Trenches – Chapter 52: The Last Stand
The sanctuary trembled like a dying beast, the ancient stones groaning under the weight of forces that should never exist in one plane of reality. The shattered spires of Shinya leaned against the storm, their tips glowing red with sparks of atmospheric fire as the very sky buckled under the pressure of the Celtic Highs' fused monstrosity. It loomed in the darkness, a silhouette stitched from shadow and hatred, its body swelling with the condensed anguish of every conquered soul, its eyes burning like black suns that poured dread into the marrow of every living thing.
And standing opposite this nightmare, battered, bleeding, but upright—Moro.
His body had long passed its limits. His arms were trembling, scorched, and bruised, the faint blue aura of the matrix flickering like a candle about to be snuffed out. Yet in those glowing eyes was something greater than pain, greater than exhaustion: a refusal. A refusal to kneel. A refusal to break. A refusal to let Shinya die under the hands of gods that knew nothing of mercy.
The Highs' fused voice shook the heavens. It was not one voice, but hundreds, layered, distorted, commanding.
"You… are nothing. You stand in the presence of divinity. Lay down your defiance, mortal, and you may at least die as part of our new creation. Resist… and we will erase even your memory."
Moro spat blood to the side, his chest heaving. His lips curled into a cracked smile.
"Erase me? Then you'll have to erase every scar I carry. Every laugh Kaya gave me when we were kids. Every word my father spoke before he disappeared. Every life these rebels put into my hands. If you can wipe all of that away… then maybe you are gods. But if you can't—" his aura surged violently, the matrix within his core flaring like a newborn star—"then you're nothing but tyrants in borrowed robes."
The ground shattered beneath him as his aura exploded outward, the matrix finally stabilizing into a radiant prism of colors, blue at its heart but streaked with gold and violet. The energy was so sharp it cut the air into ripples.
From behind the rubble, Kaya raised her head, her body trembling in exhaustion, her water spirit form already fading. Tears blurred her vision, but a smile still broke through.
"That's… Moro."
Hanks, his massive body battered and burned, coughed up blood but forced himself to sit upright, his kingly aura weak but defiant.
"Stand tall, boy," he whispered, his voice hoarse but proud. "Shinya breathes because you breathe."
Xerx, barely alive, clutching his chest where dark magic still burned, lifted his trembling hand and whispered incantations, channeling what remained of his light spell into Moro. His lips quivered as tears fell freely.
"Don't you dare fall… don't you dare… You're the only one who can carry us to dawn."
The Highs raised their colossal hand, veins of pure void coursing across it, and from the skies a spear of annihilation formed—black as the abyss, edges lined with the screams of the dead. The atmosphere itself caved under its weight. Every rebel collapsed to their knees, unable to breathe under the gravity of its presence.
The fusion's voice thundered:
"With this, we end the story of men. With this, we carve eternity anew. Behold… the spear of Absolute Night!"
They hurled it down.
The heavens cracked. The world seemed to split as the spear descended, trailing destruction in its wake, splitting the air like the judgment of a thousand worlds.
Moro didn't move.
He closed his eyes. In that instant, in that single heartbeat of silence, he was no longer in the battlefield. He was a boy again, running along the riverbanks of Shinya with Kaya chasing after him, the laughter of his father echoing in his memory. He remembered the warmth of the market stalls, the pride of the rebellion when they first stood together, the weight of every sacrifice. He remembered pain, loss, despair—yet he remembered love louder.
The matrix pulsed inside his chest.
His eyes opened again—brilliant blue, flooding with power. His aura surged until it outshone the spear itself.
"No more running." His voice was steady, unshaken. "This is where I stand."
Moro raised his arms, and the prism aura burst fully to life, forming a barrier not of walls but of conviction. Light spiraled around him, bending the void, rewriting the gravity of the battlefield. His silhouette became impossible to ignore—like a lone mountain in a sea of storms.
The spear collided.
The explosion drowned the sanctuary. A tidal wave of destruction expanded outward, ripping apart the earth, crushing towers into ash, shattering the night sky into white streaks of lightning. The rebels were thrown back like leaves in a hurricane. Kaya screamed his name. Hanks shielded what he could with his colossum barrier, blood pouring from his eyes. Xerx's spell shattered from the shock.
And when the storm cleared…
Moro was still standing.
The prism shield around him was cracked, his body torn and smoking, but the matrix burned brighter than ever before. His hand still clutched the fading remnants of the spear, its annihilating power hissing against his palm, until finally it dissolved into harmless sparks.
The Highs reeled back, their massive form trembling. For the first time since their creation—they felt something they had long forgotten.
Fear.
"Impossible…" their voices wavered, fractured by disbelief. "No mortal… no flawed vessel… should resist our judgment…"
Moro staggered forward, his steps heavy, every inch of his body screaming to fall. But he didn't. He planted his foot into the broken earth and lifted his head. His eyes were clear, unwavering.
"Gods?" Moro's voice echoed through the ruins. "You've forgotten. This isn't your world. This is ours. And if Shinya must fall, then it'll fall standing, not kneeling."
His aura flared again, brighter, sharper, unrelenting—blue fire weaving with streaks of gold, like a new dawn tearing through night.
Kaya's tears poured freely, but her lips trembled with hope.
Hanks slammed his fist into the ground, dragging himself up despite his wounds, roaring with pride.
Xerx collapsed into sobs, whispering over and over, "He's alive… he's alive…"
And across the battlefield, even the rebels—broken, bleeding, hopeless—lifted their heads. Their hearts pounded, their spirits ignited.
The Highs roared in fury, their massive fusion body trembling with rage, drawing upon even deeper wells of dark power. Thunder tore the skies apart. The sanctuary walls melted like wax. The entire city quaked on its foundations.
But there stood Moro.
Bleeding. Trembling. Glowing.
The last stand of Shinya.
And as the two titanic forces prepared to collide once more, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
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