The rain had stopped.
The wind, too. Even the flames and smoke that rose from the ruined city below had frozen mid-billow, as if time itself dared not breathe while he stood there.
Ashura hovered above the ruins, silent and still, his gaze turned skyward where the storm clouds folded inward like frightened beasts. His new form was neither god nor man—it was something in between, a paradox made flesh. The lightning that once bent to his will now fled from his touch. The world itself bowed under the weight of his return.
For the first time in eons, the Nameless One was alive again.
The realm between realms—the place where the Nameless One once ruled—was not gone. It had always been a part of existence, hidden within the folds of reality, whispering through dreams and moments of death. That realm had chosen Ashura. Or perhaps, it had been waiting for him since the beginning.
When the Nameless One fell in the ancient war of gods, his essence could not be destroyed. The universe itself feared what would happen if his divinity collapsed into nothing. So, it divided him. Fragments of his being scattered into mortal souls across eras—dreams, instincts, ambitions—all carrying faint reflections of him.
But one soul, one spark, carried everything.
Ashura Bellet.
He was born not as a successor, but as the anchor—the mortal vessel perfectly aligned to the Nameless One's spiritual pattern. His mind, his will, his defiance of fate, all mirrored the god's own rebellion against the Creator. From birth, the world itself bent around him: coincidence, prophecy, destiny—all anomalies that should have never existed in mortal logic.
That's why he could merge.
Because he wasn't merging with another being… he was remembering himself.
The Nameless One had never died. He had merely forgotten who he was.
Ashura's eyes opened fully now, a faint purple halo burning within. A strange calmness lingered there, but beneath it—a quiet rage, infinite and cold.
His voice, when it came, was low, deliberate.
"So that's what it means to be 'nameless'… no title, no chain, no fate. Just existence."
The words were almost too soft, yet they echoed across the entire city.
He raised a hand, fingers barely twitching—and the planet responded.
A black-violet aura erupted from his body like a living supernova. It spread outward, devouring the clouds, enveloping the skies, swallowing the mountains and forests in its silent radiance. The aura crossed oceans, threaded through continents, and stretched into the outer atmosphere, coating the entire planet in seconds.
It wasn't just power. It was dominion.
Every particle of existence, every soul, every heartbeat was now under his awareness. He could feel them all—the terrified soldiers, the trembling hunters, the people praying to false gods. Every voice that whispered his name reached him simultaneously.
And among those millions of threads, three burned like scars: the commanders who had slain him—Kurogami, Hyoryu, and Onikami.
They were fleeing, their auras distant but frantic, tearing open spatial paths to escape the planet's surface. Ashura's eyes narrowed. His aura pulsed once, and the heavens shuddered.
"Running?" he said softly. "After killing me?"
Lightning broke across the world—not the blue-white light of storms, but black lightning, alive, rippling across the stratosphere like veins.
In an instant, he vanished.
He reappeared above the northern sea, where Kurogami fled through a collapsing gate of void fire. Ashura appeared in front of him, silent, expression unreadable. The commander barely had time to raise his arm before his entire body was crushed inward by sheer pressure. His flames exploded outward, devouring his own flesh in desperation.
Ashura didn't move. He simply spoke a single word.
"Fall."
The voidfire that Kurogami controlled turned against him, twisting into serpents of black light that pierced through his body. The commander's scream never finished before he disintegrated, reduced to cinders and silence.
Hyoryu appeared next, breaking out from subspace above the frozen steppes. He unleashed everything—hailstorms, spectral ice, and planetary frost—but it didn't matter. Ashura walked through the blizzard as if strolling through warm rain. The ice melted before touching him, vaporized by the divine aura surrounding his body.
Hyoryu's eyes widened. "Impossible… you should be—"
Ashura appeared beside him, hand on his shoulder, whispering softly: "You're already dead."
Hyoryu's body shattered into crystalline dust.
Onikami, the woman of phantoms, had fled to the desert continents, summoning hundreds of colossal familiars—giants of pure spirit-energy. They roared across the sand, shaking the earth itself. For a moment, the sky darkened under their size.
Ashura descended slowly, hair fluttering in the desert wind. "You were clever," he said. "You nearly fooled even me."
She laughed—half fear, half madness. "You can't kill what doesn't exist! My spirit is infinite! My—"
Ashura's gaze flicked toward her. His shadow split into twelve copies, each radiating divine killing intent. The familiars turned on her, their own creator, screaming as they tore her apart. When the silence fell, only wind and ash remained.
He exhaled softly.
"Balance restored."
He turned his gaze back toward the city—toward his family.
"Everos."
The wraith appeared immediately, kneeling before him, his spectral armor resonating with Ashura's new aura. "My Lord."
"Go. Protect them. Arlena, Gina, and Lysera. No harm must come to them. If anyone threatens them…" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Erase them from existence."
Everos's voice was calm, resolute. "As you command, my King."
He vanished into the wind.
Ashura remained there in silence, gazing toward the horizon where the first light of dawn pierced through the clouds.
For a moment, the sky was clear—and the world felt whole again.
But Ashura knew better. This peace was merely the eye of the storm.
He looked down at his hands. They no longer trembled. The Nameless One's power flowed effortlessly through his veins, but it came with weight—knowledge, infinite and terrible. He understood why the gods feared him, why the universe tried to bury his name.
He was not born to follow the order of creation.
He was born to rewrite it.
And as he turned away from the sun, his words carried through the heavens—soft, mocking, but absolute:
"Let them tremble… The Nameless One has returned."