The terrain shattered in seven directions at once.
Reality itself screeched.
The Execution Ground's terrain trembled, ashen valleys bleeding with divine glyphs, rivers of warped time spilling into cracked abysses.
Every clash carved deeper wounds into the plane. Mountains that once loomed like sentinels now bent at impossible angles, their peaks sheared away by strikes that warped gravity itself. Shards of petrified light jutted from the ground, relics of failed divine seals, humming faintly before collapsing into dust.
Rivers had become distortions — liquid streams of fractured hours and broken days, flowing sideways into fissures that devoured sound itself. The air screamed, bending in and out of shape as if time could no longer remember which direction to run.
Above, the sky was stitched with rifts — jagged seams of color bleeding across one another. Starlight from forgotten realms leaked through, crashing like waterfalls into the battlefield below. Each breath of wind carried whispers from souls once condemned here, echoing faintly through the cracks.
Where Kaelor's chains had struck, the ground had splintered into geometric fractures, glowing crimson as though judgment itself had branded the land. Where Ryu's fists had landed, craters smoldered with cosmic fire, their edges still pulsing like raw wounds. And where Luto's lightning had cut through the hordes, valleys of glass-black rock remained, etched with the echo of thunder that refused to fade.
The Execution Grounds were no longer stable.
They were unraveling — not a battlefield, but a scar of existence itself, widening with every heartbeat.
And the rift-born tremors did not stop there. The influx of cosmic energy in the Riven Dimension pulsed outward in ripples of devastation, shuddering through neighboring realms. Whole galaxies away, stars flickered as though struck by unseen storms, and planets quaked in silent fear of a war they could not yet see.
The smoke from Kaelor's chains finally thinned.
On the crater's edge stood the Sentient of Judgment, crimson-gold robes whispering like molten metal, faceless helm burning with silent fire. He peered down into the ruin with grim patience.
At the bottom, Ryu lay unconscious, chest still rising and falling, but barely. His fists bled stardust, his dreadlocks scorched crimson at the tips from the cosmic overload. His shirt had long since burned away, leaving his scarred body trembling against stone.
Velissara tilted her head, her starlit hair unraveling like a galaxy. Red strings danced lazily from her fingers, each one connected to a summoned horror slinking through the air. Her smile was cruel, mocking.
"Oh, how fate adores symmetry," she cooed. "The rebel flame brought low by judgment's chain. Perhaps the multiverse really does have a sense of humor."
Her laugh echoed like silk tearing.
⸻
Luto's Perspective
Luto's vision blurred as he crouched beside Onyx on the far ridge, his hands shaking violently over his brother's chest. His eyes darted between the crater and the glyphs he was etching into Onyx's body.
"Almost…" he whispered. His voice was dry, cracking. "Just one more layer…"
The glyph flared, sparks of blue cosmic energy splitting the air.
Then—
It dimmed.
Onyx exhaled, his chest rising faintly. Still unconscious, but the divine command glyphs once etched into him flickered, then vanished entirely.
The leash was gone.
Luto leaned back, chest heaving. Onyx wasn't healed—far from it. He was only alive because Luto had twisted his dimensional mapping abilities into crude medical practice, sealing the tears in his organs by folding space itself. It was the kind of thing no mortal should've been able to do. A temporary fix. A miracle. But even miracles bled.
Luto pushed himself shakily to his feet, turning to Kaelor. His blue eyes burned. His voice, hoarse but steady, cut through the void:
"Well… I guess it's my turn."
Electricity sparked at his fingertips.
Across the battlefield, Nulvyr—his twin-bladed kaskara—whistled through fractured air, flying back into his grasp like a loyal retainer. He caught it one-handed, then shoved his dreadlocks from his face with the other.
"This is why I never wear my hair down," he muttered.
Kaelor turned, his faceless helm tilting, the burning glyphs across it whispering like a hundred condemned souls.
And Velissara laughed again.
Her strings pulled taut—summoned horrors surged forward, fanged, clawed, stitched from fractured dimensions.
Luto charged to meet them.
⸻
Lightning in Human Form
He didn't hesitate.
Each movement was a pre-calculated strike, a flawless equation of death. He sidestepped a lunging beast, driving Nulvyr into its skull, pulling the blade free before its body even hit the ground. Another leapt from his blind side—he split it cleanly with a lightning-charged slash that erupted blue arcs across the battlefield.
He was everywhere.
A ghost of light, striking with surgical precision. His dimensional mapping didn't just shift terrain—it shifted enemies, subtly altering their positions mid-swing so they stumbled into his blade. Some were pulled closer, others flung further, all at his command.
Every slash sang. Every step sparked.
He was a storm.
But storms burn out.
Sweat dripped down his temple, his chest tightening. "If I keep fighting like this, I won't be able to get us out of here," he thought, his teeth gritted as he cut down another wave. "I need to finish this—fast."
He closed in on Kaelor, his eyes narrowing.
But the Sentient of Judgment hadn't even raised his chains.
⸻
The Iron Mandate
A whisper.
And then—Draelith appeared.
