With his eyes closed, he lifted his face to the sky, absorbing for a brief moment the serenity that followed the storm.
The energy from the battle still lingered, slowly dispersing around him—cleansing the area not only of the evil presence but also of his own. The cycle had been broken, and in the absence of heroes or villains, peace finally prevailed. The only sound that remained was the crackling of dying flames, their sparks echoing in the silence before surrendering to the weight of time.
It didn't take long for the headmaster to show up. He appeared through the metal door: the emergency exit behind the school, ironically the only structure that had withstood the chaotic spectacle.
Waving the dense smoke away from his face, his expression flickered between disbelief and fury as he took in the state of the place.
"YAMASAKI?! WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY GYM? MY ACADEMY?! IT'S ALL FALLING APART!" he shouted, just as the gym began to collapse before his eyes.
Unrecognizable, the space was now nothing but scattered debris—a pale reflection of what it once had been.
A metal beam crashed to the ground in front of him, raising a cloud of dust. The exorcist, pulled from his trance, cast a look of disdain at the scene. The gust from the impact swept past his back.
"Ah... my gym..." the headmaster muttered, nearly fainting, his voice heavy with sorrow.
Outside, the staff, still stunned, watched the chaos in silence, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.
"What happened? Huh, I exorcised the demon." I replied, with a tone so indifferent it bordered on insulting. "What's with that face? Feeling sick?" I added, raising my voice in a sarcastic and impatient tone.
The headmaster stood silent for a moment, dumbfounded, before exploding:
"Damn it! WHAT'S WITH THIS FACE? FEELING SICK?!" he roared, his voice echoing. "Oh, my gym… YOU BRAT! Do you have any idea how much money I spent on it?!"
Each word dripped with rage and frustration as he finally collapsed, falling to his knees. His hands touched the ruined ground as a bitter cry escaped his lips:
"All that money… down the drain! Why would you do this to me? Why?!"
His employees rushed to support him, murmuring words of comfort as they held his back. None dared to look at the exorcist, whose cruel and arrogant posture made them uneasy.
"How are the students supposed to train now?!" he cried out, pounding the rubble with trembling fists.
"And what did you expect me to do?" I shot back, voice sharp with irritation. Clenching my fists, I continued without hesitation: "Consider it part of the debt you owe to the victims of your greed. At the very least, show some decency and offer their parents your condolences."
The venom in those words struck like a punch. His fake sorrow ceased instantly as he raised his face, stunned, staring at me like he'd just been hit by something invisible.
"What?" he asked, his voice shaking between rage and disbelief. "What did you say, Yamasaki Yami? Are you accusing me without proof?"
I paused, not turning back.
"You heard me. After all, no one died, right? Consider it a joke. Not that I care—I've done my job." My voice was cold, almost disinterested, as if I were speaking more to myself than to him.
With steady steps, I started walking away, relaxing my fists and focusing only on the path ahead.
"You brought this on yourself... Lucky for you I was well paid."
As I stepped through the door, a strange sense of relief washed over me, like I was leaving the weight of chaos behind. Not even the man's desperate screams could taint it.
"And so, Headmaster... this is goodbye!"
"Damn you! Damn exorcist! I'll ruin your name! You bastard!" he bellowed, full of hatred, hurling pebbles that rolled from the rubble around my feet. I didn't even flinch.
"Smearing the name of an impure one? How amusing..." I muttered without looking back, continuing on my way. I now had money in my pocket and a clear goal: buying a new smartphone.
On the walk back, I mentally retraced the path down Ie Avenue until I reached the Katakana district.
As usual, I chose the stairs—a routine so ingrained it had become second nature—until I reached the shrine-like peace of my small sanctuary.
When I entered the apartment, it was with a heavy heart. I tossed my coat onto the sofa while still clutching the check tightly, the weight of exhaustion obvious in my every movement.
Without hesitation, I decided I wouldn't do anything else that day.
My uniform reeked of darkness and sweat, filthy beyond reason, but the exhaustion was stronger than any concern for hygiene. I quickly threw the check onto the table that separated the living room from the kitchen, lined with a polished marble counter.
