MMMS 115

“Yes… yes… not an illusion,” she murmured, smiling through her tears. “Hehe… Ryuuto speaks like such a grown-up now.”

She giggled, warm and bittersweet. “Back then, all you could say was ‘Mama… I’m hungry…’”

“Do you… not like who I’ve become?” he asked quietly.

Tiamat didn’t answer at once. She buried her face in his hair and drew in a long, trembling breath. “I love you the most.”

‘So please stop squirming against my back like that…’ he thought, grimacing like a man under siege. This was the absolute worst time for his brain to turn into soup. He cleared his throat, took one step, then another—mostly to prove he still could.

“Then I should go, Mother.”

It was time. Time to return to the world waiting for him—the real one, where voices and faces still called his name.

The moment he said it, Tiamat pulled her arms back like she’d been struck. Her hands trembled. Everything in her ached to hold him tighter. But she didn’t move.

She wouldn’t become a chain around her child’s ankles.

Without a word, Ryuuto turned and walked toward the only light in the darkness. A pinprick at first—soft, pale, and impossibly far—but growing with each step.

Tiamat remained where she stood, watching his retreating figure vanish into the endless black. She slowly closed her eyes, brought her hands to her chest, and pressed her fingertips together in a silent prayer.

She blessed him—not as a goddess, but as a mother—guiding her child toward that single point of light.

“Mother!!!”

The call rang out, sharp and high, shattering the stillness.

Her eyes flew open.

Ryuuto was standing at the edge of the light, waving both arms above his head.

“When I get out,” he shouted, “I’ll build a world where you can live too! I’ll tear down anyone who dares reject you!”

His voice echoed through the Imaginary Number Sea.

“I’m the only child in this world stronger than you! So from now on—”

He grinned, eyes blazing.

“—I’ll protect you!”

And just like that, he was gone.

The light vanished.

Darkness rolled back in, wide and quiet as ever.

Tiamat stood alone. But the silence didn’t feel quite the same.

A smile bloomed on her lips—tender, fragile, and full of joy.

Her eyes slid shut.

“…Yes,” she whispered. “It’s a promise.”

…

Though it was never explicitly stated, the Beast-class entities had always existed in opposition.

Beast I and Beast VII, for instance—the entire first arc of Fate/Grand Order was, in hindsight, the tale of Beast I saving the world in a roundabout way from the incursion of Beast VII. And even in the second arc, long after his defeat, Goetia’s shadow lingered in the margins, opposing the Alien God in his own hidden war.

Or take Beast III: L and R—Mara and Kiara Sessyoin. By the very structure of the world, they were antithetical—two sides of a cursed mirror. Mutual rejection incarnate. Fusion was impossible. They couldn’t even coexist in theory.

Then there were the twin Beast IVs. Two soft, fluffy horrors who would immediately start clawing at each other’s throats the moment they met. Utterly incompatible.

And then—Beast II and Beast VI.

The primordial mother goddess who birthed all life upon the Earth. And the crimson apocalypse dragon, the final judge who descends at the end of days to reduce everything to ash.

Two entities more opposed in concept could scarcely exist.

So when Ryuuto inherited the memories of Beast VI and realized that Tiamat—his supposed natural counterpart—was actually his biological mother…

His jaw nearly hit the floor.

This wasn’t just strange. It wasn’t even just lore-breaking.

It was absurd.

For a second, a dreadful thought crossed his mind:

“Wait. Am I… some original character in a third-rate Fate fanfic?”

But the panic was short-lived.

Because underneath the initial shock… it did make sense.

In a terrifying, almost elegant way.

After all, among all the Beasts catalogued so far, there were only two that bore the dragon trait:

Tiamat—and Beast VI.

Only two that were born of, shaped by, or steeped in black mud.

Mother and child.

When Beast II manifested in Mesopotamia—just as foretold in Revelation—

The woman clothed in mystery, bearing the golden chalice...

And the Beast rising from the sea...

—what had once seemed like scattered symbols, coincidences, and poetic riddles began to converge.

And when enough coincidences align, only one thing remains:

Truth.

But the clearest proof—the one no theologian, magus, or divine spirit could ignore—was this:

Tiamat, the ancient goddess of Mesopotamian creation myth, bore a name soaked in Sumerian clay… yet one of her most core abilities was titled—

[Nega-Genesis]

A phrase steeped in a distinctly Christian overtone. The language of the Book, the echo of Eden, the mirror to the divine beginning.

Why?

If Ryuuto’s [Nega-Messiah] represented the inverted Christ, then whom did Tiamat’s [Nega-Genesis] oppose?

Who was she, truly, in the eyes of the world?

…

“World Rebirth—Nega Genesis.”

When Ryuuto invoked the name, the world exhaled—and everything unraveled.

The heavens fell. The land cracked open. Meaning itself dissolved.

What unfolded was not destruction in the crude, theatrical sense. There were no flaming skies, no tsunamis tearing cities from the earth, no screaming winds shredding causality.

That would have been merciful. That would have been simple.

But this… this was final.

A skill of absolute denial. Not in name alone, but in function. The conceptual end of all stories. The stillness that follows the last heartbeat.

Winds did not rage—they merely ceased. Ether did not burn—it simply forgot how to shine. Space didn’t collapse—it chose no longer to exist.

This wasn’t remodeling. This wasn’t distortion.

It was erasure without malice.

Quiet. Inevitable.

Like a mother's lullaby at the edge of the world.

[Nega-Genesis] bloomed from Ryuuto’s feet, a pale corona of light that rolled across the Reality Marble like dawn rising in reverse.

Where it passed, reality folded in on itself. No agony. No screams. Just soft light, and then—dust.

All things, living or dead, sacred or profane, were treated the same.

Creation’s undoing was never cruel.

It was tender.