Chapter 52 – A Shadow Between Two Titans
That secret realm had no fixed form.
It flowed, crawled, twisted like a mind trapped in a nightmare. Stone became water, sky turned into embers, earth became a thousand mirrors reflecting wounds. And in the midst of it, two figures clashed—not with swords or arrows, but with wills so dense that every collision reshaped reality itself.
Elarion and Maxcen.
Their battle was not merely a war of power—it was the remnant of an unfinished grudge, replayed in a place where time had no meaning. A war from thousands of years ago, now repeating itself. They once shared the same goal, but their paths went astray, and the world bore the punishment for their failure.
Elarion—the first true human. Pure, untainted. The first Grand Sorcerer, the unifier of races and worlds. His greatest power: to alter fate, to bind what was once divided. His weakness: he was not immune to the direct manipulation of essence, be it life or death.
Maxcen—the essence of death. The first Hellseer. Destroyer, dominator of beings, weaver of dual or multiple destinies. His weakness: he was limited in realms of pure life untouched by sin or death.
A faint fracture appeared in the air. A thin light seeped through, slicing the secret realm like a blade cutting soaked cloth. From that rift, footsteps echoed—though footsteps should never be heard here.
It was Enver.
His eyes widened, pupils reflecting the two clashing flames that sought to annihilate each other. There was no ground beneath his feet—he stood upon the void, which formed itself to bear his weight. The air was unbearably heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and cosmic dust.
Maxcen paused for a fraction of a second. A faint smile crept across his face.
"Ah… at last, you arrive," he said, his voice deep as the echo of a bottomless well.
Elarion glanced at him, his brow furrowed.
"You brought him here?" His tone carried half anger, half disbelief.
"Not brought," Maxcen replied calmly, turning his palm to summon a black vortex pulsating around him. "I merely prepared the path… long ago."
The next collision struck. Waves of energy blasted from their bodies, rushing past Enver, shattering layers of reality like brittle glass. Enver steadied himself, but each breath felt like inhaling blades of glass.
Elarion spoke amidst the relentless storm of blows.
"So, this is your descendant?" His tone dripped with mockery.
"You wish to shape him into another version of yourself, Maxcen? Or merely a new puppet to hurl into the world as you please?"
Maxcen laughed—a low, shattering laugh that fractured the very air around them.
"He… is no mere descendant. He is the thread of fate I can rewrite. Reshape endlessly. And for that, I had my median, and I used him… Morren."
That name made Enver turn sharply, his brow furrowing.
"Morren…?" he whispered, his voice drowned by the next explosion.
Elarion did not stop.
"Ah, I see. You cast him into the human world so your seed would grow far from your influence… only to return as its savior, molding him into yourself. You have not changed."
Maxcen's grin widened, his abyssal eyes blazing.
"Different, Elarion. This time, I am not merely carving. I will recreate. Their world, their heavens, even their history. If it begins with one man, then it begins with him."
Enver's blood ran cold. He realized that every step of his life—every choice he believed his own—might have been nothing more than paths Maxcen had written since the very beginning. Rage boiled within him, a fury he had never allowed himself to feel—until now.
Faces flashed before his eyes. Humans and astral beings he had purificato one by one. Their sins, their pain, their fragile hope.
The battle erupted again. The ground dissolved, replaced by a sea of dense light, raging like a storm upon an ocean. Every clash of will sent shockwaves through creation—mountains cracked, skies tore, oceans split in the human world.
Enver stood at the center, his body trembling—not with fear, but with the knowledge that if this battle did not end, the human world would be reduced to nothing but a footnote in their cosmic war.
Elarion's gaze flicked to him. It was not merely a warning. It was a message.
Enver did not know its meaning, but he felt it within his chest:
"You have a role here. Do not wait until all is lost."
Before he could respond, Maxcen raised his hand.
A black vortex the size of worlds tore open above them. From it descended a strike not meant to kill—but to erase. To devour light, sound, and time itself.
The chapter ends.
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