Chapter 42: Punch-Drunk in the Void
The battlefield dissolved into the cold, silent vacuum of space. One second, Zokraks was dusting lemon-scented chain-shards off his neon pants; the next, he and Gayle Sambell were hurtling through the star-strewn black, fists *crunching* into each other with enough force to make supernovas blush.
"Oof! You hit like my *ex*!" Zokraks yelled, dodging a shadow-chain whip that sliced a nearby asteroid into confetti. "All sharp edges and *zero* aftercare!" He spun, landing a kick that sent Sambell tumbling toward a nebula shaped suspiciously like a frowny face. "Feeling a little *blue*, Shadow Man? Or is that just your aura? Smells like expired yogurt!"
Sambell didn't answer. He just *punched*—a blow that warped space itself. Zokraks barely blocked it, skidding backward through a cloud of glittering stardust. "Whoa! Heavy is the head that wears the shadow-hat, huh? Maybe try yoga? Loosen up that *karma*!"
While the lemon-powered lunatic duked it out with the universe's grumpiest bodyguard, Wukong was *busy*. He'd hauled himself upright, grey blood still oozing (it looked extra depressing against the cosmic backdrop), and was currently rifling through Sambell's abandoned "shadow pocket" like a raccoon in a trash can. Three shimmering cards—marked CONFIRMATION: VOID-STEP, CONFIRMATION: GRAVITY-IGNORE, and CONFIRMATION: NOT-DEAD-YET (PROBABLY)—vanished into his robe with a *shoof*.
"Xorath!" Wukong hissed, slapping the introvert's shoulder. "Time to bounce before Lemonhead here starts serving *comet* punch!"
Xorath, who'd somehow teleported up beside him looking profoundly unimpressed by the cosmic brawl, didn't even glance at the fight. "...Fine." One word. Heavy with the sigh of a thousand awkward social encounters.
"Perfect! Let's *split* like atoms at a nudist colony!" Wukong grabbed Xorath's arm. "Try not to make eye contact with the black holes, they're *very* judgmental."
Zokraks, meanwhile, saw them jetting off. "Hey! No RSVP? Rude! I was gonna serve *Ultimate Lemonade*!" He thrust both hands forward. **"ULTIMATE LEMONADE!"** A tidal wave of blinding, citrus-yellow energy erupted—not just liquid, but *solidified* sunshine and the *concept* of refreshment itself. It hit Sambell like a supernova made of sour candy, sending him spinning like a disco ball in a hurricane. "Taste the *zest*, baby! That's 100% *real* cosmic pulp!"
Sambell crashed through a comet's tail, shadows fraying at the edges. He was *overwhelmed*, reeling, his armor cracked and smoking. But he wasn't done. He pushed off a moon fragment, charging back in, chains already coiling in the void.
Zokraks just grinned wider, snapping his fingers. A weapon materialized in his grip—not a sword, but a *gigantic*, glowing lemon wedge radiating divine power. "Careful, Shadow Man! This ain't just for lemonade!" He hefted the **GodSlayer** like a baseball bat. "This baby's *squeezed* gods drier than a Sunday sermon! Ready for the *rind*-raising finale?"
Sambell spat black blood that froze instantly in space. He raised his fists again. Still standing. Still swinging. The GodSlayer gleamed. The void held its breath.
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