The Fortress by the Meung-sur-Loire River – Late Night.
A cool night breeze drifted across the river, rustling dry leaves and carrying the faint scent of scorched grass lingering after battle. The land had gone eerily still—only the soft babble of water and the occasional chirp of insects broke the silence, as if the earth itself were holding its breath after a great upheaval.
A makeshift military camp stood beside the fortress, torches flickering around rings of campfire. The knights, freshly returned from a day of bloodshed, had shed their heavy armor and now laughed, drank, and danced like children granted one more day to live. They sang in voices coarse and off-key—no one cared for melody; victory was music enough.
And Zoth?
He had been dragged to a quiet corner of the camp, far from the revelry, by a familiar threat—Jeanne. As always, she had begun her nightly "soul purification" ritual with verses from the Holy Scripture, reciting them in a steady, monotonous chant fit for banishing demons. Zoth could only sigh in resignation.
"…And thus shall the light of the Lord guide the lost soul—"
Zoth let out an exaggerated yawn, his eyelids twitching. He struggled to stay awake, his head nodding with the rhythm of surrender.
"Jeanne, listen…" he muttered wearily, cutting in mid-verse. "Could you maybe not drag me out here to preach every single night before bed…?"
Jeanne instantly straightened up, hands on her hips like a stern nun catching a student slacking off.
"Huh? But this is how I cleanse you of that fury!
Bringing the Lord's light into your heart!"
Zoth forced a lopsided smile, but with his panda-like dark circles, it looked more like a cry for help.
"Yeah, yeah… guess I did bring this on myself by agreeing to travel with you…"
He cast a glance back toward the main camp, where the knights were still toasting one another, sharing war stories amid laughter and the twang of strings. He thought back to the day—he had slain a few hundred enemies, and… that was it. The rest—gathering bodies, burning camps, setting up tents, cooking—had all been handled by others. As for him? He was dragged off to a sermon like some truant student caught and forced into makeup class.
He sighed again.
"Mmh~, I'm going to bed… we'll pick this up tomorrow."
He turned and left before Jeanne could decide which chapter of Deuteronomy to hit him with next.
Back in his tent, Zoth furrowed his brow.
Ever since he began abusing the Omni Force, he had grown increasingly aware of the changes in himself—not just his body, but something deeper… his very soul. It was a kind of dangerous adaptation, one that made him feel less and less human.
And with it came that strange sensation—
That every time he opened his eyes…
…it was as if he could see half of time's conclusion.
Not the whole picture. Just half.
Fragments of history stripped bare, glimpsed beyond the veil of fate—patchwork visions soaked in blood and chaos.
"Tch… this Fate world…"
He chuckled under his breath—low and dry, like wind brushing the edge of a blade.
"It really is enough to drive someone insane."
His eyes—half-tired, half-amused—scanned the empty tent. No one was around.
In that instant, [Book Gates] materialized in his hand, glowing runes dancing along its edges like they were alive. With a flick, he opened the Wonder Ride Book—and a spiral gate of light bloomed into being midair.
No warning. No hesitation.
Zoth stepped through.
The fortress behind faded like a dream retreating into the dark.
---
Bayeux – Calvados Region.
In the desolate plains of Calvados, a towering structure was under construction. Beneath the overcast sky, grotesque creatures—warped amalgamations of beast and man, iron and bone—silently toiled. They carried stone, blackened timber, and bizarre materials to assemble a monstrous, uncanny edifice.
Suddenly—
A spiral of violet-black tore through the air like space itself had been ripped apart. It blossomed open in the middle of the half-built square.
At once, the creatures halted. In perfect unison, they fell to their knees—as if to welcome a sovereign emerging from the void.
[ROAAAAR—!!]
A unified shriek erupted like a war cry.
It was their greeting—welcoming the return of their master.
From within the gate, Zoth stepped out. His cloak fluttered faintly in the wind, his gaze half-dazed, half-delighted. He looked over the kneeling Megid, his lips curling into a devilish smirk. Spreading his arms wide, as if embracing the entire twisted vista before him, he declared:
"Now then... rise, my Megid!"
Yes.
These abominable beings were Megid—creatures born from distorted stories, twisted away from their originals and sealed into [Alter Ride Books].
Much like the Wonder Ride Books, Alter Ride Books came in three categories: Phantom Beast, Animals, and Story.
To forge an army like this, Zoth required living hosts—the more, the better—into whom he could forcibly implant Alter Ride Books, warping them into physical manifestations of corrupted tales.
And where did these test subjects come from?
None other than the English soldiers he had taken alive.