Without a second thought, I rushed to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, the mattress swallowing me whole, as if offering refuge. Still wearing shoes, I felt the softness of the blankets and the comforting warmth that enveloped me.
The chaos faded. His eyes closed, surrendering to the sheer weight of exhaustion.
He fell asleep, experiencing his first true rest after more than two weeks of blackouts. A peace so rare, it could rival the golden rays of a sunset painted by Aurora herself.
As he drifted deeper, he was pulled into the depths of his mind. Passing through the subconscious barrier, a black cloud scattered before him—floating in darkness, revealing a scene cloaked in an abyssal black.
Gradually, the darkness faded, revealing a fragment of his memory:
Once again, it was the third day of the first passage of Cycle 381—a memorable day marked by the first snowfall over the mountainous city of Nagoya, following cycles of relentless rain and apocalyptic winds.
The winter chill brushed against his face, and the scent of that place was tangible.
"This place…" he murmured, as the vapor of his breath dissolved into the air. Snowflakes landed softly on his shoulders, melting on contact with his skin.
Before his eyes stood the house on the hill, his family's home. A memory, both warm and painful, passed through him, and a solitary tear traced a path down his cheek. The house, isolated from the merciless metropolis, seemed to sleep under the protection of the mountains.
The lights were on, and his father's car rested in the improvised garage beside the house. The sight unearthed memories long buried—a mix of joy and sorrow. For a brief moment, a nostalgic warmth filled his chest—a rare glimpse of happiness in the cold grip of reality.
The sound of shattering dishes pulled him back. A woman's scream echoed, followed by the distinct ring of a blade. Numbness gave way to a shiver that ran through his entire body. It wasn't fear, but a paralyzing anguish.
"Mom? Dad?" he whispered, as the scene unfolded before his eyes like a living nightmare.
His father, Sasaki Yamasaki, burst out of the house in a desperate leap. He slipped in the snow, his wool shirt soaked in blood. One of his arms was missing, and the crimson liquid dripped, mingling with the white.
"Yami? Son? If you can hear me—run!" he cried, eyes filled with terror, yet burning with determination.
There was barely time to react before he saw the enemy: Gallael. The figure materialized at the entrance of the house, his feet stained with blood. A cruel smile twisted his lips, and in his hand, a gleaming blade dripped with blood, etched with strange runes.
The Prince of Darkness, son of Luciel, moved forward with a calm, chilling grace. His red eyes glowed like living embers. With a single, brutal strike of his cursed sword, he decapitated Sasaki; the man's body was instantly consumed by shadow, disintegrating into an unrecognizable mass.
More blood spilled across the snow, staining it red, as the silver cross his father wore flew into his son's bloodied hands. He tried to swallow the avalanche of emotion, but his mind was in pieces.
That cross... in my hands again...
Regaining his composure, he steeled himself to once more face the demon's visage—just as she had done before.
The beast raised its blade, eyes locking onto him with the ferocity of a lion, now fully aware of his presence.
"I swear I will exorcise you, wretch—even if eternity stretches before my eyes and I'm dragged into the depths of the abyss!" he declared, once again in his life, his eyes wide—like the gaze of a killer awakened by the weight of his own hunger.
And then, everything dissolved like smoke in the air. He plummeted into an endless abyss. As the cross in his hand vanished, he chose once again to follow the darkness of his rage.
He fell, tearing through it like a bubble of water, landing in the snow—unfolding beneath him like the fabric of his bed as he hit the surface.
The intensity of it all lingered in his hands, which now clutched at his own throat. Then, with a sudden jolt, he awoke—drenched in sweat, hair stuck to his back.
His eyes were pitch black—an unusual sight—while violet veins pulsed beneath his skin, radiating a dark aura.
His lips were dry, and on the bed, the crucifix lay tossed aside, as if ripped from his neck during sleep.
"Gallael… Where are you, you bastard?" he muttered, feeling the weight of the curse he bore. He knew his night had once again been consumed by torment—an endless cycle with no escape.
Day after day, this was his fate.