The shattering of the Throne still echoed.
Ash rained where the crowned shadow had been, dissolving before it touched the fractured platforms. The void itself seemed to reel from the loss — as though even eternity was not immune to death.
Vemy's breath came ragged, each exhale pushing smoke from his lips. The Prismarine Fire wrapped his fists tighter, flaring in wild defiance, but beneath the brilliance he felt it — the faint tremor of fear. Not his fear. The flame's.
The ancient hand of fire rose higher. Its wrist now towered above the broken chamber, the flames weaving into something that resembled sinew, bone, muscle — a mockery of mortal form sculpted from eternity's hunger. Each flex of its fingers bent the void like glass.
And it was still climbing.
Akiar's storm sputtered against the pressure, lightning hissing erratically instead of roaring. His jaw clenched as his blade trembled, but his eyes never left the hand. Not with fury now. With calculation.
"Vemy." His voice was sharp, but quieter than before. Urgent, restrained. "Listen to me. If you let it root itself in you… neither of us will walk away."
Vemy spat blood onto the broken stone beneath him. "I'm not a vessel."
"Then prove it," Akiar snapped, the storm around him flaring brighter, enough to crack the platform they stood on. "Because right now, your fire is singing to it. Calling it. Do you even hear it?"
Vemy froze.
The Prismarine Fire was not just burning — it was humming. A low resonance in his bones, like a chant hidden beneath the roar of flame. He tried to shut it out, but the rhythm stayed, beating with the same pulse as the rising hand.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The voice was not spoken. It was lived.
Vemy clutched his chest, nails biting into his skin through torn cloth. "Tch… damn it—"
The Thrones above wailed in chorus, no longer whispering, but shrieking like broken bells.
"The chain falls—"
"The hand ascends—"
"The Ring God returns—"
And then silence.
Every Throne bowed their shadowed heads in unison.
Not to Vemy.
Not to Akiar.
To the hand.
The ancient fire flexed once more, and another Throne shattered, its crown crumbling into dust.
Vemy staggered back, his throat raw. "They're… submitting."
Akiar's glare cut toward him. "That's what gods are, fool. Not worshiped because they deserve it — but because reality bends when they move." His storm twisted tighter, coiling around his blade. "If you let that fire consume you, you'll become its anchor. Its chain to this world."
Vemy's head snapped toward him. "And what? You'll cut me down? You think your storm can sever this?" He raised his fists, Prismarine Fire blazing, violet light spilling from his knuckles. "Try it."
Akiar didn't move. His eyes narrowed, and for once, the storm quieted instead of rising. "You don't get it. This isn't about me against you anymore. This is your fire's trial. Either you command it… or it commands everything."
The words struck deeper than Akiar's blade ever could.
A trial.
Not a battle.
Vemy's fists shook, fire snarling along his arms. The hum grew louder, the chant pressing harder into his skull. His vision blurred with silver-violet afterimages, the world spinning. He saw the hand stretching higher, the flames twining upward like a body pulling itself free.
And he realized something terrifying —
The hand wasn't reaching for him.
It was reaching through him.
His body a doorway. His fire a key.
Vemy roared, throwing his arms wide, Prismarine Fire erupting in a violent surge that blasted cracks across the void. "NO! I'm not your vessel!"
The hand froze mid-climb. The hum faltered.
Akiar's eyes widened. For the first time since the fissure opened, the storm around him steadied.
"Good. Now hold it there."
"What?" Vemy's teeth clenched, sweat pouring down his face as the fire raged against his will. "I can't—"
"You can." Akiar's blade lowered, lightning folding inward around him. His voice dropped, not the tone of an enemy but of a teacher. "You think I survived this long because of storm alone? Every power has chains. Yours is just louder. Listen to it. Don't fight its roar. Break its rhythm."
Vemy's heart hammered. The hum pounded in his ears, a thousand voices claiming him. The fire seared every nerve, demanding surrender.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
He staggered, nearly falling to his knees. "Tch—shut up—"
"Not shut it out!" Akiar barked. "Bend it!"
Vemy's breath came ragged, chest heaving. He closed his eyes, forcing his fists still. The Prismarine Fire coiled like a beast on a chain, thrashing, snarling.
But beneath the roar… beneath the chaos…
There was a beat.
A rhythm.
A pulse that was not the fire's. Not the Ring God's.
His own.
Vemy seized it.
His fists clenched, fire flaring — not wild this time, but precise. Each flame folded tighter, reshaping instead of spilling. The hum faltered, then warped, bending to his heartbeat instead of its own.
The hand twitched. Its flames recoiled slightly, as if for the first time… it had been denied.
The Thrones gasped in unison.
"He bends it—"
"He refuses—"
"He dares—"
Vemy opened his eyes, Prismarine Fire burning steady now, silver-violet flames shaped like gauntlets instead of storms. He raised his fists and snarled:
"This fire isn't yours. It never was. It's MINE."
The void thundered.
The hand froze mid-climb, its fingers spasming violently. For the first time, it pulled back slightly, as if retreating into the fissure.
Akiar's blade snapped upward, storm roaring again. His smirk was sharp, almost cruel. "Finally."
The Thrones shrieked. The fissure convulsed. The void cracked apart as the Ring God's voice returned, louder than collapse itself.
"You would deny me? You would break the chain? Then I shall forge you anew in fire and ash!"
The hand surged upward, faster this time, the fissure roaring with endless flame.
And Vemy, fire steady on his fists, stepped forward instead of back.