Each and every one had been mutated, one by one, then dumped here—into what would soon become the first fortress of the rebel Sword of Logos.
"Holy Sovereign! Your servant has urgent news!"
A Megid stepped forward, its entire form cloaked in shades of violet, its body twisted as if birthed from a waking nightmare. It knelt before Zoth with devout reverence.
Zoth gave it a sidelong glance, then strolled leisurely toward a throne the Megid had built from unnatural materials—a grotesque seat that lacked any regal elegance, instead radiating the unhinged fervor of religious mania. Dropping into it, he slouched lazily and asked:
"Oh~ What is it, Hanzaki?"
The Hanzaki Megid bowed even lower, its voice trembling but clear:
"Holy Sovereign… we were under strict orders not to be seen by any civilians in this region.
But today, a woodcutter happened upon our operations by chance.
We've captured him and brought him here."
Zoth's lips curled further, his eyes glinting with distorted amusement.
"Oho~ So someone saw you, hmm?
And… where is he now?"
Hanzaki lifted its head slightly, raising both hands in a reverent gesture:
"The human is currently imprisoned with the captured English soldiers.
We've held him in the arena, awaiting your judgment."
Zoth sprang to his feet, waving his hand as if drawing madness through the air.
"Ooh~ Something fun to watch, is it now~?"
He let out a dry, jagged laugh, one that echoed through the cold stone of the coliseum halls. Then he began walking, hands clasped behind his back—bearing the air of a twisted monarch marching toward a blood-soaked ritual of his own design.
---
Sword of Logos – The Arena
Though unfinished, the arena pulsed with the echoes of life… and dread.
On one side stood knights in matching armor—unarmed, without swords, yet eyes sharp with suspicion.
Across from them, a thin man in tattered linen trembled, inching backward in fear.
[Thud... Thud... Thud...]
Heavy footsteps rang out—dull and dry, like fists pounding against a beating heart.
Zoth emerged atop the grandstands, his hands resting lazily on the railing, gazing down like a wicked god surveying his altar.
A feral grin split his face as he straightened up, arms flung wide like a messianic demon:
"Welcome, oh valiant knights of England!
I am the master of the rising stronghold, the Holy Sovereign of the Sword of Logos—Zoth Vari-El!"
"Wh-What do you want from us?" one knight stammered, eyes locked on him, unable to look away.
"What do I want? Ah~ yes, quite rude of me—I nearly forgot…"
Zoth scratched his chin, theatrically pondering—then burst into a deranged laugh that scraped like razors across the soul:
"Ah, that's right!
I don't like keeping prisoners!"
His expression fell flat as if stricken with sorrow, clutching at his chest with mock pain…
Yet the twisted grin still curled at the edges of his lips—a smile of scorn.
"I am… a knight of mercy, after all.
So I shall spare your lives."
"R-Really!?" another knight blurted out, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
"Indeed~ it wounds me deeply to kill…
So yes, I will spare a life.
But—only one."
Zoth laughed aloud, arms outstretched like a false messiah—yet in his eyes danced the madness of a demon lord.
"The rest of you... will kill each other. For my amusement."
"You bastard—!" one knight roared, face contorted in rage.
"Ah-ah, wait now~
This game... is perfectly fair.
The rules are simple:
Fight.
Kill.
Until only one survives."
"We'd rather die with honor than follow your orders, you devil!" a commander shouted.
Zoth lazily stuck a finger in his ear and feigned a yawn.
"Tsk... another one that refuses to play along. Just like the others…"
Then his head tilted ever so slightly, and his eyes turned cold.
"Very well. Let me offer... a little incentive."
He stood tall. From the folds of his shadow-black cloak, he slowly drew a crimson-and-white Wonder Ride Book—a symbol all too familiar:
[Omni Force!]
[When the powers of Ten Sacred Sword and Nineteen Wonder Ride Books unite...
A new Chronicle of the Demon God is born.]
Around his waist, a storm of black mist swirled—crimson lightning cracked the air. A belt materialized—golden, ominous, laced with runes.
This was the Doom Driver Buckles—emblem of one who defies the laws of the cosmos.
Zoth slammed the Omni Force into the Driver and twisted the ignition dial. His laughter rose—mad and manic—as he bellowed:
"HENSHIN!!"
[Open The Omnimus!]
[Force… Of The God!]
[Kamen Rider… Solomon~!]
[Fear Is Coming Soon…]
The black smoke dispersed.
Now clad in white-and-gold armor, Zoth stood transformed. His plating gleamed like bone forged in divine judgment, etched with fiery crimson runes that blazed with vengeance.
His cape—torn, tattered—dragged like a shroud risen from hell.
