PERSONA 3 DEVIL'S HERALD

...22/08/2009 Sartuday; Night...

After a few minutes, the group had gathered at the temple, each person either standing or sitting, waiting for the fireworks display to begin.

The atmosphere was calm, yet charged with an underlying restlessness, as if the event they were about to witness was merely a temporary distraction from something greater and far more ominous.

Mitsuru observed Hiro sitting on the temple steps beside Akihiko, both lost in their own thoughts.

There was something serene about Hiro's posture, but Mitsuru knew that, just like her, he must have questions about the future.

"Hiro." Mitsuru called, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and a hint of concern. "I know it's still early to think about this, but… what do you plan to do when all of this is over?"

Hiro lifted his gaze toward her, his eyes shadowed under the temple's dim lighting. "You mean when we destroy the Dark Hour and Tartarus?"

Mitsuru nodded in confirmation, not breaking eye contact.

Hiro sighed, shifting his gaze to the dark sky.

Doubt lingered over him, as if he had never truly considered what would come next.

After all, what would their lives be like without the constant threat of the Shadows? He, Mitsuru, Akihiko… they were all in their final year of high school. What would come after?

Hiro scratched his head before looking back at her. "I don't know… I guess I'll try to get a scholarship for college. Maybe engineering, or who knows, economics."

Akihiko, suddenly interested, joined the conversation with a grin. "You should try the martial arts championships. That's more your style."

Hiro waved a dismissive hand, clearly uninterested. "I'd rather not lose my privacy." Then, shifting the focus, he asked, "What about you, Mitsuru?"

For a moment, Mitsuru seemed to ponder, though she already knew her answer.

With an elegant motion, she let her hair down, the night breeze stirring the strands as one hand rested firmly on her waist. "I'm going to help my father manage the Kirijo Corporation. When the time is right, I'll take over the family business."

Hiro, glancing back at the starry sky, murmured, "I see. It's good that you already know what you're going to do."

Before the conversation could continue, hurried footsteps echoed through the temple grounds.

Everyone turned to see Junpei rushing toward them, a bag swinging in his hands.

Yukari, who had been standing, frowned at his arrival.

"Junpei," she said, narrowing her eyes in disapproval. "Where the hell were you? You almost missed the fireworks."

Still catching his breath, Junpei began opening the bag, revealing commemorative festival masks.

With a slightly sheepish grin, he started handing them out one by one.

"I know, I know," he said between breaths. "But I ran around the whole festival just to get these masks."

Fuuka, ever gentle, let out a soft laugh. "It's okay, Junpei-kun. Thank you for the mask."

Junpei returned her smile, a little goofy but satisfied.

Finally, he pulled out the last mask and handed it to Hiro, who took it with a surprised look.

"Ah, my bad, Hiro," Junpei said, scratching his head. "This was the last one left at the stall… it's all they had."

Hiro stared at the mask for a long moment—a red Oni mask with fierce, demonic features.

Despite its intimidating appearance, he felt a strange connection to it.

"It's fine," Hiro said, his eyes gleaming slightly. "I actually like it."

Junpei let out a sigh of relief and went to sit on the steps.

Meanwhile, at the top of the stairs, Minato, Shinjiro, and Aigis were watching the sky, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

Minato glanced to the side and noticed something odd about Shinjiro.

His friend coughed lightly, but Minato's eyes were drawn to his clothing.

"Aragaki," Minato called out, watching him from the corner of his eye.

Shinjiro looked back, his usual expression unchanged. "Hmm?"

Minato gestured toward his outfit. Even in the sweltering summer heat, Shinjiro was wearing his coat. "Aren't you hot? Why do you always wear those heavy clothes, even in the summer?"

Before Shinjiro could respond, Aigis spoke up in a calm tone. "My scanners indicate that Aragaki-senpai's body temperature regulation is below average."

Shinjiro raised an eyebrow, surprised, then shot Aigis a curious look. "You scan everyone, huh? Well… but yeah, it's true. I'm always cold."

His remark was brief, yet carried an undeniable weight.

Before anyone could dwell on it, Yukari's excited voice rang out.

"Look, it's starting!"

Everyone lifted their gaze to the sky as the first fireworks burst into dazzling colors, illuminating the summer night.

The glow reflected off Shinjiro's face, but it brought him no joy.

While the others laughed and marveled at the display, he felt only a deep pain—though not a physical one.

He knew his time was running out.

From where he stood, he looked at Akihiko, who was laughing as he tried to help Hiro remove the mask Junpei had given him, which had somehow gotten stuck on his face in a comical way.

A faint, melancholic smile crossed Shinjiro's lips, but it was fleeting.

