing his eyes.

Nineteen had to do this? In his visions, Arnel could always feel Nineteen’s soul-crushing guilt and sorrow — and his determination to make sure that this doesn’t happen to his friends and comrades. He had to do this so that they did not end up in this nightmare.

“And if you find her,” the soldier whispered. “Help that person too. And tell her… I said ‘thank you’.”

Arnel opened his eyes. His heart froze over when he saw himself aiming the gun at the soldier. “Who?” Arnel asked — reaching for anything that might delay the inevitable conclusion.

“Code… Empress.”

And then silence followed. It dragged on for a dozen seconds, and then half a minute. Neither one of them spoke. There were no more conversation lines. It was just this. The end and the liberation. The mercy and the guilt.

Code Judgment, the soldier called him.

After nearly a minute, a lone gunshot echoed out into the ruined streets; and this gunshot was louder than any other. It echoed, seemingly unto eternity, and it silenced all the other guns and bombs. The world seemed to stand still as if paying their respects to one more lost soul that met its unraveling here.

When Arnel opened his eyes again, the soldier’s body was gone. There was only a bullet hole, where the soldier’s head was.

But Arnel knew that he was not hallucinating the soldier’s presence. It was all real. At least, he was convinced it was.

He stared at that bullet hole in the concrete floor as if it was the very place where he shot and killed his own innocence and indecision. Here, he shot a part of himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a familiar voice came from behind him.

Nostalgia overwhelmed Arnel. Those were the same words that Priscilla spoke — the very first ones — when she appeared on the Island of Beginnings. It was an awkward first meeting — especially because Arnel thought that Priscilla was either a player or perhaps an administrator. He tried to explain but then realized that Priscilla did not understand a single reference Arnel made to the real world, his injury, and then-current situation.

Despite the fatigue, disgust, and weakness he felt, he turned around sharply and the fetters on his heart dissolved.

There she stood — in all her wintry paleness and cold blue — the same as the day he met her, and all the days after that one. The only difference was that now she didn’t wear her veil — and many times, Arnel would try to sneak a peek at her face with little success — but he still knew that this was her face; it was Priscilla.

And both joy and despair then fell unto him — the joy of seeing her again and the desperation of realizing that she was here. Why was she here — in this vision or nightmare or whatever it was? And then he realized something important.

The Code Empress the soldier spoke of… could it be that this was her?

“You don’t belong here, Code,” she spoke, and then looked away — towards the sky in the east as if she saw something there. “You should leave while you still can.”

Arnel blinked. Did she not recognize him?

Arnel dipped his head and stared at the floor. She even called him a Code.

“Izanagi,” she suddenly spoke. “Engage.”

Arnel looked up from the ground, and nearby, a mountain of silver stood up, on its eight arachnid legs. It was around sixty meters tall, and its main body had a peculiar shape of irregular edges and faces. Dominating its body was the large, hundred-meter long barrel of its main armament — the railgun.

It was a Machine Arsenal. The first one that Arnel ever saw up close, and largely identical to the Deucalion plushie Arnel won that day with Thomas.

Lightning began to spark from the railgun barrel, and a terrifying hum filled the area. The ground shook from the overwhelming noise.

This was not Priscilla. It couldn’t be.

“Who… are you?” Arnel asked — shouted rather so that his voice could reach the person in front of him over the sound of the charging railgun.

She replied with a soft tone, and yet Arnel could hear her with crystal clarity.

“I am the light,” she said, and a halo blazed into existence above her head, with jagged and irregular peaks — like a flattened crown.

I am the light. Those were the same words that Bael spoke.

The gun in Arnel’s hand clattered to the ground, as he stared dumbstruck at “Priscilla”.

Then Izanagi’s railgun fired at something in the distance to the east, and the initial pulse of heat and sound tore Arnel’s body to shreds.

___

Arnel blinked. The chandelier on the ceiling was a familiar sight. The scent on his pillow was just as familiar.

Without looking further, he knew that he was in his room once more.

The dried tears on his cheek irritated his skin, and that sensation — of being alive — prompted further investigation, and he patted his chest, upper arms, and stomach, simply to confirm that he was still alive.

It was just a dream, he told himself. He hoped it was just that. A terrible nightmare after… well, actually dying.

He looked to his side and saw several machines which weren’t there before. He was hooked up to them via wires, and tubes, and all sorts of things — too many to count. One of the machines was familiar. Its constant tone and beeps informed him of his beating heart as if saying you are still alive.

Beyond the machines, Thomas and Isobell slept while seated, likely having monitored Arnel all night. They slept peacefully it seemed, a rest well earned judging by the dark bags underneath their eyes.

Arnel looked at the ceiling and sighed.

I am the light. Those words echoed in Arnel’s mind, and for a long time, he thought about them, and the person that looked like Priscilla.