In the infinite void—where countless stars and galaxies drift like dragon-flight through cosmic cold—
Light and darkness whirl together in an endless dance across space and time. Each star tells a story; each nebula holds an unfinished dream.
And at the very center…
A destination that transcends all knowledge.
No map could chart it. No coordinates could define it.
It's known by a single whispered name—as though cursed:
The Root.
In a realm without form, shape, weight, or even time—
A humanoid figure drifts silently, like a leaf lost upon an eternal ocean.
He is a young man.
About nineteen or twenty years old.
Slim and frail in appearance, yet bearing an uncanny solidity—his back seems to carry the weight of every sorrow known to humankind.
His short black hair drifts before his forehead, swaying in silent currents of uncertainty.
His eyes—deep chasms of absolute darkness, void of light or emotion.
No soul. No sense of self. No destiny.
He doesn't move. Doesn't struggle.
He merely exists… gazing forward—at nothing. A realm unnamed, formless, without end.
His name is Zoth Vari-El.
A man from the 21st century.
A Russian by nationality.
An exchange student in Germany.
Status: Ordinary.
Or… he once was.
The fateful day…
It should have been just another afternoon. The sky neither rained nor shone—dull gray, as if the universe itself held its breath.
Zoth walked slowly down the sidewalk, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging a backpack. He wasn't watching his phone. He wasn't observing anyone.
Everything felt perfectly normal. Suspiciously so.
Then—
[GRUUUUAAAAHH—!!!]
A thunderous rumble tore through the pavement like a blade through flesh.
A runaway truck—wild tires spinning, brakes screaming like a tormented soul—hurtled toward him.
Without warning. Without horn. Without time to think.
Instinct took over. Zoth flipped aside—like a panther—narrowly avoiding the collision.
Dust exploded up. The truck careened into a lamppost at the curb.
[CRASH!!!]
Metal screeched like a funeral bell across the street.
Zoth panted on the sidewalk, heart pounding.
"Made it…?" he wondered, curling his lips into a sardonic, relieved smile.
But fate… never promotes survivals.
The lamppost didn't just break.
It shattered—and groaned, as though alive, metallic lament stretching in desperation.
Zoth glared upward, wide-eyed.
Then—
[THUD—!!!]
The post came down—right where he'd been sitting moments before.
There was no time to escape. No time to scream. Nothing left.
Only a blinding flash—then darkness.
That was the moment Zoth "died". Or rather, the moment he began being born again.
Zoth's eyelids fluttered. Fog swirled around his vision.
He sat up, rubbing his forehead. His chest still throbbed with a dull ache—the aftershock of the most absurd death in human history.
"Haah..." He sighed, trembling—a phantom wound of the soul.
"Who'd think… on a fine day I'd be killed by a lamppost—"
[Crack—!]
A sharp snap cut through the void. It was as if reality itself cracked.
Zoth jolted. Gravity snapped him back—back to something resembling "reality."
He whipped his head around—instinct blazing—
And saw it.
A golden beam of light tore through the void to his left, firing toward him faster than physics—
Like a falling star. Like a legendary beckoning. Like fate drawing a sword once more.
It was a blade.
A radiant longsword, golden with red-veined edges like fresh blood. The blade pulsed, singing within the void.
Zoth's pupils constricted—an animal's reflex to lethal intent.
"Wait… this… Damn… Is that… Caladbolg from Kamen Rider Saber?!"
"What the hell is going on?!" His throat went dry—overloaded with disbelief.
And suddenly—
"Don't tell me… this is my golden finger?!"
Instinct overrode logic. Zoth stretched his hand. His arm moved not by thought, but by ancient urges—primal survival incarnate.
Then—
[Whoosh!]
Just as he was about to grasp the blade—
A book appeared. Not thrown. Not fallen. Simply… manifested. In his left hand.
Zoth froze. Breath stuck in his lungs.
A red-and-white book. A soft glow radiated from its cover—like an echo of hidden magic.
He turned it palm-up, staring as if veering a single hair would undo the miracle.
Blood-red and bone-white, it bore ancient engravings: a towering tree and a sword planted in its trunk, aglow like a heartbeat.
A symbol of ancient knowledge—and power.
Zoth felt his muscles turn to stone. His hand shook as he clenched it.
"This is… What the hell is this… A Wonder Ride Book?!"
An icy chill ran down his spine. His grin trembled, caught between madness and awe.
A Wonder Ride Book—a core to Saber's Rider system.
But this wasn't just any book.
Zoth froze, mind exploding with realization.
Isaac.
The ultimate post-Saber villain.
The Logos Sword high priest.
Wielder of the forbidden book.
The transformations that led Kamen Rider Solomon.
Zoth's breath caught.
Could it be... I've just seized the [Pseudo • Omniscient Omnipotent Tome]?
Joy and terror warred within him.
The universe seemed to hush—but inside his skull, fireworks erupted.
Zoth lifted his head, staring into the void where directions lost meaning. No up, no down. No sound. No emotion.
Only him—and an ocean of questions.
"Obtaining Omni Force is one thing… But…" He gnawed his lips, voice grating.
"Blyad! Where the hell is this place?!"
---
He began to walk. Wandering within infinite void—with no navigation, no time, no… humanity.
Yet not empty.
The void around him was pure data: drifting memories, hovering souls glowing like plasma screens, events past, present, and potential swirling backwards and forwards—time warping into itself in loops no one comprehends.
They collided. They tangled. They rewrote history in a fractal spiral invisible to ordinary thought.
"This is… the Vortex of the Root."
[Akasha].
Zoth murmured. The name felt ingrained into his soul—etched before he arrived here.
A realm impossible… and yet it exists.
