The yard was chaos incarnate. Smoke and stardust mingled in the air, veiling the fortress in a surreal haze of destruction and light. The rumble of explosions from the raid reverberated through the walls, a symphony of defiance against the invincible. But within the eye of this hurricane, Mefisto stood at the hovertrain's console, fingers racing over the controls.
"Come on, come on," he muttered, his voice tight with urgency. The hovertrain hummed to life beneath him, its systems coming online one by one. Engines roared like awakening beasts, and the faint blue glow of quantum stabilizers flickered through the vents. "We're not sticking around to see how this story ends."
Woomilla stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the yard. Through the jagged hole in the wall, she could see everything—the swirl of dragon stardust, Firelez's still form cradled in Sky's arms, and Aldric standing like a monolith, his techarmor gleaming with cruel authority. The sight was too much, too vast for her to process.
Her voice trembled as she whispered, "He's... gone, isn't he?"
Mefisto didn't look back, his focus locked on the console. "Don't freeze on me now, Milla. We need to move." His words were sharp, but not unkind. They carried the weight of someone who couldn't afford to stop, even for grief.
Tenza, slumped against a crate near the delivery door, wasn't listening. Her breathing was shallow, her hands gripping the gauntlet like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Firelez's sacrifice played on repeat in her mind, overlaid with another image—Bairon's final moments. The helplessness, the loss, the overwhelming sense of failure.
"No, no, no," she muttered, shaking her head violently. "Not again. I can't... I can't lose another—"
A sudden jolt broke through her spiral of despair. Pinchitavo, his face pale but determined, grabbed her by the arm. "We don't have time for this," he said, his voice unsteady but firm. He glanced at Woomilla, who was still rooted to the spot. "Milla! Help me with her!"
Woomilla snapped out of her trance, blinking rapidly as she turned away from the yard. She moved to Tenza's side, her hands trembling as she helped Pinchitavo pull her friend to her feet.
The delivery door hissed open with a metallic groan, the sound cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. Pinchitavo's hands flew across the controls, overriding the fortress's lockdown protocols with the same quantum encryption method that had brought them this far. The door creaked, its massive frame groaning under the weight of its own resistance, but it obeyed.
"Move!" Pinchitavo shouted, pushing Tenza and Woomilla forward. The M transportation employees, already on high alert, surged into action, wheeling the carts loaded with techcrystals into the hovertrain with practiced efficiency and a whole lot of anxiety.
Tenza stumbled into the train, her legs feeling like lead. Woomilla guided her to a seat, her own hands shaking as she strapped her friend in. Pinchitavo followed close behind, his eyes scanning the yard one last time before slamming his hand against the control panel to seal the delivery door.
The hovertrain's engines roared, louder now, the sound drowning out the din of the battle outside. Mefisto glanced back at the group, his expression hard, obscuring his fear. "We're leaving. Hold on to something."
As the hovertrain began its escape, the team couldn't help but glance back toward the yard. The image of Sky and Firelez—one still, one poised to explode—was seared into their minds. The fortress loomed behind them like a beast unwilling to let its prey go, its towering walls bristling with defenses.
And yet, as the hovertrain surged forward, its engines screaming defiance into the dawn, there was a flicker of hope. Firelez's sacrifice had bought them this moment. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen.
The celebratory shouts of the invaders and Aldric's mocking laughter hung in the air like poison, twisting through the chaos of the yard. They hadn't noticed him yet, still circled around their supposed triumph, desecrating this sacred moment of loss. His friend's body was still warm in his arms as Sky gently laid it down, the crimson anima fading into stillness.
Sky rose slowly, each movement intentional but devoid of his usual demeanor, as if carrying the weight of the universe. His mind—so precise in its calculations—aligned perfectly with his grief, channeling it into focus. The air around him began to shift, particles vibrating, ionizing. The first threads of plasma formed, golden and trembling, as his anima manifested raw and unstoppable.
He understood the physics of what he was about to unleash. Air molecules, heated to 50,000 Kelvin. Electrons stripped from their atoms. A cascade of charged particles forming a lattice of plasma threads. What his most exalted hero had once wielded through cosmos, Sky now summoned through science—transmuted into legend.
Hot tears streamed down his face. The Bootes Void had taught him about loneliness: 300 million light-years of silence, where the only voices were those of his heroes—legends who had shaped him. Leo's saint's courage. His magnificent sense of justice. The perfect balance of power and restraint. Now, preparing to channel that same power, Sky's hands trembled.
"You... who have never faced true fear," he said, his voice sharp and steady, each word deliberate. "You mistake his fall for your victory."
