Above Sefirah Castle, it was as silent as a tomb.
Amon sat in the high-backed chair that once belonged to "The Fool," a wisp of light as thin as mist held between his index finger and thumb. It was the last remaining trace of "humanity" belonging to Klein Moretti—or rather, the former "Fool." It flickered feebly within its shell of divinity, like a candle in the wind.
"I won," Amon whispered, the corners of his eyes behind the monocle curving into a pleasant arc.
He released his fingers, and the wisp of light floated in midair, slowly rotating. He had been sitting above this gray mist for... well, time had long since lost its meaning to him. Perhaps three days, perhaps three years, perhaps three centuries. After becoming the complete "Lord of the Mysteries" and wielding the authorities of Error, Door, and The Fool, he had achieved the "correctness" he had long pursued—winning the game and ascending the divine throne.
And yet, at this moment, the new god propped up his chin with one hand while the other idly flicked at that wisp of human light.
"Correctness," Amon repeated, the curve of his lips deepening, yet devoid of warmth. "The correctness of winning the game, the correctness of sitting on the throne, the correctness of overlooking everything... and then?"
The light-mist did not answer—it was merely a remnant of humanity, not even enough to be called an obsession. And yet Amon still spoke to it, as if it were the only audience he could find.
"Father once said that becoming a deity means freedom. Adam—or rather, the Ancient Sun God—probably thought so too." Amon stood and strolled through the gray mist, the hem of his black robe brushing silently against the ground. "But you see, Klein, what comes after freedom? Endless time, predetermined authority, and the... boredom of everything operating according to rules."
He stopped at the edge of Sefirah Castle and looked down. Through the gray mist and the fog of history, the infinite river of time and space unfolded before his eyes, with countless worlds flickering in and out of existence like bubbles.
The rules of every world were orderly, the logic seamless, and the stories followed set paths. Of course, there were wars, betrayals, love, and death—but in the eyes of a god, these were merely different outcomes of predetermined programs.
"Too correct," Amon sighed, the chain of his monocle swaying gently. "Everything is far too correct—so correct it's sleep-inducing."
He extended a finger and lightly tapped one of the "bubbles."
The image of that world unfolded before him: in a school called Sobu High School, a cold-faced girl stood in a classroom known as the Service Club, speaking to a boy with dead-fish eyes and another apprehensive girl. Her voice traveled through time and space, clear and stern:
"Correct conclusions are based on correct premises and correct logical deductions..."
"Oh?" Amon's eyebrows twitched.
He tapped another bubble. A pink-haired girl was huddled in a closet, clutching a guitar, her eyes wide like a startled cat's.
"It's over, it's over, I played a wrong note on stage today, everyone must hate me now, I'm definitely not going to the next performance, I might as well hide in the closet for the rest of my life..."
"Pfft." Amon couldn't help but chuckle.
A third bubble: a white-haired man wearing a black blindfold stood before a group of teenagers, speaking in a tone so flippant it was almost irritating:
"Anyway, that's how it is~ I'm the strongest, so just relax~"
"The strongest?" Amon tilted his head, his smile turning playful.
His fingers moved quickly across more bubbles: a pink-haired girl laughing while slamming a table in a student council room, a girl trying to keep a straight face while failing to hide her shyness, a sea-urchin-haired boy summoning a massive shikigami, a pink-haired boy with another violent voice echoing from within...
Rules. Logic. Emotions. Combat. Romance. Friendship. Fear. Pride. Every world had its own laws of operation, and every character was immersed in their own "correctness."
"Interesting," Amon murmured, his eyes lighting up behind the monocle like a child discovering a new toy. "The rules of these worlds... why are they so messy?"
He observed more closely. These bubbles were not entirely independent; they were strangely intertwined on a deeper level, sharing the same spatio-temporal foundation—a city named "Tokyo," a country called "Japan." Yet their underlying rules differed wildly: some allowed "Cursed Energy" and "Techniques," others followed ordinary physical laws; some were filled with the bittersweetness of adolescence, while others burned with intense battles.
What was even more amusing was that none of the inhabitants noticed. They lived within their own stories, followed their own logic, and firmly believed in their own "correctness," ignoring or rationalizing any anomalies that didn't fit their worldview.
"Cognitive filtering? A self-consistency patch from the world's consciousness?" Amon analyzed with keen interest, his fingers tracing invisible patterns as he deconstructed the structures of these worlds. "It's like weaving threads of different colors into a single cloth—the ends are sticking out everywhere, yet they insist it's flawless."
His smile deepened—this time, genuine, laced with quiet malice.
"So interesting."
Amon turned and walked back to the high-backed chair. Instead of sitting immediately, he placed both hands on the armrests and leaned forward, as if addressing an invisible audience.
"Klein, do you see?" he said softly. "These worlds, these humans—they live so earnestly. Earnestly spinning within their own rules, earnestly struggling through their joys and sorrows, earnestly believing in their own 'correctness.'"
He straightened and spread his arms slightly, the monocle reflecting the dim light of the gray mist.
"And now, standing here, I possess the power to tear all of that 'correctness' apart with ease."
His voice carried a childlike delight.
"I could walk in, give a gentle push, and let the girl pursuing perfection discover how fragile it truly is; let the one hiding in the closet confront ten versions of herself; let the man who calls himself the strongest witness what 'invincibility' really means—"
He paused.
His smile softened—too soft, almost unsettling.
"And then observe."
A whisper.
"Collapse? Fear? Anger? Resistance? Or... something brighter?"
"How will they explain the unexplainable 'Errors'? How will they find loopholes in their own logic? How will they reshape themselves when their rules begin to crumble?"
At last, he sat down, crossing his legs, his index finger tapping lightly against the armrest.
"So," Amon said, almost casually, "I've decided."
"I'm going to join them."
"But not as a god—that would be too dull."
"I'll seal most of my power. Keep just a fragment... enough to create 'Errors.'"
"I'll take on a suitable identity. Blend in. Observe."
He paused, then smiled.
"A transfer student."
"Unknown origin. Monocle. Always smiling. A quiet interest in human behavior—and a talent for creating small, harmless 'Errors.'"
"Perfect."
He stood once more and approached the faint wisp of Klein's remaining humanity. With a gentle motion, he tapped it.
"I'm going to play a new game," Amon said softly, almost kindly. "This time, the fun isn't in winning."
"I've already won too many times."
"The fun lies in the process."
"In observation."
"In watching how those stubborn, fragile, absurd, and earnest humans react when faced with a sudden 'Error.'"
The light flickered faintly—like a final breath.
Amon no longer looked at it.
He turned and stepped beyond Sefirah Castle.
"First stop..." his voice echoed faintly as his figure faded into the mist. "That girl who pursues 'absolute correctness.'"
"Let's see what expression she makes... when an 'Error' becomes her seatmate."
The last glint of his monocle disappeared.
Silence returned to Sefirah Castle.
Only the faint wisp of light remained, slowly turning in place—fragile, stubborn, as if trying to remind someone of something.
But there was no one left to listen.
---
Meanwhile, in a certain world.
In a certain city.
In a certain classroom.
The homeroom teacher of Class 2-F had just received a phone call.
A polite voice spoke from the other end:
"Hello. My name is Amon. Starting today, I will be attending your class as a transfer student."
Outside the window, a cherry blossom petal drifted into the room, landing softly on an empty desk.
A seat by the window.
Where the sunlight fell just right.