I Was Summoned to Die, so I’m Climbing the Pantheon for Revenge!

Location: Inside the Black Spire - The Second Trial

The damp, rotting earth of the fog-choked forest squelched beneath Kyouya Kusanagi’s polished shoes. The endless obsidian bookshelves and the golden light of the chandeliers were gone, replaced by a suffocating grey mist and the twisted, skeletal branches of dead trees.

Kyouya stood perfectly still, his golden-ringed eyes scanning the gloom. His heart rate remained steady, but a cold unease settled in his stomach.

Nova, Kyouya thought, projecting his mind inward. Initiate spatial analysis. Where are we?

Silence.

Kyouya frowned. Nova. Respond.

Nothing. The synthetic, ever-present hum of his AI interface—the only constant companion he had since waking up with no memory—was completely gone. He was entirely, utterly alone. Kyouya raised his hand, attempting to summon the dark, swirling energy of his [Absolute Gluttony], but the mana pathways in his body felt deadened, choked by the oppressive atmosphere of the Tower.

"I must depend on myself," Kyouya murmured, his voice flat. He began to walk forward.

As he took his third step, the oppressive fog began to thin. The skeletal trees morphed, their rough bark smoothing out into painted green metal. The damp earth hardened into paved asphalt and rubber safety matting. The scent of rotting wood vanished, replaced by the distinct, nostalgic smells of exhaust fumes, blooming cherry blossoms, and distant rain.

Kyouya stopped. His breath caught in his throat.

This was not a forest. It was a park. Specifically, it was the small, neighborhood playground located exactly two blocks from the cramped, rundown apartment he rented in Tokyo. The hum of the metropolis buzzed in the background. The muted roar of the subway echoed beneath his feet.

"A memory projection," Kyouya deduced, trying to maintain his clinical detachment. Because his memories of Cascadia had been erased, the Tower had bypassed the fantasy world entirely, digging its claws directly into the only history he had left: his life on Earth.

Laughter echoed near the swings. Kyouya turned, and for the first time since arriving at the Spire, his stoic mask fractured.

A family was playing by the slide. A man with tired but kind eyes, a woman with long, beautiful dark hair, and a little boy—no older than seven—chasing a bouncing rubber ball. The boy had Kyouya’s face, Kyouya’s dark hair, but wore an expression of unadulterated, innocent joy that the current Kyouya could not replicate if he tried.

They were his parents.

Kyouya watched them, his chest tightening with an alien, suffocating pressure. He knew the truth. This scene was a lie. His parents had not played with him in the park. They had been crushed by the weight of poverty, drowning in debt, arguing late into the night. One evening, when Kyouya was just ten years old, he had returned from school to find the apartment empty. A single envelope with a few thousand yen was left on the kitchen counter. They had abandoned him because they could no longer afford to feed him.

Suddenly, the laughter stopped.

The bouncing rubber ball rolled to a halt at Kyouya’s feet. The younger Kyouya, the mother, and the father all turned slowly to face him. The cheerful expressions vanished from their faces, replaced by cold, blank stares.

"A fake illusion," Kyouya stated firmly, stepping back. He tried to force his System magic to activate, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, but the Tower’s suppression was absolute.

The little Kyouya walked forward, stopping just a few feet away. The boy tilted his head, his dark eyes boring into Kyouya's soul.

"Is it?" the little boy asked, his voice echoing unnaturally in the quiet park. "Isn't this what you wanted? What you always dreamed about when you stared at the ceiling of that freezing, empty apartment?"

Kyouya swallowed hard. "I do not deal in infantile fantasies."

"Liar," the younger Kyouya said simply. "You wanted to live with a family. You wanted a mother’s warm hugs. A father’s head pat. You wanted to come home to a delicious meal instead of boiling cheap instant ramen by yourself. You wanted to be a child, Kyouya."

Kyouya’s hands shook. He stepped backward, but his legs felt impossibly heavy, as if the gravity around him had multiplied. "No," he said.

But the word betrayed him. His voice cracked. It wasn't the cold, calculating tone of Kyouya Kusanagi, the anomaly who broke the System. It was the voice of a broken, lonely teenager.

"I hated them," Kyouya forced the words out, glaring at the adult figures. "They left me alone. They couldn't afford me, so they discarded me. I do not want them."

"That is exactly why you want this," the little boy whispered.

The parent figures began to walk slowly toward him. The mother figure extended her arms, her face softening into an expression of agonizing, manufactured pity.

"We are so sorry, Kyouya," the mother said, her voice dripping with maternal warmth. "You have suffered enough. Staying alone all those years... working those grueling night shifts at the Bakery just to survive the week. You were so kind, Kyouya. Even when you had nothing, you bought milk for that stray kitten in the alleyway. You stayed so lonely, refusing to make friends because you were terrified they would abandon you too."

Every word was a knife carving into the deepest, most protected vaults of Kyouya's psyche. It was the Trial of The Death. It was not threatening his physical life; it was tearing away his emotional armor, attempting to kill his resolve.

"Come here, my sweet boy," the mother whispered. "My arms are open. Let me give you a warm hug. You don't have to be strong anymore."

"We are back for you, son," the father figure added, his voice deep and soothing. "Our only son. You don't need to fight in this strange world. You don't need to care about demons or goddesses."