The Sentient of Order's colossus frame radiated cold blue light. His symmetrical armor shifted like living steel, geometric perfection incarnate.
A flick of his hand—and silence consumed the air.
The battlefield dimmed.
Luto gasped. He tried to shout—but no sound left his throat. His lightning fizzled, crushed before it could spark. His breath trembled in his chest, strangled by absolute law.
Mandate Edge shimmered into Draelith's grip, a blade formed of pure axioms. It came down in a single swing, aimed for Luto's neck.
CLANG.
Nulvyr caught it at the last instant—but the force sent Luto flying, his body slamming against the fractured border of the Execution Grounds.
"I am your opponent, rebel," Draelith intoned, his voice flat, clinical. "Deviation must be purged."
Luto staggered back to his feet, blood dripping from his lip. His glare was sharp, annoyed.
"How the hell was I supposed to know that?"
He tried to dash past—Kaelor was walking slowly toward Ryu, chains unraveling like verdicts etched in fire.
Luto lunged—only for Draelith to intercept again, feinting with Mandate Edge before sweeping Luto's legs with an inhumanly precise kick. Luto crashed to the ground, choking on dust, his eyes wide with horror as Kaelor stood over Ryu.
"Scales of Finality," Kaelor intoned.
A spectral scale appeared, tilting slowly, its weight balanced on Ryu's life.
"No mortal has ever survived its fall."
Luto's scream tore at his throat.
"RYU!!"
⸻
The Spark Within
In the crater, Ryu stirred faintly. His breath rattled. His body ached like stone crumbling.
But he heard something.
A voice.
Luto's.
"—RYU!!!"
His eyes cracked open, dazed, vision swimming. He saw Kaelor's faceless helm, the spectral scale above him tipping toward erasure. His heart pounded, mind spiraling—until another voice touched him.
Not from the outside.
From within.
⸻
The Vision
A woman stepped barefoot across collapsing space. Her hair drifted like it remembered ancient gravity, her eyes shimmering with every starlight he had ever known.
"You fight like a spark, little flame," she whispered.
Ryu blinked, breath caught in his throat. "Who—?"
"Shh." She touched his forehead. Her fingers burned like memory. "You've forgotten who you are. But I haven't. I've watched you burn across lifetimes. You are not just a wielder of the flame… you are its will."
Her words sank deep, echoing in marrow.
"Don't strike harder. Resonate deeper. Become the flame they remember fearing."
And then—
She vanished.
⸻
The real world roared back.
Kaelor's scale tilted.
And then—
A tear split the sky.
Dimensional wind and fire erupted.
Through it soared a dragon wreathed in living flame, its scales like molten mountains, its wings tearing reality apart.
On its back—warriors leapt.
Ignovar, Fire Sovereign of Cinderrath and Lord of the Fyr Domain, laughing thunderously as he dove headfirst. "Kaelor, you sanctimonious bastard! Miss me?!"
Four elite guards followed, their armor flaring with volcanic sigils:
• Seravynn Pyrelash, their towering commander, hair burning like solar flares, spear in hand.
• Veynar Ashborn, shield-bearer whose strikes shook earth.
• Kaelen Drakemire, twin-blade duelist, each strike spitting cinder.
• Orvess Emberveil, mystic pyromancer, his runes singing with flame-song.
And at their center—
A healer. Dark green aura radiated from her hands, the unmistakable warmth of the Aelyndari. Her gaze locked instantly on Onyx.
"Found you, finally," she said, her voice sharp but kind. She knelt at his side, aura spilling like emerald rain. "Let's pull you back."
⸻
Luto collapsed beside her, Nulvyr still in hand, guarding them. "Don't you dare stop. He's all we've got."
The healer didn't even flinch. "I wasn't planning to."
Ignovar and Seravynn landed between Ryu and Kaelor, flame roaring. Seravynn's voice carried steel.
"You got yourself beat to the brink again, didn't you?" she said, almost mocking—but her eyes softened. "Glad you're still breathing."
Ryu, staggering to his feet, managed a grin. "Missed you too."
Ignovar roared with laughter. "Finding an Aelyndari willing to spit in the gods' face wasn't easy, you know. But I always deliver!"
The battlefield ignited with hope.
Ryu's breath steadied. His aura pulsed—not wilder, but truer.
It resonated.
The multiverse trembled.
⸻
Divine Realm
Across thrones carved from laws of existence, the Seven Voices stirred.
"Did you feel that?" one murmured.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"…Something ancient. Something lost. Something returning."
Another spoke—the Voice of Will, unseen, mysterious.
"Enough games. Erase the Execution Grounds. Erase everything inside."
Chains shattered. A new Sentient answered the call.
Rhazakel, the Crimson Ruin.
Half-decayed, half-metallic, veins dripping liquid fire. His skeletal wings broken, glowing faintly crimson. His body bled ash with every breath. His voice was calm, but smoldered with rage.
"All things are already broken," he whispered. "I will reduce them to ruin."
And in the Execution Grounds—
Ryu exhaled. His eyes opened.
And they burned with the color of forgotten suns.