Chapter 27 – Collapse and Flame
--
Across the shattered Earth, from ravaged cities to remote isles, the battle lines drawn by the system erupted into chaos.
The gates had opened. The Krevians had come.
And the blood of Earth's champions was painting the soil red.
Nineteen Level 30 Players—Earth's so-called elite.
The best hope of resistance.
But for many, the fight ended the moment it began.
---
The Outnumbered
Eight players—unfortunate, unlucky, doomed—had faced not one opponent, but two.
That alone was a death sentence.
In the forests of Patagonia, a woman wrapped in lightning screamed as two hulking Krevians tore through her body like cloth, her thunder dying in the storm of blood.
In the ruins of old Cairo, a dual-wielding monk met her end impaled on one blade while the other Krevian crushed her skull underfoot.
In the Arctic Circle, a flame-caster detonated himself in a final, desperate gambit—taking one of them with him. But it wasn't enough. The second opponent stood, barely wounded, and walked away from the smoking crater.
None of the eight survived.
Not even close.
They were powerful. They were skilled.
But the Krevians weren't just monsters.
They were soldiers of extinction.
---
The Struggling Ninth
The ninth one still stood.
Barely.
He has been fighting against two enemies simultaneously and due to his defense and speed he barely stood against those opponents but he knew it was simply a question of time before he slips and dies.
---
The Winning Ten
Only ten remained in positions of power.
And even then—none unscathed.
In New York, a man with gravity control had pinned his opponent to the ground—but his arm hung limp and useless, shattered from earlier blows.
In Tokyo, a silent samurai had severed a Krevian's limb, but his chest was cracked, and his heartbeat unstable.
And scattered among them—Arthur, Clara, and Andrew.
Each in their own hell.
Each still breathing.
But only barely.
And across all these battlefields, a new tension was spreading—like a whisper through the wind.
The system was watching.
And the sponsors were choosing.
Andrew lay motionless, his back cracked, ribs shattered, skin torn to ribbons. Blood soaked the crater beneath him. Shadow tendrils barely clung to his flesh, sluggishly regenerating his broken body.
Above him, Zekrav stood tall, blade gleaming. Silent. Watching.
The leader of the Krevians had not moved to strike.
He was… waiting?
No.
He was watching.
And then—
Andrew laughed.
A sound twisted and hoarse at first.
Then louder.
Sharper.
Maniacal.
Laughter that didn't belong in this world.
Zekrav's molten eyes narrowed.
Andrew sat up—bloodied teeth bared in a grin, ribs still audibly cracking back into place.
> "Heh… hah… HAAHAHAHAHAH!"
His shoulders trembled, not from fear—but from something else.
Clarity.
---
> "This… this is what I've been doing all along, huh?"
> "Letting life beat me into shape."
> "Always standing at the back. Watching. Thinking it was safer… smarter."
His voice was low, like gravel soaked in shadow.
> "But I was just afraid."
> "Afraid that if I stepped forward, I'd lose control. That I'd disappear. That the thing inside me would take over."
> "Well…"
He stood.
Straight. Tall.
And for the first time, he looked at Zekrav like a man staring into a mirror he was no longer afraid of.
> "If the darkness inside me wants to swallow me…"
He smiled.
> "…then I'll swallow it."
And then—
it broke loose.
A pulse of darkness. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But not to the watching gods.
Far beyond Earth, across dimensions layered like ash on fire, they all felt it.
A presence.
Not just power.
But familiarity.
Something ancient, something that had once burned stars from their cores—
Now flickering like a match inside a human boy.
> "The Riftborn…"
"Impossible…"
"He's only mortal—"
"No. Not anymore."
Back on Earth, Andrew's shadow detonated upward like a cyclone of ink and lightning.
His aura twisted violently, lashing the ground like tendrils from another plane.
The system blinked frantically beside him:
> ⟦ WARNING: SYSTEM OVERLOAD DETECTED ⟧
⟦ HOST POWER SOURCE – UNSTABLE ⟧
⟦ PLEASE RESTRICT EMISSION OR RISK COLLAPSE ⟧
He didn't even glance at it.
His eyes—those quiet, introverted eyes—were wide now.
Brimming with something feral.
Something free.
> "No more back seat," he muttered. "No more silence."
> "This world won't shape me anymore."
> "I will shape it."
Zekrav took a step back.
Not out of fear.
But respect.
The air between them twisted.
Then Andrew moved.
Not wildly.
Not blindly.
Clean. Precise. Brutal.
He walked forward—calm as a hurricane's eye—
and struck.
A clean slash.
Zekrav blocked—barely—his arms forced upward as the sheer force pushed him a step back.
Another strike.
Then another.
A flurry of blade and shadow, each blow carrying terrifying weight behind its control.
Not instinct.
Domination.
The battlefield bent to Andrew's rhythm now.
He no longer reacted.
He commanded.
The dark aura around him screamed with raw, undefined energy.
But his eyes—
his smile—
were alive.
Not monstrous.
Not broken.
Free.
---
> "Let's begin again…" Andrew whispered to Zekrav.
"This time, I'm not the one on the ground."
