The wind died. The battlefield forgot how to breathe. All across the dunes, firelight bent toward the two figures at its center: King Ma Al Mustafar, armor cracked and glowing from within, and Shinshō Cyrus, cloak in tatters, his sword Heart Chaser humming like a second heartbeat. For a moment, even the dying dared not move.
The King's aura burned gold, swelling until heat shimmered off his body, as if the desert itself had come alive. Cyrus responded with a tide of black-blue pressure, dense, cold, and infinite. Where they met, sand fused into glass, and the air shrieked.
Mustafar: "Your flame reeks of hunger."
Cyrus: "And yours reeks of faith."
They stepped forward together. When their auras collided again, the world cracked open.
Mustafar vanished, reappearing within reach. Zahir carved a line of dawnlight across the void. Cyrus caught it with Heart Chaser, metal screaming, sparks scattering like falling stars.
A knee to the ribs, a pivot, a slash.
Martial Muti — Tiger of the East. Three cuts in one breath. Cyrus parried two; the third opened his cheek. Silver blood spilled. He grinned.
"So the Lion still remembers the hunt."
Mustafar said nothing. He spun into White Mane Reversal, a perfect counterstroke that ripped a trench through the dune and sent shockwaves down to the buried bedrock.
Cyrus climbed from the crater, laughing through the pain. He dragged Heart Chaser across the ground, every grain of sand it touched turning black.
Abyssal Muti — Soul Furnace. The dunes convulsed, vomiting black flame. The King disappeared inside it until the gold light burst outward.
Spirit Muti — Sun Cat Ascension. Five radiant afterimages of Mustafar charged, blades of pure light slashing in rhythm. Cyrus cut through them one after another, but a real strike slipped through, gouging his shoulder. He stumbled back, snarling.
Mustafar: "Your sword screams, it knows fear."
Cyrus: "No. She sings when she smells royalty."
Heart Chaser flared dark blue, the air bending around its edge.
The King advanced, every movement perfect—saber sweeps timed to heartbeats, the rhythm of command incarnate. Cyrus met him blow for blow. Zahir struck with sunrise heat; Heart Chaser countered with night's chill. The impact flattened dunes, tore banners to shreds.
Mustafar kicked Cyrus in the chest, then drove the pommel of his saber into his jaw. The Shinshō fell, rolled, and rose laughing through blood.
"You will not take my city," the King said.
"Then I'll Take Its Soul," Cyrus replied.
They clashed again—steel against steel, faith against hunger.
Cyrus twisted his wrist. Heart Chaser flickered and vanished.
The dunes trembled. A low vibration crawled through the bones of everyone still alive.
Mustafar: "What trick is this?"
Cyrus spread his arms wide. The sand beneath them fractured into pale, fragmented pieces. The sun dimmed. The sky turned black.
He raised Heart Chaser toward the heavens. Its edge caught invisible moonlight.
Cyrus (quietly): "Ryōiki... Pale Desert."
The horizon peeled away like skin from a wound.
They stood in a vast, white wasteland that stretched to infinity. Bleached dunes rolled under a cracked black sky, a pale moon hanging low and bleeding faint blue light. Ruined obelisks jutted like bones. The air was thin, silent—alive only with the echo of their souls.
Mustafar, whispering: "Ryō... Ryōiki—?!"
Cyrus's voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"My truth. In this world, the sun never existed."
Heart Chaser materialized again, edge shimmering with the moon's cold flame.
Cyrus moved. To mortal eyes, he didn't move at all—one moment apart, the next already past the King.
Heart Chaser's edge traced a perfect, silent line through the golden light. For an instant, both men stood motionless. Then gold flared, black answered—and the world cracked again.
Mustafar's armor split from collar to hip. Blood poured from the wound. He exhaled through a smile—proud, defiant, whole.
Mustafar: "I don't even remember getting cut, but I'm not dying like this."
He swung one last time, Zahir blazing white. Cyrus caught it bare-handed, aura roaring around him, and whispered:
Cyrus: "Rest. You were worthy prey."
He drove Heart Chaser straight through the King's heart. The Pale Desert rippled gold for a heartbeat—then went still.
Mustafar fell to his knees, still facing the phantom moon. Zahir slipped from his grasp and sank into the white sand.
The Ryōiki: Pale Desert fractured—cracks racing across its horizon. A flash—and the real world returned.
The battlefield came back together around Cyrus, now standing where the King had fallen. The white dunes dissolved into blood-red sand. Mustafar's body remained upright, head bowed, eyes still fierce even in death.
Far off, Tornado and Raven froze mid-combat, awed by what they'd witnessed.
Tornado: "He... opened a Ryōiki."
Raven: "And ended a legend inside it."
Cyrus turned Heart Chaser once in his hand. The blade pulsed—one last heartbeat—then went dark.
Cyrus: "The city still stands... for now."
He looked toward Sand City's golden walls, still glowing under the dying sun, and began to walk—each step leaving pale footprints that refused to fade.