Upon his helm, a long, cruel horn pierced the sky—his crown, a thorned monument of nightmares.
"Now then… let the blood-stained play begin."
Zoth closed the Omni Force. The Driver responded in a distorted digital snarl:
[Omnimus Loading…]
He chuckled wildly, then slammed the Driver's trigger—flipping the first page of a waking nightmare.
[Solomon Break!]
With a sweep of his arm, a wave of black energy burst forth—like ink spilled across parchment—engulfing the entire arena.
The English knights' eyes rolled back white.
Their limbs shuddered… then fell under total control.
No one screamed.
No one had time to beg.
Swords clutched—feet launched forward—mouths opened in howls of madness.
The slaughter began.
Zoth squatted atop the railing, gently clapping his hands—
as if watching a puppet show.
And so, he watched, lips curled in silent joy, as brother butchered brother in a stage set with blood and despair.
Time passed. Blood dried, caking the stone.
Only one figure remained standing in the arena.
A knight—drenched in blood, trembling.
He sobbed. He screamed. He gasped for breath in the cold that hatred brought.
"Well now~, it seems we have ourselves... a winner~."
Zoth still sat with legs crossed, voice as gentle as a whispering breeze—
but colder than a blade at one's throat.
"DEMON!!
You're a damned demon!! WHY... WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?!"
The knight roared, his eyes bloodshot, fists clenched so tightly they shook with fury—
as if his sheer gaze could slay the monster above.
Zoth lightly tapped his helmet, then shrugged.
"Why, you ask...?
Hm... maybe I was just bored?"
His tone teased—but then turned cold.
"Or perhaps… this is punishment.
For those who blindly chase a war that should've ended long ago."
"You—"
[Shnk!]
No more words.
The knight froze—eyes wide, breath stolen.
Slowly, he looked down…
A black blade was buried deep in his chest.
Standing before him, hand still on the hilt—was Zoth.
"Well done.
Now then…
It's time for you to exit the stage."
Zoth leapt down into the arena.
[Thud – Thud – Thud]
The sound of his armor echoed heavy and hollow against the bloodstained stone.
He walked—unhurried, steps casual, almost leisurely.
Beneath the horned helmet, he smiled.
Not with joy—but with the serene delight of one who saw beauty in death.
Zoth came to a halt—now facing the only other survivor:
A woodcutter—just a commoner—curled up in a blood-drenched corner, trembling like a leaf.
"Congratulations, woodcutter."
"You are the last one standing here, and so—I shall grant you a new identity…
and your freedom."
"Y-Y-You mean it…?"
The woodcutter's voice cracked, near sobbing.
He looked up at Zoth, eyes glimmering with a desperate spark—
like a drowning man clutching a straw.
"Yes… a new name, and freedom."
Zoth reached out his hand—his white-gold armored fingers gleaming like salvation amidst hellfire.
Without hesitation, the woodcutter lunged forward to seize it—
[SHUNK—!]
—only for the blade hidden in Zoth's gauntlet to drive straight through his chest.
The woodcutter's eyes bulged.
He couldn't believe it.
His mouth opened—
but no sound came.
"You'll have your new identity…
As a Megid—under My command."
Zoth chuckled.
Not loudly.
Not maniacally.
Just soft enough—
to echo like claws scratching the back of your skull.
He withdrew his hand—
blood sprayed out in sync with a dying heartbeat.
The body twitched—
—and began to transform.
Skin split apart—bones cracked and shifted—
Human shape shattered.
Within seconds, a massive creature emerged—skin of earthen brown and pale stone, body muscular and hunched,
its head gripped by two grotesque hands sprouting from its own skull, as if it suffered the agony of rebirth.
"I serve the Holy Sovereign."
The creature bowed low, voice deep and hollow—
No longer a man.
He was now the Golem Megid.
"Rise, Golem."
Zoth commanded—his tone soft as silk.
Yet Golem knelt deeper, as if before a divine monarch.
"Yes, Holy One."
Zoth gave Golem a long, final look—then turned away.
"Now… I shall return to Fortress Meung-sur-Loire.
You and the other Megid—continue building this castle in My name."
He flicked his fingers—nonchalantly, like shaking blood off the hand of a king.
And then—
a storm of red-black mist surged upward, swallowing his form whole.
Zoth vanished.
"We bid farewell to the Holy Sovereign!"
Golem Megid knelt low, hands clasped before his chest—
sending off the Demon God like a dark emperor leaving his throne.
Then he stood, his back to the arena.
Eyes glowing crimson—stripped of all humanity.
His voice rumbled like falling stone:
"Resume construction… as decreed by the Holy Sovereign."