ใ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐2- WUKONG NEW FORM, MONSTER ARRIVALใ
โฆShredded Firmament โ where torn light hangs like banners and the echoes of collapsed suns still argue with the windโง
The field had settled into a dangerous stillness, the kind that comes right before a joke turns into a verdict. Wukong and Doomsday faced one another on a plateau of broken worlds; the wreckage of galaxies formed a jagged ring around them. Dust and micro-suns drifted through the air, catching on wounds in the void like pinpricks of memory.
Doomsday's formโmassive, armored, cruelly toyishโsmoked where the Ultimate Slashes had found him. The pig-god's plates were ragged, edges sheared and humming with the sting of geometric cuts. For a moment he looked less like a god and more like a collection of things that had once been dangerous and were now trying to remember how.
Wukong stood with his staff across both hands, a long, calm silhouette. His fur still carried the gold of earlier transformations; his eyes were bright, the grin narrowed to a smile that meant the joke was over. He had been a prankster and a storm for so long that ending things cleanly felt like an indulgence.
ใWukongใ
โฆ Okay, fun is over. Byee.โฆ
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The words were almost casual. The way one says goodbye after finishing a tedious meal. Doomsday bristled, anger detonating into a small storm of debris. He rose to answer with the fury of an offended avalanche.
Wukong's stance shifted. He inhaled like a man remembering a long, difficult song and then began the steps. The air around him hummed and pulled into attention. Light braided itself into lines around his body, then uncoiled into banners: four flags of sun-woven silk, ancient sigils sparking with memory and menace. The transformation was not merely physical; it was history knitting itself into muscle.
He had used this form once before, a century backโwhen names and vows were fresh and the road with Tang Sanzang had been different in tone and gravity. It was a shape called among old fools the Four-Flag Legend, among battlers the Bad Monkeyโan arrangement of attitude and geometry that turned myth into movement.
The flags unfurled around Wukong like four tiny suns tethered to his shoulders, waist, wrists, each one humming with a different aspect: speed, cut, trick, and an almost ceremonial patience. The fur on his spine bristled into sharper spikes; his eyes took on the old, knowing light; his aura sharpened like a blade ground under star-glass.
ใWukongใ
โฆ You wanted a dance. You got the whole opera.โฆ
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Doomsday roared and surged, a mountain collapsing into movement. He struck with a shoulder that could have been a comet. Wukong moved as if he had been leaning into the wind his whole life: he sidestepped, the flags stroking through the air in precise arcs, each flag-swipe a cut of light. The first flag clipped Doomsday's flank, the second unthreaded a joint, the third found an exposed seam under the arm, and the fourthโpatientโwaited for the moment to finish the sentence.
The two collided like tectonics. Doomsday relied on mass and momentum; Wukong relied on choreography and memory. The plateau trembled as Doomsday's blows landed and met with the sting of the flags' edges. Each contact sang with the sound of ancient technique meeting newborn force.
Wukong's movements were a study in controlled ferocity. He was fast enough that each strike seemed to be in two places at once; quick enough that Doomsday's large motions missed the smaller targets Wukong had just vacated. The four flags moved like partners around him, intercepting and amplifying his strikes. Where Doomsday expected to meet bulk, he met incision; where he expected resistance, he encountered a blade that could bend and unmake his momentum with the smallest gesture.
There was a momentโthin and brightโwhen Wukong's staff flicked and the flags converged. The staff became a throat for the entire form: a conduit that took the form's focused intent and compressed it into a lattice of strike. He drew the lattice across Doomsday's chest, and the air went white with the geometry of it.
โฆSpell โ Ultimate Slashes, reduxโง
The air itself remembered the fan and shredded into precise arcs. Lines of light uncoiled like paper knives and struck in a choreography that left nothing to chance. Each slash was a clean stitch in a seam meant to unravel. For a god like Doomsday, who knit himself back together with stubborn stubbornness, these were not random wounds but a language of undoing.
Doomsday tried to answer with raw force. His fists came down and found air where Wukong had been; he spun and found a flag along his jawline instead. The slashes rode his armor and chewed through it, and then through flesh beneath, and then through the metaphysical tendons that anchored his regenerative cunning. Plate melted into lines, and those lines collapsed into a finality that the pig-god's healing couldn't simply reknit at speed.
The fan of slashes accelerated until Doomsday's great form was no longer a coherent bulk but a count of micro-ruins. The Ultimate Slashes do not simply tear flesh; in Wukong's hands they became a topological operation on being. Each arc converted mass into a precise fall of fragments. The big plates that had once declared Doomsday as an unavoidable law were shredded into microscopic motesโso small that they glittered like dust and hung in the air as if waiting for permission to clump back together.
But permission never came. Wukong's blades were too precise, too true. He was not merely cutting; he was changing the rules around the cuts so that reassembly was not an option. Where Doomsday's regenerative logic expected continuity, Wukong turned life into a scatter of microorganismsโparticles so minute that the expectation of reconstitution failed as an idea.
For a breath the field glowed with the accidental beauty of tiny things: flecks of armor, shards of muscle, specks of bone, all reduced until even the idea of them was a soundless shimmer. Doomsday staggered under the fan, his voice a raw, collapsing sound. He tried to gather, to focus a final defense, to knit at the speeds that had always rescued him. The gestures did nothing. The Ultimate Slashes had taken Doomsday from god-sized to particle-sized reality.
When the last slash finished its arc, there was a falling away. Doomsday's silhouette thinned and broke into non-cohesive points that drifted like pollen in a windless place. Wukong lowered his staff slowly, as if setting down a pot one had been stirring for too long.
He breathed in, the sound small and oddly domestic against the ruined skies. His posture loosened that fraction that signals relief.
ใWukongใ
โฆ This feelingโahhโbetter.โฆ
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He stood alone in the quiet made by victory; his breath misted like a trivial, human thing. He had cut and unmade and proved a point that had little to do with gods and much to do with taste. For a sliver, his face was something like satisfactionโnot glee or cruelty now, but the weary, pleased look of someone who'd finished a good meal.
Then movement on the horizon made the plateau stiffen.
He saw it without wrenching his head: a shadow slicing the ruined light, tall and deliberate. Xorath was there, but not as he should be. The Bat-King's wings beat with ragged rasp and his body pitched as if something heavy had been planted through him. Horrified, Wukong saw the hand of motionโsomeone or somethingโgripped through Xorath's head.
Xorath's form slumped, a puppet with a cruel peg. The figure carrying him was ten feet tall, its silhouette carved and wrong against the ruined suns. Whatever it was held Xorath aloft by an obscene, intimate grip through the skullโan act that suggested dominance and finality both.
The stranger walked into view slowly, an arrival that read like a sentence. It held Xorath like one might carry a cloak, and the motion of that carrying spoke of an intention that had nothing gentle in it.
Wukong's breath hitched. The grin he had allowed himself at victory clipped into a blade. He straightened, staff in hand again, but the chapter ends at that single image: Wukong, post-victory and viscerally alive; Doomsday reduced to particle-sprays that trembled in the ruin; Xorath gripped through his head and carried by a ten-foot-tall mysterious figure who walked toward them with the casual menace of someone bringing bad news.
No further action. No extra threads. The scene stops thereโfrozen as a portrait of triumph and the sudden, terrible arrival that promises more.
"WHAT YOU THINK WHO IS THE DARK (MYSTERIOUS) FIGURE APPEAR IN CHAPTER 29."