The air in the Royal Knights' training hall was no longer breathable; it was a solid mass of charged ions, a prelude to divine punishment. Sir Lancelot's Holy Cross Smite was a sun being born, a cruciform halo of pure, concentrated holy light that promised not just defeat, but purification, an erasure from existence. The pressure alone flattened the weaker knights against the walls, and the practice swords in the racks several feet away began to smolder and blacken.
Ragnar stood at the epicenter of this impending cataclysm. The memory of Boboiboy's plea for restraint had flashed before his eyes, a ghost of a chain that had just been shattered. The wind that once directed his lightning was gone. He was Thunderstorm, unbound.
He looked up, not at the attack, but at the sky beyond the shattered ceiling, as if challenging the very heavens. The crimson lightning that had been wreathing his body like enraged serpents suddenly turned inward, then exploded outward in a deafening roar. Bolts of violent, destructive red lightning, thicker than a man's torso, did not strike randomly. They struck him. They hammered into his form, not to destroy, but to forge. The energy was immense, chaotic, yet it was being bent to a single, terrifying will.
He felt the Voltra power, the very essence of stellar fury, surge through his veins, no longer a tool he wielded but the core of his being. A roar was torn from his throat, a sound that was part thunderclap, part declaration of war. "I SUMMON YOU, CRIMSON SWORD OF THUNDER AUTHORITY!"
The practice sword in his hand, already superheated, could not contain the power. It shattered into a thousand splinters, but they did not fall. They hung in the air, suspended in the corona of red lightning. Then, as if drawn by a cosmic magnet, the fragments flew back together, the lightning acting as both forge and welder. They fused, morphed, and expanded. What emerged was not a simple blade of energy. It was a physical sword, solid and real. Its blade was a deep, blood-red metal, and along its length, pulsating lines of crimson lightning flowed like liquid power. The air around it crackled and split, and an aura of pure, unadulterated menace and intimidation radiated from it. This was no practice tool. This was [Excalibolt], the sword of his rebirth, the crystallization of his severed past and the key to his uncharted future.
The knights watching felt their hair stand on end, a primal fear and awe gripping them. This was not the power of a man; this was the power of a force of nature given form.
Ragnar's fingers closed around the hilt. A perfect, deadly calm settled over him. He bent low, his body a coiled spring, holding Excalibolt level with his face, the blade parallel to the ground. His crimson eyes, now glowing like embers, locked onto Sir Lancelot. The sword in his hand began to hum, gathering energy, the lightning lines blazing with incandescent fury.
Sir Lancelot, seeing the transformation, felt a thrill he had not felt in decades. This was beyond a test. This was a historic moment. With a final prayer to his god, he unleashed the Holy Cross Smite. The cross-shaped halo of light detached from his sword and shot forward, not as a beam, but as a solid, moving wall of divine judgment, slow, inevitable, and utterly devastating.
Ragnar did not wait. He became the lightning.
"THUNDER THRUST!"
His body vanished, becoming a single, focused line of crimson light. Excalibolt was no longer a sword; it was the tip of a lightning bolt he had become. He did not swing; he was the thrust.
The two attacks, one a golden wall of holy finality, the other a crimson lance of rebellious destruction, met in the center of the hall.
The collision was not an explosion of fire and debris. It was a silent, terrifying moment of canceled physics, followed by an expansion of pure energy. A dome of gold and red light erupted outwards. The shockwave was tangible, a wall of force that picked up knight candidates and veteran knights alike, hurling them back like ragdolls. The reinforced stone walls of the training hall cracked like eggshells. The clouds in the gloomy sky above were not just parted; they were vaporized in a perfect, circular gap, allowing the sun to blaze through onto the scene below. When the light and dust settled, two figures stood amidst the devastation. The outcome of their clash was written in the shattered hall and the cleared sky.
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The pressure was immense, a physical, crushing force that was methodically turning Noctus's bones to dust. The black tentacles, slick with some vile secretion, constricted with the mindless, inexorable force of a machine. His Tempest power, usually a swirling shield around him, was scattered, unable to find purchase against this intimate, squeezing death. The psychic shriek of the mutant zombie still echoed in his mind, a spike of pure disorientation.
But in that moment of supreme physical peril, the mental chains broke. The memory of the unyielding earth that had once blocked his chaos was gone. He was Tempest, and his storm would no longer be directed.
A whisper started deep within him, a sigh that became a gale. The air around him began to stir, then spin. The tentacles, sensing the shift, tightened further, but it was too late. The winds, once his servants, now became his liberators. They howled, a sound of pure, unchained fury, and tore at the tentacles wrapped around him. They didn't slice; they unraveled them, the powerful constrictors shredded into black confetti and blown away.