The laughter faltered as Sky's tone cut through the yard like a blade. The air thickened, crackling with potential energy. Sky's tears continued to fall, forced down by the trembling of his shoulders, his choked sobs, each one catching the light of his anima. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, centering himself.
"Control," he whispered, a reminder, a mantra. "Power without purpose is destruction."
The electromagnetic field around him surged, lines bending to his grief and his will. In that microsecond, he perceived everything: air molecules splitting perfectly, electrons accelerating to 99% of light speed, plasma forming in mathematically perfect arcs. Each channel of golden-bright ionized particles branched outward, forming an intricate web—a tribute to that golden saint's lightning, to Firelez's courage.
Sky raised his fist toward Aldric, but Aldric's squad moved first, rushing to intercept.
And then the lion roared.
The plasma erupted from Sky's fist in all directions, golden light branching out with geometric precision. To the guards, it was as if a star had been born in the yard, each stream of plasma moving faster than thought. The precision was staggering: each channel followed magnetic field lines Sky had calculated to the microsecond. Time itself seemed to slow, each plasma arc an equation of control, power, and purpose.
The guards froze mid-laugh, their techarmor breaking apart piece by piece, atom by atom. The golden light reflected in their eyes as the plasma struck—measured, willful, overwhelming. It wasn't chaos; it was art, a cosmic symphony of physics and fury.
When the plasma hit, the energy transfer was absolute, calibrated to defeat without annihilation. Sky's calculations were close to perfection. Even in his grief, he remembered Firelez's legacy: power must serve justice, not destruction.
The entire attack lasted less than a microsecond, but to Sky, it felt like eternity compressed into light. As the golden plasma faded, the stardust remnants of the dragon swirled through the air like cosmic witnesses, carrying the echoes of Firelez's final moments.
The fortress door exploded outward, its premium defenses unable to withstand the force. Aldric was thrown from the impact, his techarmor shattered, his face contorted in fear. The yard fell silent, save for the hum of residual electromagnetic energy.
Sky turned back to Firelez's still form, the golden light reflecting off his tears. He knelt beside his fallen friend once more, brushing his hand over Firelez's chest. The fortress, the invaders, even Aldric faded into irrelevance as Sky whispered his final words.
"Your battle is finished," he said, his voice steady despite the grief that burned within him. "And your legacy remains undefeated."
Tenza had seen Sky fight before, but this was something entirely different. The reserved, methodical warrior she thought she knew had transformed into a figure wreathed in electromagnetic fury. What struck her most was the precision of it all—the golden plasma didn't rage like a wild storm; it bent and flowed with mathematical grace, each strike measured to the Planck length and time.
Her hands trembled as the hovertrain raced away, the scene burned into her memory. Firelez's final stand and Sky's righteous fury weren't separate moments—they were parts of a single story, the bond between two warriors who spoke different languages of justice yet understood each other perfectly.
In the real world, Argus' stream captured the impossible. To the viewers, it appeared as if a supernova had ignited, its golden brilliance illuminating the fortress yard. A fraction of a second later, the sound reached them: a leonine roar that resonated in their chests and seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Even weather satellites in the real world, high above the Earth, recorded electromagnetic anomalies, strange geometric patterns briefly forming in the upper atmosphere.
But what terrified them most wasn't the raw power—it was the control. Each plasma strike landed with exactly enough force to incapacitate, never more. The message was unmistakable: this wasn't the limit of his power, but a contemplated choice.
As the hovertrain disappeared into the horizon, those who had witnessed the scene—players, invaders, and ordinary viewers alike—would carry the memory for years to come. And though the golden light faded, many swore they could still hear the echo of that celestial roar, a sound that carried both grief and justice, power and precision, fury and love.
The aftermath of his attack transformed into something primal, elemental. The ionized air that had carried his plasma streams now drew moisture from the atmosphere, as if the universe itself was responding to his grief. The golden afterglow of his lightning lingered in the rapidly forming clouds, turning them into roiling masses of amber and steel.
The first drops fell like tears.
The storm built with unnatural speed, fed by the massive temperature differentials his attack had created. Thunder rolled across the yard, not with random chaos but in rhythmic intervals. Each crack of sound carried an echo of that leonine roar, as if the golden saint's lion still prowled the heavens above, mourning alongside him. The rain followed the precise paths his plasma had carved through the electromagnetic field—nature itself remembering the mathematics of his loss.
Tenza, safe on the hovertrain, looked back through the panoramic window to the fortress. Her breath caught as she watched the storm unfold. It wasn't random; it was orchestrated. The lightning danced in perfect Fibonacci spirals, each strike imbued with a golden hue that seemed to defy the natural order.
