The air was poison. The entire arena reeked of smoke, blood, and the burning of magic itself. Cracks pulsed underfoot like veins of molten fire. Above, the Reverents still sat—motionless, silent—watching the collapse of three beings whose pride had long outgrown reason.
Lucius, Vyralthus, and Shin stood far apart, each trembling but unbroken. Their eyes—mad, bloodshot, yet shining—met one another in a triangle of death. None needed to speak. The war had stripped away everything human left in them.
Lucius wiped blood from his mouth, lips curling. His teeth were jagged, red-stained. "I smell the end," he whispered, voice half a growl. "And I'll drag you both there with me."
Shin spat on the ground, holding his torn grimoire close. His chest rose and fell sharply; sweat rolled down his temple, carrying streaks of blood. "Arrogance suits corpses," he said coldly, his tone brittle but fierce.
Vyralthus only raised his sword again, his armor shattered in places, his left arm limp but still gripping the blade tight. "If this is how the world measures strength," he muttered, "then let's see whose death shines brighter."
The ground erupted.
Lucius moved first again, all speed and fury. His sword cut the air in a furious red storm, each swing blurring faster than the eye could follow. Shin's runes lit up instantly, forming walls of radiant script. Each hit shattered a wall, replaced instantly by another. The impact thundered across the field, rattling the pillars around them.
Then Vyralthus broke through from behind. His greatsword slammed into the ground, sending a shockwave that hurled both Lucius and Shin upward. The burst carved a trench through the arena, dust spiraling into a cloud.
Lucius landed hard but rolled, snarling, lunging toward Vyralthus. Their blades met—once, twice, then a dozen times. Sparks turned into flame. Steel met steel, blood spraying between each clash.
"Still swinging that brick?" Lucius jeered through clenched teeth.
"Still hiding behind cheap tricks?" Vyralthus retorted, parrying with a grunt.
The two locked swords, faces inches apart, snarling like beasts. Then both were thrown backward by an unseen force.
Shin descended from above, one hand outstretched, pages swirling around him like the halo of an angry god. His voice boomed, resonant and hollow: "Scripture of Final Judgement—Divine Verse!"
The symbols converged, forming a massive pillar of light that crashed into the center of the arena, swallowing everything in blinding radiance.
For a second, the entire palace shook. Reverents shielded their eyes. The world turned white.
When the light dimmed, the floor was gone—only a crater of molten glass remained. In its center, Lucius staggered, one arm missing, one eye burned out. Vyralthus knelt, sword shattered into fragments, blood dripping from his lips. Shin hovered, panting heavily, his robes scorched and skin cracked by his own magic.
Lucius laughed—a horrible, ragged sound. "Judgement, huh? You call that divine?" He spat blood. "I call it boring."
He leapt forward again, impossibly fast despite his wounds. His claws dug into Shin's shoulder, teeth sinking into his neck. Shin screamed, magic bursting outward instinctively, but Lucius didn't stop—he tore into him like a starving animal. Blood spilled, glowing faintly blue from Shin's cursed energy.
"Lucius!" Vyralthus roared, stumbling forward. He drove the broken half of his sword straight through Lucius's spine. The blade punched through his chest, the tip emerging near Shin's collarbone.
Lucius's eyes widened, fangs still embedded in Shin's throat. For a moment, he trembled—then, with a choking laugh, he turned his head, grin twisting. "Heh... you think this kills me?"
Vyralthus didn't answer. He twisted the blade.
Lucius coughed blood, letting go of Shin, collapsing to his knees. Shin fell too, clutching his bleeding neck, gasping.
Vyralthus stepped back, panting, eyes hollow. "You should've stayed dead when you had the chance."
But Lucius wasn't done. Even impaled, he reached backward, his claws finding Vyralthus's ankle. His voice came out a rasp, but it carried venom. "If I go down… you're coming with me."
He yanked hard, pulling Vyralthus off balance, then drove his remaining clawed hand into Vyralthus's side. Blood erupted, splattering across both of them. Vyralthus bellowed in pain, slamming his elbow into Lucius's face repeatedly until bone cracked. But Lucius only laughed harder, a wet, choking sound that echoed through the ruin.
Shin forced himself up again, one eye blind, blood running down his arm. His grimoire floated shakily beside him, only a few pages intact. "Enough," he whispered hoarsely. "End this."
He lifted his hand, forming a final sigil of light. "Final Verse—Requiem…"
The magic circle beneath them blazed to life, runes spinning, binding all three inside.
Lucius's eyes widened. "What—"
The explosion consumed them.
The entire arena became engulfed in roaring light. The air turned to flame, then silence. For a few eternal seconds, nothing existed—no sound, no sight, just the void left behind by overwhelming destruction.
When the brightness faded, three bodies lay at the center.
Lucius was sprawled forward, his fangs broken, his eyes open but lifeless, his chest caved inward. His sword lay beside him, still humming faintly with residual energy before it cracked apart.
Vyralthus was kneeling, impaled by jagged debris from the floor, both hands gripping the broken hilt of his weapon. His face was calm—eerily so—as though he'd met death halfway and made peace with it.
Shin lay slumped against a pile of rubble, his grimoire finally still. The last page fluttered in the faint wind, glowing once before turning to ash. Blood stained his entire robe, and his mouth curved into a faint, bitter smile.
None moved. None breathed.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The Reverents above said nothing for a long time. The only sound was the crackling of molten stone cooling under their feet.
Finally, Melancholy spoke, his voice like a sigh. "So ends the pride of three souls."
Selina crossed her arms, her tone half cold, half amused. "Death embraced them beautifully, I suppose."
Hexos leaned forward slightly, his usual calm expression unreadable. "Emotions… burn the brightest before extinguishing."
Roze watched from his seat. His face was unreadable too, but his eyes reflected a quiet satisfaction—cold, analytical, as though this outcome was expected. He murmured to himself, almost inaudible, "Three thrones, one graveyard."
Amandon finally stood. His presence filled the hall like thunder without sound. "So it ends," he said, his tone low. "Three destined to rise, yet chained by their flaws. The irony of mortals seeking godhood never fades."
He raised his hand slightly, and a ripple of light passed over the arena. The flames vanished, the bodies sealed in crystalline light—preserved, unmoving, suspended forever in the instant of their fall.
He turned toward Roze, his golden eyes gleaming. "And what did you learn from watching this?"
Roze's smirk returned, faint but sharp. "That power isn't what kills," he said. "It's purpose that does."
Amandon studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply haven't met your own yet."
Roze said nothing more. His gaze returned to the frozen battlefield—the three who had fought for their own thrones, only to share the same grave.
The light dimmed across the hall. The Reverents remained silent, the echoes of the battle fading into history.
At the center of the arena, where once roared fury and ambition, there now rested only the remnants of three shattered souls—Lucius the cursed beast, Vyralthus the broken prince, Shin the blinded preacher.