The tornado did not stop there. It expanded outwards from Noctus's body, a raging vortex of grey and blue. It swept through the zombie horde like the hand of a god, lifting the shambling corpses and hurling them against the ruined walls of the military base, smashing them to pulp. The two mutant zombies, who had been advancing with predatory confidence, were forced back, their tentacles lashing uselessly at the impenetrable wall of wind.
At the center of this self-created maelstrom, Noctus stood reborn. He felt the Tempest power not as a tool, but as his very soul. It surged within him, a chaotic, beautiful, and terrifying symphony. He threw his head back and shouted to the uncaring, grey sky, "GATHER TOGETHER, BECOME A WEAPON THAT CUTS THROUGH ALL CHAINS. AWAKEN…"
"RAZORGALE!"
The tornado responded. The swirling winds, which had been mindlessly destructive, now converged with purpose. They twisted, compressed, and solidified. The very air itself coalesced, taking on a tangible, lethal form. In his hands, the chaotic storm became order—a scythe of pure, solidified wind. It emitted a pale, ethereal blue glow. The handle was etched with ever-shifting wind patterns, and the crescent-shaped blade seemed to be made of a thousand swirling, miniature whirlwinds, patterns appearing and disappearing on its surface. This was [Razorgale], the weapon born from the chaotic storm that had finally thrown off its shackles. It was not a tool of defense or restraint; it was a instrument of absolute, unchained release.
Noctus hefted the scythe, its weight perfect in his hands. He didn't even look at the two mutant zombies. He simply turned, his body a blur, spinning a perfect 360 degrees. As he completed the rotation, Razorgale carved a massive, crescent-shaped arc of condensed storm energy into the air.
"[CRESCENT EDGE]!"
The slash flew forward, a silent, shimmering wave of destruction. The mutant zombies, their primal instincts screaming, tried to dodge. But the moment they moved, the large, singular crescent slash fractured. It split apart in mid-air, not dissipating, but multiplying. It transformed into a hundred, a thousand smaller, equally ferocious crescent slashes, each one a spinning, howling shard of the tempest.
The effect was apocalyptic. The swarm of wind blades did not attack; they processed the battlefield. They spun through the air in a chaotic, yet beautiful dance of annihilation. Zombies were not just cut down; they were disassembled. Heads were severed, limbs were sheared off, torsos were carved apart. The two mutant zombies, for all their power, were caught in the storm. Their dark hides were flayed by a thousand invisible cuts, their tentacles sliced to ribbons, their bodies lifted and torn apart within the merciless, spinning storm of blades. When the last crescent of wind dissipated, silence fell. The immediate area around Noctus was clear, a circle of absolute carnage painted in gore, a testament to the chaos he now commanded without a single chain to hold him back.
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The sneers of Edward, the gnawing pain in his elbow, the overwhelming press of bodies—all of it faded into a dull hum. Gaiard stood, a rock in a turbulent sea of hostility. The memory of being the foundation, the great wall that blocked tornadoes, was a faded scroll. He was Crystal, and his purpose was no longer to restrain, but to create. And creation sometimes required utter destruction of the old.
He took a deep breath, not of air, but of the very essence of the earth. The Crystal power within him, once a stable, defensive force, now resonated with a different frequency—one of primal, tectonic will. The aura that erupted from him was not a flashy light show; it was a tangible, brown wave of energy that radiated outwards, a force of pure density and mass. It did not burn or electrocute; it repelled. The bodyguards closest to him were thrown back as if hit by a physical shield, stumbling and falling over one another.
Gaiard's voice, when it came, was a low rumble that vibrated through the steel deck plates, a sound that seemed to emanate from the planet's core itself. "CONDENSED IN MY HANDS, THE FIST THAT BREAKS THE CONTINENT."
He raised his hands, palms open. From the skin, countless tiny, perfect crystal fragments began to grow. They spread with an organic speed, clicking and fusing together, covering his hands from the fingertips all the way to his elbows. They formed into gauntlets of breathtaking, terrifying beauty. They were not mere armor; they were weapons. The crystal was a deep, greenish-brown, catching the weak light and reflecting it in a thousand facets. They were the [Terracrasher] gloves, the manifestation of Gaiard's new beginning—a will no longer bound to the sky or the storm, but dedicated solely to shaping his own world.