—-----
In realms beyond comprehension, where time wept and reality bent—
They turned.
The Outer Gods.
The Primordials.
The Forgotten Architects.
The Laughing Saints.
The Sleeper Beyond Light.
Entities that hadn't moved in eons twitched in their abysmal palaces.
Some smiled—eager.
Others frowned—concerned.
And one—just one—
opened their third eye and whispered:
> "He's waking up."
Because something had shifted.
No—someone.
A ripple.
So small, most mortals wouldn't even notice.
But to the transcendent, it was like hearing the first breath of a long-dead god.
The earth cracked and buckled beneath them.
Andrew moved like a storm unbound—his every step propelled by coiling shadows, his body gliding above the ground as weight and inertia bent to his will.
He disappeared, reappeared.
He struck from impossible angles, his blade—a jet-black construct—howling through the air with violent intent.
Zekrav stumbled, grunted, snarled—his towering frame pushed back, foot by foot.
And the world watched.
> In Yaoundé, soldiers and refugees alike gathered around a cracked screen, eyes wide. In Seoul, the blade dancer paused mid-fight, whispering, "That power…" In New York, the gravity-wielder looked up, bloodied lips curling into a grin. "He's winning."
Andrew vanished in a blink, then reappeared mid-air, twisting—
—his blade cleaving downward with condensed force—
Zekrav parried, but skidded back twenty meters, carving trenches into the ground.
A gust of heat flared in his wake.
Then… he stopped.
His tusked mouth twitched.
And for the first time—
> Zekrav smiled.
> "You are worthy," the Ravager rumbled.
Then he raised his hand—
—and released his armor.
The metallic plates burst off like falling stars, shattering across the battlefield.
The ground quaked.
The sky pulsed.
And from his exposed body, heat poured like a sun igniting.
Magma bled up from the cracked earth.
The very soil boiled.
The air screamed with pressure.
Zekrav's muscles bulged grotesquely, red veins pulsing like rivers of fire.
His voice was low, reverent:
> "Then let us end this with honor."
And he charged.
Andrew didn't back down.
Instead—he surged forward.
His darkness swirled violently, like the cloak of a dead god caught in a hurricane. His feet didn't touch the ground anymore—he slid through the air, untethered, weightless, fast beyond sight.
With a flick of his wrist, his darkness surged—not to strike—
—but to control.
Zekrav's body twisted midair as Andrew altered the gravity around him, pulling him sideways into a slash that barely missed decapitating him.
Andrew's mind raced—calculating, molding. The density of his blade increased exponentially.
The black edge compressed so tightly it began shearing the air around it.
> "Let's see how far I can go…"
—--
Their blades clashed—
—again and again.
Each strike fractured the ground.
Each shockwave tore through the landscape.
The world around them had vanished. No spectators. No noise. Just fire and shadow.
They separated after a massive blow—Andrew sliding back, his boots gouging trenches into molten stone. Zekrav's feet crushed through a boulder as he caught himself, lava hissing under his heels.
They stood on opposite ends of a ruined battlefield—both bloodied, both breathing heavily, but eyes alight.
For the first time since the battle began…
Silence.
Andrew's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, steam rising off his skin. His fingers trembled slightly around the hilt of his dark blade. Blood trickled from a dozen cuts, soaking into the fabric of his torn coat.
But his eyes…
His eyes were clear.
Focused.
He stared at Zekrav, and for a heartbeat—he understood him.
Not as a monster. Not as an invader. But as a warrior.
A soul forged in battle.
A being who had never known peace, and could only speak through strength.
---
Andrew's Thoughts
> "I hated myself for being afraid. For hiding in the shadows. For letting the world burn around me."
"But this… this moment—it's the first time I've felt alive."
"No more silence. No more excuses."
"I'm done watching."
He shifted his stance, breath slow.
Then he smiled.
Not a grin of madness—but something deeper. Acceptance. Resolve.
---
Zekrav's Thoughts
Zekrav exhaled, steam rising from his nostrils like smoke from a dying forge. His limbs ached—not from weakness, but from the exhilaration of combat. A rare gift.
> "So this is what it means to fight without purpose… but with soul."
"He is no god. No beast. Just a boy… burning brighter than any I've seen."
"I envy him."
"And I will honor him."
He raised his sword and pointed it at Andrew in solemn silence.
Two warriors.
One moment.
No words exchanged—but everything was understood.
---
Then they moved.
Andrew raised his blade high.
> All of his darkness collapsed into it—
Condensed. Hardened.
Every ounce of power he could summon, drawn into a singular edge of overwhelming intent.
Zekrav mirrored him.
> His molten aura roared to life.
Magma surged from beneath, coiling around his legs like chains of fire.
His sword glowed white-hot, steam spiraling upward like a ritual pyre.
They both knew.
This was it.
---
And the world held its breath.
---
Final Technique – Clear Sky
Andrew whispered—not a chant, but a memory.
> "Let it all go…"
His sword pulsed black—then deeper. Not darkness, but void. Reality itself recoiled as the weapon finished forming.
He stepped forward.
Zekrav did the same.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only truth.
They collided.
And the world shattered.