In reality, local weather stations recorded unprecedented barometric shifts and perfect geometric formations in the cloud patterns above the Atlantic. Meteorologists debated the electromagnetic anomalies for years, their instruments unable to explain how such symmetry could emerge from chaos. But for those present, the technical readings paled before the sight of a man who had bent the laws of physics to his will—not in battle, but in grief.
Sky stood in the center of it all, cradling Firelez in his arms. The rain mixed with his tears, streaking his face as the golden light reflected in his eyes. His mind—so often overwhelmed by the chaos of the world—found clarity in this moment. The storm obeyed the same equations as his attack had, writing his grief across the sky in water and lightning.
A single, perfect bolt of lightning struck the ground where Firelez had stood, its golden brilliance lingering for a moment before fading. It was as if the heavens themselves saluted the champion, their roar echoing his final stand. Sky's grip tightened on his fallen friend, his tears falling freely.
The alliance members, stepping cautiously into the yard, found themselves surrounded by perfection. Every defeated enemy lay alive, struck with precision. The residual electromagnetic readings formed intricate patterns, like a mathematician had etched lightning into the fabric of reality. One whispered, "It was like seeing someone write poetry with particle physics."
The Grand Lodge, watching from their chromed halls, felt the cold wave of realization sweep through them. They had dismissed him as a quiet oddity, underestimated him as something small and peculiar. Now, as the storm carved its requiem in golden light and rolling thunder, they understood their mistake. This was not a man they could calculate, contain, or control. This was something far greater.
The storm would rage for hours, its strange, precise patterns defying explanation. Each lightning strike carried a trace of that golden plasma, each thunderclap held a hint of the lion's roar. Nature itself seemed to understand: this was not just weather, but a requiem. A final salute to a warrior who had given everything.
The rain continued to fall in precise, glowing patterns as Sky gathered his friend's body with the same deliberate care he applied to everything. One arm supported the shoulders, the other beneath the knees. Steam rose where the drops touched the superheated ground, creating an ethereal mist that swirled in perfect fractals.
No one moved to stop him. The alliance members bowed their heads in silent respect as he walked among them. The champion and his friend were passing through, one final procession through a battlefield now quieted by awe.
The storm clouds above parted, forming a corridor of golden-tinged sunlight that illuminated his path. His footsteps left glowing impressions in the wet earth, each one perfectly spaced, filling with luminescent rainwater. The air around him still crackled with residual electromagnetic energy, arcs of golden lightning dancing between droplets as if the storm itself mourned.
Those who moments ago had celebrated victory now pressed against the walls in defeat. They had witnessed what happened when they pushed this quiet, different man too far. The lesson was etched in plasma burns and precise patterns, written in the language of a mind that saw the universe in equations.
Distant thunder echoed faintly, softer now, like a guardian keeping vigil.
Sky's measured gait—once mocked as odd or mechanical—now carried the weight of ceremony. Each step was a calculation, ensuring his friend's body remained undisturbed. His tears fell freely, mingling with the rain, his expression one of quiet focus. In this moment, his difference looked like divinity.
At the edge of the battlefield, a final bolt of golden lightning split the sky, followed by that deep leonine roar. The rain's patterns spiraled outward in fractals, marking the path of a warrior carrying his fallen friend home.
He spread his wings, their vast span darkened by the rain. Each feather caught the lingering plasma's golden light, creating an aurora of grief around him. As he ascended, the storm obeyed his will while droplets falling upward in defiance of gravity.
Higher and higher he flew, through layers of clouds that split apart with geometric precision. His calculations—each meter of ascent, each temperature drop, each thinning layer of atmosphere—were no longer for survival or combat. They were his way of holding onto these last moments, delaying the inevitable.
When he broke through the final veil of clouds, the eternal night of space sprawled above him. His tears froze in the cold air, tiny crystals catching starlight. Here, where the sky faded from blue to black, he spoke at last:
"I know you won't stay," he said, his voice steady despite the sob that broke through. "I understand the equations of life and death too well to hope otherwise. But I needed the universe to witness you. To see who you were. What you meant."
In his arms, Firelez's body began to shimmer, breaking into points of light. Sky memorized each particle's precise position, each pattern forming constellations of memory. When the final particles drifted into the stars, they took the shape of a lion for a moment—a fleeting tribute to the champion who had burned so brightly. Then they scattered, joining the infinite dance of light and shadow.
Sky hovered there, suspended between Eschenfräu and space, half in day and half in night. Below him, the storm rumbled its final farewell, the lion's roar echoing one last time. Above, the void waited, its familiar solitude pressing in.
And for a moment, as golden rain fell upward and his wings carried him through the infinite, Sky allowed himself to be human—not cosmic, not mortal—just mourning.