“Fergo…”

The name slipped from Skyler’s lips, barely more than a whisper. Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck. His foot edged half a step back before he even realized it.

The capsule’s machinery hummed low, every groan hanging in the air before the hatch slid open. A flood of white vapor poured out, spilling into the air like morgue frost in midwinter. The chill slammed into their lungs, breath turning to thin mist.

From that veil of fog, a figure emerged—slow, deliberate.
A man in a pristine white suit, unwrinkled, unflawed.

Skin pale enough to reflect light. Not a wrinkle, not a blemish. Black hair slicked perfectly back, not a strand out of place. His jaw cut sharp, the precision of a master artisan’s blade. Lips sealed thin, tension drawn tight. His eyes—voids without end—fixed ahead, devouring every gaze, pulling them into the gravity well of a dying star.

The world froze in that instant. Every chest tightened, every breath caught. The aura radiating off him pressed down on their hearts, invisible chains coiled tight around them. They wanted to run. Their bodies refused to move.

Fergo’s lips twitched into a smile—an expression not worn in centuries. And with it, the air around them dropped ten degrees colder.

“You already know, don’t you…?” His voice was both corrosive and resounding, a funeral chant etched into stone. “…No matter how hard you fight, it’s pointless.”

Then the laugh came. A shrill, manic “Gahahaha!”—the exact same laugh from Skyler’s nightmares.

“Go on then… pick your death.”

“Who the hell are you?” Emilia stepped forward, jaw clenched tight enough to show the muscles straining across her face. Her face blazed, every line in her body ready to tear the truth from his throat.

The man in the suit smiled again, the edges of his mouth curling with equal parts contempt and menace. “Seems like you’re still… behind on the story.”

Skyler swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak past the weight crushing his chest. “He’s Fergo. The real president of NexaCorp. The one behind everything… the one who’s been pulling our strings from the start.”

No more words were needed.
Everyone felt it in their bones.

The true devil… stood before them.

Everything—the cataclysm, the losses, the cross-dimensional chaos—had its origin in one man.

A man colder than moonlight over a fresh grave.

Fergo.
President of NexaCorp.
A man who refused to be just a speck of dust in the universe.

He didn’t grow up in a home of laughter or warm bread at dawn. He grew up as the son of a woman who never yielded—Hanna—the warrior who was mother and diplomat in one, who bargained with death and won. She’d taken victory with bare hands, staged coups with a single blade, and once ripped an AI system apart—changing the course of human history.

“Don’t wait for the world to be kind to you. The world never had a heart. Change it—with your fists…and your mind.” That was not mere advice. It was a lesson she demonstrated every single day.

Fergo remembered his mother coming home with blood on her shoes and holding him without a word. He remembered the scent of gunpowder in her hair more vividly than any perfume. She was a superhero who never needed a mask—and he was sure nothing could touch her. Not even death.

He was wrong.

It did not come as war or a killer. It came quietly—an unnamed sickness. Her immune system failed strand by strand, as if something were plucking away the threads of her life.

Fergo sat by her bed without moving. Her fingers—cold as ice—kept trying to close around his until the very last second. She didn’t wail. She didn’t bargain. Only sadness, an unfamiliar softness crossed the face of that invincible woman.

“Mom… you’ll beat it, won’t you? Even God—Mom, you’ll beat God, right?”
The question slipped out of a boy’s mouth, helpless. Her body cooled, lava surrendering its fire.

That night a man the world only knew as the Professor appeared at the foot of the bed—skin unwrinkled, eyes the deep gray of star ash.

“Your mother was the only one I ever loved… and I let her die,” He said, a confession in tone—yet nothing in him carried guilt. Then he dropped the line that detonated Fergo’s world:

“I…am your father, Fergo.”

It pierced him, the silent bullet embedded deep. No screams. No argument. He simply stood there—alive, yet unmoving as a corpse.

After that night, the boy was locked in an underground lab for years, his brain melted and rewired with code and genetics from arcane research Javier had hoarded.

“You will never die… remember that, Fergo.” Those words became his curse.

He had to cut into his mother’s brain with his own hands, over and over—watching grotesque experiments repeat until sanity frayed. He swallowed fear as the man calling himself ‘Father’ covered his mouth and recorded his brainwaves.

“I am not human… and neither are you, Fergo. We were born to be more than that,” the man said.

“Fear is the language of the weak.” Cold hands clamped his jaw as the device ticked.

The boy cried until tears ran dry. In the end, only an empty stare remained as he looked at his mother’s corpse.

Slowly, Fergo understood: death, loss, endings—these aren’t divine code. They are evolution’s failure. A trick the world uses to make people accept that everything must end.

He could not—would not—be just a tiny point swallowed by that failure.

Fergo remembered everything. He remembered his mother’s voice about hope in humanity. He remembered that she chose to die a human, not to be kept alive by a hollow, heartless magic.

He chose a different path.

“Technology for a better world?” he sneered in his mind. “Nonsense. I built it to conquer death.”