He clenched his newly forged fists. The power felt right. It felt absolute. He lowered his center of gravity, his feet seeming to fuse with the deck. All his strength, all the unspent tectonic force he had once used to stabilize, he now focused into a single, cataclysmic point.
With a roar that was the sound of continents colliding, he drove his Terracrasher-clad fist down onto the stern deck of the AW-03.
"[OSCILLATION WAVE]!"
The impact was not loud. It was a deep, resonant THOOM that was felt more than heard. For a split second, nothing happened. Then, the world broke.
A visible shockwave, a ring of distorted air and energy, exploded outwards from his fist. But the true power went down. The solid metal deck, designed to withstand typhoons and sea monsters, behaved like liquid. A series of massive, jagged cracks radiated outwards, shattering the deck plates. The entire stern of the colossal Arkworld ship lurched violently.
The effect on Edward and his men was immediate and catastrophic. The shockwave threw them from their feet. The deck beneath them heaved and buckled. They were tossed into the air like toys, their screams lost in the groan of tearing metal. Those who lost their balance near the railing had no chance. They were flung over the side, their forms shrinking as they plummeted into the churning, polluted ocean far below. Edward himself, his face a mask of blood and terror, scrambled on all fours, trying to find purchase on the disintegrating deck.
Gaiard stood immovable at the center of the destruction he had wrought, his expression cold and impassive. He watched the enemies who had sought to break him fall one by one, victims of the tremors born from his own indomitable will. He was not just a passenger on this ship anymore. He was a geographical event.
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The Flaming Serpent was a masterpiece of controlled fury, a testament to Flamme's genius. It was not mere fire; it was fire given sentience and purpose, its maw gaping wide to consume Ignis whole. The heat in the academy's battle hall was already melting the edges of the arena, and the spectators felt their skin prickle with the intensity.
But Ignis did not see an opponent. He saw a reflection. The memory of his eternal rival, Blizzard, and their week-long war on a deserted island flashed before him. That conflict had defined him. It had tempered his fury and given his passion a sharp, competitive edge. To lose here, to a mere echo of that fundamental opposition, was unthinkable.
He closed his eyes. The Nova power within him, the core of the flame, did not rage. It focused. It turned inward, compressing into a singularity of heat and will. When he opened his eyes, they blazed with the light of a newborn star.
"BREAK ALL LIMITS, PIERCE THE SKY AND STRAIGHT TO THE VOID. APPEAR, LAVASLASHER!"
The pillar of ember fire that erupted from him was not an explosion; it was a birth. It tore through the reinforced ceiling of the battle hall, punching a clean hole into the sky beyond, a beacon of his declaration. The flames did not scatter. They converged, compressed, and solidified in his hand. What formed was not a grand sword or a massive axe. It was a knife. A red-orange knife about the length from his wrist to his elbow, its blade seemingly forged from cooled lava, with faint, pulsating flame patterns etched deep within the material. It was deceptively simple, a tool of precision and immense, concentrated power. This was [Lavaslasher], the weapon born not from wild destruction, but from a focused, passionate will to walk a new path, completely separate from the shared past.
Ignis held the knife in a reverse grip, his stance low and centered. He didn't gather fire around him; he gathered it within the blade. Lavaslasher began to glow, the flame patterns blazing like circuitry.
"[PHOENIX PULSE]!"
He didn't swing. He thrust Lavaslasher forward. From its tip, a slash of fire was born, but it did not fly as a wave. It took shape. It coalesced into the form of a magnificent, screaming bird of fire—a Phoenix. It was not a mindless beast like Flamme's serpent; it was a being of pure, intelligent, concentrated passion, its wings spread wide, trailing embers that fell like tears.
The two constructs, one a serpent of controlled fury, the other a phoenix of focused will, met in the center of the arena. The collision was not a detonation but a violent, beautiful dissolution. The serpent tried to constrict the phoenix, but the phoenix simply burned through it, its form unraveling into scattered tongues of flame. The phoenix, in turn, did not attack Flamme; it expended its energy in a final, glorious burst of heat and light. The resulting shockwave was a ring of superheated air that slammed into the protective barriers, making them visibly shudder. A heatwave rolled over the stands, forcing instructors and cadets alike to throw up their arms and retreat, their uniforms smoking. When the light faded, the two fighters stood amidst a partially melted arena, the air shimmering with spent energy. The fight had been fundamentally transformed.