"Family is the most important thing," the little boy chimed in, pointing a small finger at Kyouya. "Forget the others. Stay with us."

Kyouya stood paralyzed. The mother was inches away, her arms reaching for his neck. The scent of her perfume—the cheap lavender soap she used to buy—filled his nose. The temptation to collapse, to surrender to the illusion and finally rest, was overwhelming.

But then, a flash of crimson crossed Kyouya's mind.

He didn't have his memories of Cascadia. He didn't remember the white void, or the battles, or the title of Demon Lord. But he remembered the way Sofia had looked at him when he woke up. He remembered her red-rimmed eyes, the desperate grip of her hand, and Scarlet's tearful face. He remembered the unshakeable certainty that, in this world, he mattered.

Kyouya ground his teeth together. His fists clenched so hard his fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

"Step back," Kyouya snarled, his eyes blazing. "I said, I do not have a family. Especially not cowards like you."

The mother’s hands paused.

"And I am not alone," Kyouya continued, his voice regaining its steel. "I have friends. I have people waiting for me."

The younger Kyouya sneered, his face twisting into something ugly. "Friends? You mean those monsters you woke up next to? What if they are just lying to you? You don't have any memories, Kyouya. They could be manipulating you. They could be using you as a weapon!"

"The little one is right," the mother figure hissed, her warm voice suddenly grating and hollow. "You can't trust them. We are your only truth."

Kyouya looked at the three of them. He felt the phantom weight of Sofia’s hand in his. He didn't need data to calculate the truth. He felt it in his chest.

"No," Kyouya said coldly. "You are the ones who are liars."

The park shattered like a broken mirror.

Instantly, the Tokyo playground dissolved into a vortex of pitch-black shadows. The mother, the father, and the younger Kyouya warped, their human features melting away like wax over a fire. They expanded into towering, formless shadow-monsters, their faces splitting open to reveal jagged, glowing red eyes and maws filled with needle-like teeth.

They lunged.

They didn't just bite Kyouya; they swarmed him, burying him in a tide of absolute darkness. The agony was instantaneous and horrific.

Kyouya collapsed to his knees, burying his head in his hands. It was a physical pain—as if the shadows were taking actual bites out of his flesh, chewing on his nerves—but the mental pain was infinitely worse. Extreme dizziness hit him like a physical blow. Nausea twisted his stomach. It felt as though the shadows were ripping through his brain, forcefully trying to digest his sanity, his identity, his very soul.

Kyouya screamed.

It was a raw, agonizing sound, torn from the throat of a boy who had endured too much, too fast. The red eyes surrounded him, mocking him, devouring his light.

And then... Kyouya blinked.

The dizziness vanished. The searing pain in his flesh evaporated. The tearing sensation in his mind ceased.

Kyouya found himself standing upright. The damp forest and the shadowy monsters were gone. The golden light of the floating crystal chandeliers washed over his face. He was back in the Endless Library, standing on the polished obsidian floor. There was no one around him. The aisles of ancient books stretched out in absolute silence.

<Host! Host, Kyouya! Vital signs spiking dangerously! Neurological stress at critical levels! What is wrong?!>

Nova’s synthetic voice echoed rapidly in his mind, panicked and loud.

Kyouya didn't answer immediately. He realized he was not screaming. The library was dead silent. But his face felt wet. He raised a trembling hand to his cheek and touched the moisture there.

Tears were streaming down Kyouya’s face, dripping silently from his chin onto his dark suit. He stared at his wet fingertips, completely bewildered by his own biological response. The Trial of The Death had not killed him, but it had stripped him down to his rawest, most vulnerable core.

"I..." Kyouya whispered, his voice hoarse. "I am functional, Nova. It was... an illusion."

Location: Inside the Black Spire - Alternative Instance: The Second Trial

Miles away, in a completely different spatial pocket of the Tower, Demon Lord Sofia Vileblood stood in absolute silence.

She had not been sent to a forest, nor a memory of her childhood. When the Tower announced "The Death," Sofia’s surroundings had warped into a place she knew intimately. The obsidian library had melted away, replaced by cold, heavy, black stone bricks illuminated by the flickering, sinister light of purple torches.

It was the Dungeon. Specifically, Floor 100. Her Throne Room.

Sofia stood at the far edge of the colossal chamber, her crimson cape brushing against the familiar, blood-stained carpets. The oppressive, stagnant mana of the deepest layer of the Abyss filled the air.

But Sofia was not standing by the throne.

She was looking at the throne.

Sitting upon the massive chair of carved obsidian and bone was another Sofia Vileblood. The illusion was perfect—down to the exact, weary posture, the slight fraying at the edges of her black traveling coat, and the profound, crushing isolation in her crimson eyes. It was the exact version of herself from the day the System had dictated she must fall.

The grand, heavy iron doors at the opposite end of the throne room groaned open.

Sofia watched, her breath catching in her throat, as a group of humans stepped into her sanctum. They were clad in shining divine armor, wielding legendary weapons that pulsed with the Goddess Kamiya’s sickeningly pure light.

They were the Frontierra Summoned Heroes. Previous Summoned Heroes.

The trial had not brought Sofia a fake death. It had brought her the death she was destined to suffer before the Anomaly had fallen from the sky to save her. And now, she had to watch it play out.

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