The air was thick with the scent of ash and iron, and the sky had darkened behind the smoke, like a sunless city.
Zain stood in the shattered battlefield, his body still bearing the marks of his fusion with the "Cataclysm."
His face was pale, his eyes empty of everything but defiance.
Across from him, Kinzawi Ridvan stood with eerie steadiness, his body united with his Kannen, the "Sky-Severer," four gleaming swords around him—two in his grip, two hovering behind his back, moving slowly as if they had lives of their own.
The silence between them was charged, like the sound of a knife being sharpened slowly.
Then, with a single step, Zain moved.
This time, it wasn't an earthquake.
He raised his arm and whispered strange words, like an inverted prayer:
*"O wind of ruin... O storm of decay... tear their roots away."*
Suddenly, black winds surged around him,
a whirlwind of cutting gales tinged with small sparks,
the storm like a misty dagger slicing through the air itself.
The tempest swept across the battlefield, heading straight for Kinzawi,
but the latter showed no alarm.
With a light step, he dashed through the winds,
his four swords moving with every motion of his body,
a slash, a thrust, a twist,
each blade cutting through a part of the storm until it was completely shredded in moments.
He smiled calmly:
*"A storm? That's not enough."*
Then he lunged with his entire body,
in the blink of an eye, he was before Zain.
A sudden slash with the right sword, countered by a reverse strike from the rear blade,
two consecutive blows that would have split Zain in half.
Zain retreated too late, taking both wounds at once, blood spraying instantly.
But he didn't stop.
He raised his palm again, whispering new words:
*"O sea of deluge... flood this land with your wrath."*
In an instant, the earth beneath Kinzawi's feet erupted,
a river of black, viscous water burst forth, sweeping everything away,
a muddy torrent swallowing all in its path.
Kinzawi was swept away momentarily,
But within the flood,
his body suddenly twisted, and he shouted with eerie calm:
*"Moon-Severing Dance—Second Wave."*
His swords moved in whirls, splitting the water in a single motion,
the sound of the parting current like the hiss of serpents.
He emerged from the deluge untouched,
but Zain had already retreated,
clutching his wound, whispering:
*"Execute."*
A faint glow enveloped his body for a moment,
not healing everything, but sealing the wounds partially, restoring his ability to stand.
Kinzawi smiled faintly, waving a sword dismissively:
*"Hah, healing? Is that the best you've got?"*
Then they clashed again.
Now, the assault became frenzied.
Every strike from Kinzawi's swords was like a rain of blades,
his speed increasing with every second,
and Zain could barely keep up, parrying each blow with tremors that shattered the ground.
But the earth was already broken.
There was no stable ground left to stand on,
the terrain crumbled beneath them, and Zain could no longer find proper footing.
With every tremor, Zain grew slower.
Kinzawi was like a ghost in the storm,
each strike he delivered carried a different rhythm,
and with every sword, he whispered.
*"A strike for the sky... a strike for the earth...*
*a strike for the sea... a strike for the wind..."*
With each whisper, a new wound appeared on Zain's body.
And finally, a fourth strike, the cruelest yet,
fell like an executioner's axe, breaking his right shoulder and hurling him away.
Zain collapsed, his body drenched in blood, his breaths ragged, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
He rose unsteadily, swaying, then raised his voice in challenge:
*"Those who don't wish to die... retreat now."*
The echo of his words was like a curse.
And in moments, every remaining soldier fled, dragging their souls behind them.
Only he and Kinzawi remained.
But now, Kinzawi held the advantage.
He stood over him, his four swords circling him slowly, and spoke with lethal calm:
*"Your game ends here, child."*
As Kinzawi advanced with slow, confident steps, the stride of a killer who had seen his opponent's limit, nothing could halt his heavy tread. His blades gleamed with a cold radiance, every motion carving gashes in the air as if they were slicing the world itself.
Zain, exhausted to the marrow, knelt on the ground, his body breaking with every second, but his eyes remained filled with stubborn defiance. Despite the pain, despite being unable to even lift his arm, he roared with a hoarse, desperate voice:
*"No one interferes... this is a fight between him and me!"*
But his words, like everything else on that burning battlefield, were swallowed by the air.
Suddenly, the smoke parted.
Slow, deliberate footsteps cut through the void, like the beats of an ancient drum in a king's hall.
The sound alone was enough to freeze the atmosphere.
There was no announcement, no fanfare—just an overwhelming presence, solid, piercing the air like a spear driven into the heart of the earth.
From the ashes emerged a man, his long white hair and thick, wild beard giving him the appearance of an ancient storm incarnate. His face was harsh, all sharp angles, covered in scars and wrinkles, and his eyes burned like embers—a single glance was enough to plant terror in hearts.
His torso was bare, his skin cracked like volcanic rock, faint red light seeping from the fissures, his muscles defined as if carved from stone itself, every vein pulsing as if fire ran beneath his skin.
His long black cloak billowed silently behind him, and his broad shoulders suggested they could crush anything in their grip.
**Dabmos Falim**... he was like a Cataclysm walking the earth.
He didn't speak as he stepped closer, but his presence alone made the earth smolder beneath his feet, red lines glowing where he trod.
Zain, panting, stared at him with wide eyes, screaming with all his remaining strength:
*"Dabmos... leave! This isn't your fight! I said no one interferes!!"*
But Dabmos didn't even glance at him.
He raised his right hand, covered in deep scars as if branded by the flames of ages.
In that moment, stifling heat twisted around his body, and the air warped into waves of mirage.
He didn't speak. Instead, he slowly opened his palm.
Immediately, a deep red light erupted from his body, and behind him, a shadow rose—a massive creature of lava and rubble, with long, jagged limbs like mountain peaks and a chest riddled with fissures spewing flame.
It was the Volcano.
But Dabmos didn't let the creature fully manifest.
Instead, in a cold, practiced motion, as if performing a familiar ritual, he opened his mouth calmly.
The Volcano, in all its enormity, suddenly shrank, compressing until it was nearly human-sized, then flowed toward Dabmos's mouth in a predetermined path, dissolving as it entered him... without resistance.
The scene resembled a forbidden rite, like an ancient sacrifice before an altar of fire.
But Dabmos did it with absolute calm, no words, no fanfare, as if drinking a glass of water in scorching heat.
The moment the creature merged with him, a silent aura of power radiated from Dabmos—not explosive, not roaring, but suffocating, like the heat of a volcano waiting to erupt in deadly quiet.
He opened his eyes slowly.
They were no longer as they had been before the fusion.
The whites of his eyes were now red, his pupils glowing like molten rock, all traces of humanity erased from behind them.
He raised his arm calmly, and his body pulsed with a dim, steady crimson light, faint, yet everyone on the battlefield felt their death approaching.
He spoke, his voice eerily quiet yet carrying all the terror in the world, sounding as if it came from the depths of a boiling mountain:
*"I'm here... because I don't let anyone beat me to breaking bones."*
When Kinzawi heard this, he didn't retreat. He only tightened his grip on his swords, and the sound of his hidden smile was enough to show he wasn't intimidated.
The two stood face to face, both like statues from an era that knew no mercy, waiting for the moment of explosion to come.
And in that moment, silence prevailed.
Everything stopped, every breath held, every gaze frozen.
The chapter ended here, in the moment before the storm, where two men wielding the power of lava and sky stood, each awaiting the next move.
Even the air itself waited.