Ultras Continent – Caelid
Amid a vast, barren desert, the ruined city of Caelid stood ...
the last refuge that sheltered what remained of the Ultras.
At least... those who still retained their sanity.
Not counting those of lesser blood who had long since lost their minds.
This was the final night before the last battle.
And much like the Shadow Sect on the other side ...
this faction, too, prepared to step into the final struggle.
But the difference between them and humanity...
was that the Ultras had endured a completely different kind of terror.
Twenty-four hours before the battle’s beginning ...
every single Ultra, without exception, had been gathered within Caelid.
Men and women.
Old and young.
Their numbers barely reached thirty thousand ...
a pitiful figure that reflected the extent of their decline.
They had lost countless kin—
either in the previous war... or to those who had followed Mergo.
The drunken old man had cleverly drawn his followers away, aided by Frey and the Shadow Sect ..
drastically reducing the number of Ultras who still stood against them.
It would not be an exaggeration to say ..
the Ultras were already finished.
All Lords and Hollows had either died or defected.
Only two remained.
The former traitor—Bailor Moonlight.
And the cautious Hollow .. Simon Manus.
Both stood above the gathered crowd, observing the anxious faces below.
"Would you look at this?" Bailor laughed mockingly, brushing back his sky-blue hair.
"I can’t believe this is all that remains of the Ultras."
"It’s as if three hundred years of history were erased overnight."
Simon didn’t even bother looking down.
Instead, he toyed with what seemed to be an old doll in his hands.
"They were destined to die from the beginning."
"Whether we like it or not, we lost this war."
"We’re just the last two clinging to life... like cockroaches."
A faint smile lingered on Simon’s face.
His appearance had changed.
Veins pulsed beneath his skin with a strange blue glow.
He looked pale ... like someone in constant pain.
And yet... his smile never faded.
Bailor watched him for a few seconds before looking away.
"We’ve survived this far through sheer cunning..."
"Running from death at every turn."
"...But do you really think we’ll survive this time?"
Simon answered without hesitation.
"Of course not."
"There are far too many on the other side who want you and me dead."
He continued to play with the doll, his eyes filled with that same eerie blue light.
"That way of speaking... have you already accepted your fate, old man?"
Bailor seemed genuinely surprised by Simon’s calm acceptance.
Unlike him—
who feared death more than anything.
But Simon... the Puppet Master... thought differently.
"Life and death are nothing but chains that restrain the creativity of all living beings."
"I do not care whether I live... or die."
"But if I am destined to die—"
"Then I will die in a way that satisfies me... and honors my beliefs."
"Because one day... I will be born again."
"You’re a strange old man..." Bailor muttered, stepping away from him.
He neither had the time nor the patience to entertain Simon’s eccentric philosophy.
His mind was focused on something else entirely.
The summoning of demons.
Bailor was tense.
Uneasy.
Hesitant.
Unlike the ignorant Ultras gathered below—who had been assembled without being told why—
Bailor knew exactly what was happening.
Taking a deep breath, he reached into his robe... and pulled something out.
A syringe.
Ordinary in shape ...
but filled with a thick, black substance.
Within that substance...
Bailor could see something... twisted.
Something alive.
He swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow.
"Even with the demonic contract... my power barely reaches SS+..."
"That level won’t save me from the monsters of the Empire who want my head..."
Bailor knew the coming battle would show him no mercy.
He had no choice but to grasp any power he could obtain.
His situation was miserable.
He had once truly believed the Ultras would win the war—
after all, they had the support of the demons.
But the war had reached a stalemate.
And the Empire... had survived.
The demons had stood beside the Ultras ...
but they had never fought for them.
They had merely used them as tools.
As cannon fodder.
And that... was when Bailor realized his mistake.
"I have to survive..."
"As long as I remain alive until the end... nothing else matters."
Despite everything—
Bailor was convinced that the demons would inevitably win, no matter how strong the Shadow Sect became.
All he needed to do...
was stay alive until that moment.
Only then would he achieve his ambition ...
and build his own empire.
Without hesitation ..
he injected himself.
Allowing that dark substance to enter his body.
Within seconds—
his scream echoed through the building.
A monstrous, inhuman howl—
one that did not belong to a human being.
—
—
—
Meanwhile ...
the gathered Ultras stood beneath a crimson sky.
Whispers spread among the crowd.
Tension.
Fear.
They had been herded together like ignorant sheep ..
unaware of what awaited them.
All eyes were fixed on the massive tower at the center of Caelid .
where the demons who had summoned them now stood.
At the top of that tower ..
only two figures remained.
At the top of the tower stood two figures.
One was an old man, clad in a long, tattered robe, his beard hanging heavily over his chest.
The other a terrifying demoness, with violet eyes and long black hair tinged with the same hue.
The Duke of Hell, Maskith...
and the third-ranked demon, Vayne.
—or Wesker, to be precise.
Though none knew his true identity... except Maskith himself.
Standing above, they gazed down upon the gathered masses.
Yet the way they saw those below... could not have been more different.
One viewed them as worthless creatures.
The other... as valuable test subjects.
"Maskith... you truly are cruel," Wesker laughed, a sadistic smile spreading across his face.
"I’ve been wondering what could possibly bring someone as mysterious as you into this war."
"Don’t tell me... this is the reason?"
Maskith remained silent for a moment, his expression unchanged, before answering in his deep voice.
"Not the main reason... but one of them."
"Oh?" Wesker’s curiosity sharpened.
"I’m quite interested in hearing your reasons."
"You will know... when the time comes."
Maskith stepped forward, standing before the vast crowd of Ultras.
Wesker remained behind him, watching with growing intrigue.
"So it’s finally complete...?"
"That filthy masterpiece of yours..."
"I do not know," Maskith replied calmly.
"But we will find out... very soon."
His eyes swept across the faces below one last time.
Then slowly... he closed them.
"Humans are truly remarkable creatures."
"Each race possesses a unique trait... and the trait of humanity is their extraordinary ability to adapt."
"That is why demons were able to grant them their blood—
a substance that is poison to all living beings."
"Other races would perish from it."
"But humans survived."
"Not all of them... but enough."
Despite their relative weakness compared to the apex races ..
humans alone could endure demonic blood.
This led to the formation of the first, second... and even third generations—
where humans and demons intermingled.
It was a remarkable evolution.
Proof that humanity was not a race to be underestimated.
But Maskith was not satisfied with that.
He sought to elevate them further ..
to the final stage.