The golden-armored Archon moved with impossible speed.
Graxion barely had time to react as a wave of light energy surged toward him, slicing the air with a thunderous crack. His shadows flared up, forming a jagged wall—but it wasn't enough. The blast shattered through, hurling him across the vault like a ragdoll. He hit the stone hard, his vision swimming.
Kaen rushed forward, twin daggers in hand, flames dancing along the edges. He slashed at the Archon, but each strike was met with radiant deflection, the Archon's armor absorbing and redirecting the force as if Kaen's attacks were little more than wind.
"You dare touch the chosen of the gods?" the Archon hissed, voice metallic and cold. "You are a relic. This boy is an abomination."
Graxion struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. The shadow inside him stirred—not with rage, but clarity. This wasn't just power. It was purpose. And now it demanded to be used.
He raised his hand, and the air dimmed. A ring of black energy pulsed out from him, rippling through the vault. The temperature dropped. The Archon hesitated for the first time.
"That's right," Graxion muttered, eyes glowing violet-black. "You feel it now. I'm not just a shadow wielder. I'm the heir of something older than your gods."
With a flick of his wrist, Graxion summoned the Voidfang—his first complete weapon, forged from pure shadow. A jagged blade, not beautiful but brutal, humming with hunger. It was as if the weapon itself resented the world.
Kaen grinned. "Now you're waking up."
Graxion charged.
The clash of Voidfang and divine blade rang like a funeral bell. Sparks flew—black and gold—lighting the vault with each strike. The Archon was faster, more precise, but Graxion's unpredictability gave him an edge. Every missed swing fed his shadow. Every wound he took bled not just pain, but potential.
But the Archon was no ordinary warrior. With a sweep of his hand, he summoned spears of light from the air, pelting Graxion from all sides. The shadows warped, struggling to hold. One spear struck Graxion's leg, piercing muscle. He cried out and dropped to one knee.
"Still too weak," the Archon mocked, stepping forward. "You cannot rewrite fate."
But Kaen leapt between them, slamming his daggers into the Archon's shoulder. "We don't need to rewrite fate," he growled. "We just need to burn the damn script."
The blow didn't kill the Archon—but it distracted him long enough.
Graxion, teeth clenched in agony, whispered an incantation he didn't remember learning. The shadow obeyed.
The vault went silent.
Then exploded.
Tendrils of black flame erupted from the floor, grabbing the Archon's limbs, wrapping his wings, blinding his senses. The golden armor cracked. The air around them screamed.
Graxion stood, limping, Voidfang now a searing spear of darkness.
"You judged me," he said, "without ever knowing me."
He hurled the weapon.
The impact detonated in a sphere of shadow so dense it swallowed light itself.
When it cleared, the Archon was gone.
Only his cracked mask remained—floating in the air, then falling at Graxion's feet.
Kaen exhaled. "That... was a god."
"No," Graxion said. "That was a warning."
He looked down at the mask, then past it, to the shadows still pulsing at the edge of his vision.
"If they want judgment," he said, "they'll get it."