Nexacore Corporation was more than a company—under Fergo it became a monument of vengeance the Professor left behind. And now Fergo would carry the work forward.

He didn’t merely want survival—he wanted immortality, the power to steer the world away from the stupidity of humans. In Fergo’s eyes, the real enemy wasn’t interdimensional demons or cosmic wars—it was death itself.

He did not want hope. He wanted control. That, to him, was protection.

So the lunar secret base was forged as a digital mausoleum—a place to house consciousness, to upload and copy souls, to stack fragments of himself again and again. The base had no life—only mainframes and algorithms copying the memories of a madman chasing his own shadow in the dark.

On the night Professor Valentine died, he left a digital blueprint. Fergo stared at it as if he saw the reflection of God. “One day… you’ll understand,” he whispered—cold as a prayer to a demon.

He hid the secret carefully—afraid others would steal the power of immortality.

“Quanigma” became the weapon for those bold enough to rewrite the world’s definition. While building the base, Fergo discovered Aether Ore—an energy source that offered more than life. It was the fuel of gods. The moon held only a trace, not enough to feed the hunger Fergo saw in his mind. He dug deeper—plumbing the rock, a man possessed, whispers driving him on:

If I cannot control life, the world will collapse…

Then he found a wormhole—a dimensional gate quantum physicists dared not believe. It led to another world—one rich in aether, guarded by Gaia. Fergo sent Rippers—an army of ants toward the hive. They burned and disintegrated before they reached the heart.

When ordinary tools failed, he rewrote the rules. Fergo uploaded his consciousness through the wormhole—planning to seize a new body in the other world. That life-force had to belong to him. Not merely to live above others, but because he believed himself the universe’s only true path forward. And—

For humanity to survive, a new god must be born.

Deep down he knew this gamble was monstrous. He hated what he did as much as he hated a universe of false creators.

“If killing millions is the price to change the world—then I’ll accept that sin myself.”

That twisted benevolence—this warped ‘good’ he told himself—stripped him of what makes one human. In the end, Fergo chose to destroy to save the multiverse, cloaked as merciful cruelty. He would march forward, even knowing the cost: shattered souls.

Roxy pieced it all together inside her head.

The final shard of the puzzle clicked into place. The unease she’d felt all this time—every instinct that had screamed something was off—pointed to the man before her.

Her presence hardened, bitter resolve igniting—the dying star flaring one last time. She raised her spear and hurled it across the void—air tearing apart as the point arrowed straight for Fergo’s face.

For a heartbeat, destiny itself seemed about to shift. He didn’t even blink. The spear disintegrated into dust before it reached him, as if no force left in this world could touch him anymore.

Fergo’s pale fingers rolled the grains of sand, a child’s cruelty—hope crushed between thumb and forefinger. He flicked once—

The sand burst outward in a shockwave beyond imagination. Roxy’s mirrored armor flared into being—then shattered instantly, her breath cut off. Her body skidded across the floor, blood spraying across Skyler’s frozen face.

“Help her!” Emilia’s voice was a whip, cracking through the silence.

Skyler’s palms pressed over Roxy’s wound, power flooding out even as his mind reeled. Sweat poured down his temple—unsure if he was healing her or just buying time.

The scream of Emilia’s weapon replaced what her throat couldn’t hold back. She squeezed the trigger; a storm of bullets tore toward Fergo.

Len seized the chance, phasing behind the enemy in a blink—

But it wasn’t that easy. Fergo’s hand shot back and clamped Len’s throat midair. The head of Squad Two was hurled straight into Emilia’s barrage, Convulsing. Test dummy under fire. Ground. Still.

“LEN!” Emilia’s shriek broke into tears at the edges.

Fergo extended his hand, and black energy erupted—coiling, crushing, the titan serpent made real, winding tight around her frame. Every inch of it dripped with loathing and dread.

“Shhh… told you, pretty one. You’re wasting your strength.”

Then he slammed her down. Again. And again. Bones and muscle cracked with each impact until Skyler—frozen—had to look away.

Fergo turned to him at last, expression blank, his look flat. He didn’t need a speech. One sentence cut sharper than a hundred blades:

“Now it’s just you.”

Skyler stepped in front of them all, lips trembling, hands cold as iron in ice water. His brain ran scenarios—every exit was already sealed. Fergo was stronger than anything his inner system could model.

Copying? Absorbing? Reversing? What the hell kind of power is this…?

The question pressed down on him, an entire mountain on his chest. One thing he knew: if he gambled with the Fifth Dimension now and it got swallowed, he’d have nothing left.

Fergo’s mouth curved—the victor’s smile. “Seems like you’re the only one who gets it. But… it’s already too late.”

He spread his palm. Air around Skyler compressed, invisible cages of folded space locking his body until even a fingertip couldn’t twitch.

Fergo raised his other hand. A black singularity opened beside the Tree of Life, siphoning Gaia’s energy as calmly as someone scooping water from a well.

The Tree began to wither. The balance of the multiverse unraveled thread by thread…

“You can’t stop me,” Fergo said it—a verdict cast in stone. “Fate didn’t write this… I did.”