Gazing back up at the fireworks, he sighed, the bitterness and frustration weighing in his voice.

"Yeah… soon, all of this will be over for me."

...22/08/2009 Sartuday; Dark Hour...

The Dark Hour begins once again.

The world, wrapped in the eerie green glow of the moment between days, seems to breathe.

Ordinary people turn into coffins, unaware of or unable to comprehend the horrors unfolding around them.

The once-clear waters now flow red like blood, reflecting the moonlight hanging over the sickly sky of the Dark Hour.

Inside Paulownian Mall, the atmosphere is oppressive.

The darkness moves like a heavy veil, and the air is thick, almost tangible, carrying a disturbing energy that makes every sound, every breath, feel amplified.

The fountain at the mall's center spills a crimson liquid, cascading in grotesque streams into the basin below.

The sound of the blood-like water mixing with the agonizing silence.

Then, a scream shatters the stillness. Not just any scream—a cry of absolute panic, laced with desperation.

A security guard, who should have been sealed inside a coffin like everyone else, awakens.

He blinks repeatedly, dazed, trying to process the bizarre reality surrounding him.

The coffin that once enveloped him vanishes, leaving him exposed.

"What the hell... happened?" The guard yawns, rubbing his eyes, his mind still clouded.

Another scream echoes, louder this time, slicing through the air like a cold blade.

The guard jolts, his hands trembling as he pulls out his pistol.

He tries turning on his flashlight, but it flickers and dies. "Damn thing! You always fail me at the worst time."

The irritation in his voice is merely a mask for the growing fear gnawing at him.

Stepping out of the security booth, his footsteps echo down the empty corridors, and the sight that greets him is horrifying.

The sickly green sky casts an unnatural aura over everything, while the coffins around him seem to whisper, as if something unseen lurks in the shadows.

He knows something is terribly wrong, but he doesn't know what.

Each time the scream rings out, the chill in his spine intensifies, until his entire body trembles.

"Who's there?!" His voice wavers with fear. "Show yourself, or I'll shoot!"

The silence that follows is suffocating. But the worst is yet to come.

As he reaches the fountain plaza, the crimson liquid pulses, as if alive.

The guard swallows hard, desperately trying to rationalize what he sees.

"Someone must've dumped dye into the water… that's gotta be it…" But even as he speaks the words aloud, he knows he's lying to himself.

Another scream. This time, coming from the Escapade Club in the distance.

The guard turns toward the club, his eyes catching the stacked instrument cases and equipment near the entrance.

A flyer plastered on the club's door announces a scheduled performance by Rise Kujikawa—the most popular idol in Japan—set for September 10th this year.

Then he hears it—grotesque, inhuman growls coming from inside the club.

His throat tightens, cold sweat dripping down his forehead like ice.

Summoning the last scraps of his courage, he takes a step forward, his movements heavy and sluggish.

"It's just my imagination… that's all it is," he whispers, as if saying it aloud might make it true.

He pushes the door open. It creaks in protest, the sound agonizingly slow, before revealing the horrors within.

Inside, the once vibrant dance floor is now a nightmare.

Grotesque cables—twisting, pulsating, in shades of blue and red—spread like writhing serpents, slithering across the room.

They coil and intertwine, painting a scene straight out of a waking nightmare.

The guard barely has time to react before he notices something above him.

There, looming in the darkness, a figure stands with its head bowed.

A gray crest, like flickering eternal flames or twisted feathers, shimmers with a sinister glow.

Its body—thin, made of thick, tangled cables—stretches across the floor like infernal roots.

Three enormous lamps shine dimly from its back, their weak glow filling the space with an ominous presence.

The guard feels his heart stop.

He tries to scream, but no sound comes out. His pistol slips from his sweat-soaked hands, hitting the floor with a hollow clatter.

It was a Shadow Arcana.

The creature slowly lifts its head, as if acknowledging its prey.

The orange mask covering its face gleams under the twisted light, its single hollow eye revealing only emptiness.

Etched into the mask—IX in Roman numerals.

Then, suddenly, the Shadow lets out a monstrous wail, a sound so powerful the very air vibrates.

The hollow eye in its mask glows a deep red, and the once-motionless cables twitch to life—writhing like living tentacles before snapping toward the guard's legs.

He barely has time to react.

The cables coil around him with crushing force, dragging him forward with brutal strength.

Panic engulfs him. Every fiber of his being screams for escape, but it's too late.

The tendrils constrict, tighter and tighter.

He is pulled mercilessly toward the Shadow.

"Someone… someone help me!"

But his cries are swallowed by the oppressive silence of the Dark Hour, along with the sickening sound of his body being torn apart.