"Then… why am I here?" he murmured, searching the data-sea for clues.
Then—
[Fzzzt…]
A faint shaft of light shimmered before him like an electric firefly.
"Eh…? What's that?"
Before reason could act, Zoth zipped forward—virtually yanked by an invisible thread.
Heart pounding, lungs sucking, eyes wide—
And he saw the figure.
"Human… stop right there."
A voice like steel-cloak, cold and hollow—yet heavy with doom.
Before him stood a tall shadow, clad in a sable cloak folded like winter night, anchored in the void.
In his left hand, a greatsword shimmered—lethal even at a glance.
Behind a skull-mask, two crimson eyes burned—a verdict incarnate.
Zoth froze. Caladbolg still in hand. He stared, glare sharpening.
"Umm… excuse me… Is there a way—?"
"Fate has decided, brat. Halt now—before the Root consumes you."
Zoth's breath caught. His inner voice screamed:
"Holy shit… I know who you are."
"First Hassan."
A Grand Assassin.
A name that needs no introduction.
One who sliced death in half.
A nightmare to every Master.
"Shit… my luck sucks." Zoth exhaled, then forced out a crooked grin.
"S-so… Elder… Is there any way… for me to leave this Akasha cage?"
First Hassan paused. A silent breath. Finally, he nodded, eyes boring through Zoth's soul.
"I know the path. But… you are a dangerous variable. If you escape this place—Fate will be torn. I cannot allow you to leave."
Zoth barely reacted—
[THUD—!!]
A killing intent lunged—no warning, no flash—only supernatural velocity.
He saw crimson eyes flare—
[SWIIING–!!]
A sword strike. Faster than light.
It sliced across Zoth's chest. Crimson erupted like bursting waves.
His body flung back, calories into "ground" that had no substance—just concept.
"Kh—Hrk!" Zoth gritted his teeth, clutching his chest. Caladbolg pinned into that conceptual floor as a final anchor to his consciousness.
"Lucky dodge… just half a step. Otherwise I'd be double-dead."
He panted. No panic left in his eyes.
Only cold resolve. And… readiness to fight.
Zoth rose. Caladbolg flared with energy—the sword responding to the will of its master.
"If you're gonna be like that… then… don't blame me if I go all-out!"
He dropped into stance—blade raised.
The void lay still, like the stage before thunder.
First Hassan still unmoved. His greatsword slowly lifted—pointing.
"Come. I want to see… what you're made of."
For a heartbeat… Zoth braced himself as power gathered—
Then—
"NIGERUNDAYO~!!!"
[WHOOSH—!!]
He spun, Mach-3 style, racing away through the Root's energy loops like sober Sonic.
"BYE BYEEEEEE!!!"
First Hassan froze—only for one heartbeat.
"..."
Three dark veins rippled across his brow like panther scratches.
"BRAT!!!" He howled, drawing his blade and kicking off—shooting forward like a meteor.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!!"
"NOOO!! You're trying to slice my skull off!!"
"Just one strike! Softly! To send you into eternal sleep!"
"I HAVEN'T EVEN EXPERIENCED LOVE YET! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!!"
And thus—within the data-abyss of the Root Spiral, a legendary chase began:
A time-displaced youth sprinting like acid burns at his heels.
A Grand Servant—icy façade, internal inferno—pursuing like Hades collecting souls.
Then—!
A rift opened before Zoth.
It looked like a tear in time itself.
From its depths came a whisper—tiny, cracked:
"Please…someone…save…save me…"
A child's cry. Fragile, hopeless.
Zoth didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
"ESCAPE ROUTE!!! I'M COMING, LITTLE LOLI!!!"
[VRORT—!]
He leapt into the light—and vanished.
First Hassan came to a halt before the closing rift.
He exhaled—a breath weighed with regret:
"Tch… let that brat get away…"
He clenched his greatsword tight. A flash of dark purpose touched his eyes:
"Hmph. Doesn't matter. One day… I will cut you down."
With that, he faded into oblivion—an unspoken memory dissolving away.
---
Simultaneously—in Fuyuki
Matou Residence, underground.
Where light never reaches. Where time seems forgotten.
A damp, stone room covered in moss—air heavy with old blood and unspeakable dread.
In the deepest corner—a little black-haired girl curled up, shaking like a dead leaf in a storm.
Tohsaka… Sakura.
No. That name was now just a fading scar in her memory.
She was called: Matou Sakura.
Her little body battered, blood-drenched, life being siphoned slowly away.
Where once glimmered hope, now lay empty pits—dark, clouded with agony, despair, and hatred.
Every breath she drew was a battle. Each heartbeat teetered on surrender.
"Please… someone… save me…"
A wordless whisper floating like an awakened ghost. No direction. No destination.
Just the last desperate flicker of her will to survive.
Then… the universe answered.
[THUD—!!]
The floor shook. Air coiled. An ancient magic circle lit beneath her like a burning inferno star.
Deep red spirals—like blood coursing through the world's veins.
Mana surged, making stone walls moan in agony.
A ritual not crafted by any mortal—but perfect, exact as divine design.
The first crimson ray cut through darkness. Wind howled like a cosmic engine waking.
[KENGGG—!]
A sword rang—ice-sharp—through the stillness.
And then—
A calm voice spoke—clear as if whispering in her ear.
It didn't come from a person. It rose from an entity too silent to be human. Regal—yet shadowed by an unnameable madness.
"Servant, Ruler. You may call me… Kamen Rider Solomon, if you wish. Now… you're my Master, yes?"
Sakura blinked. In that crimson aura, she saw—for the first time—a figure standing angrily amidst the magic circle.
A Rider clad in white-and-gold armor stained with red. Spiked helmet, horn like a blade, eyes like burning runes–