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The air in the International Ranker Association's practice hall was already cold from their conflict, but what happened next was not a drop in temperature; it was the abolition of heat itself. Friz's aura did not flare; it consumed. A wave of absolute cold radiated from him, silent and comprehensive. In an instant, the entire hall, including the observation deck where the high-rankers and judges stood, was transformed into an icy realm. Frost crawled up the walls, the air itself seemed to freeze, capturing dust motes, and the very breath of the onlookers crystallized in front of their faces. It was a bone-deep chill that threatened to stop hearts.
Friz stood at the center of this self-created glacial field. The memory of his opposite, Nova, and their timeless rivalry was a anchor in the stillness. To be defeated by a power that merely mimicked the cold was to dishonor that rivalry. His path was his own, and it would be one of absolute, unchallenged mastery.
In the profound silence, his voice was as clear and sharp as breaking ice. "REBIRTH AND WALK ON A NEW PATH! I CALL... SNOWBREAKER."
The ice fragments that had filled the air, now glowing with an intense, pale blue light, obeyed his call. They swarmed towards him, not as a chaotic blizzard, but as parts of a complex machine assembling itself. They converged in front of him, clicking and fusing. The weapon that formed was unique, a hybrid of melee and ranged combat. It looked like a pair of brutal, crystalline brass knuckles that covered his fist, but extending from the front was a short, sleek gun barrel. The entire weapon, [Snowbreaker], was a work of art, carved from living ice, with pale blue patterns swirling across its surface like frozen rivers. It was the crystallization of the past he honored and the future he would claim alone.
He gripped Snowbreaker, the cold a comforting presence against his skin. He aimed the barrel not at Friya, but directly at the center of the incoming Ice Bullet Barrage. Energy gathered in the barrel, not as a beam of light, but as a sphere of condensed, hyper-cold potential.
"[HAILSTORM BLAST]."
He fired. It was not a laser or a projectile in the conventional sense. It was a shell of absolute zero that shot forward and detonated the moment it met the first frost bullet. The explosion it created was one of anti-energy. A sphere of silent, profound cold expanded at the point of impact. The barrage of frost bullets didn't shatter; they were un-made, their molecular motion ceasing instantly, turning into harmless motes of inert dust. The shockwave that followed was not of force, but of a vacuum of heat. It hit the reinforced observation glass, which had been designed to withstand S-class concussive forces. It did not crack from impact; it froze so instantaneously and completely that its structural integrity failed, and it webbed and then shattered into a million frozen pieces. The high-rankers on the other side, despite their power, were forced to retreat, not from debris, but from the life-threatening cold that poured through the broken window. The battle had moved beyond a simple test of power into a demonstration of fundamental control over reality itself.
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The braided ropes were cutting deep, the barbarians pulling with a mindless, brute strength that threatened to tear Heim limb from limb. The pain was excruciating, but it was the frustration that was greater—the inability to communicate, to reason, to do anything but be a victim of primal violence. The memory of his first fusion with Solar surfaced, not as a technique, but as a lesson: strength was not just in power, but in unity and purpose.
He was Jungle no longer. He was Heim, and his purpose was to unify this chaotic world. That started with survival, and with protecting the one who resonated with his soul.
His aura did not explode; it bloomed. A vibrant, emerald green energy erupted from him, not as a destructive force, but as an overwhelming surge of life. The ropes, made of dead fibers, could not withstand it. They did not break; they sprouted. Leaves and tiny flowers burst from their lengths, and their tensile strength vanished as they became living, growing things, falling away from his limbs like harmless vines.
Heim's movement was fluid. He quickly caught Flora, who was still desperately fending off attackers. He pulled her close with his left arm, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tightly. He could feel her own life energy, so familiar and yet distinct, pulsing against him.
He stretched out his right hand, his mind clear, his will absolute. He took a deep breath, drawing in the very essence of the forest, and then his eyes snapped open, blazing with green light.
"GROW UP! LOGBUSTER!"
The very ground responded. Thousands of thick, wooden vines erupted from the soil, not chaotically, but with a singular purpose. They weaved together, twisting and merging, their bark hardening, their forms solidifying. In his hand, they formed a weapon—a medium-sized mace. Its head was not a simple sphere; it was a carved, almost organic shape, with a "mouth" at its center that glowed with a fierce, green light. The entire [Logbuster] mace was covered in pulsating plant veins that throbbed with a powerful, intimidating aura. This was not a tool of destruction, but of dominion. It was his answer to Boboiboy's wish, an affirmation that he would not just exist in this world; he would shape it.
The barbarians, driven by primal instinct, felt it. The invisible fear that radiated from the Logbuster was a predator's aura they understood on a cellular level. They hesitated, their aggressive roars faltering, taking involuntary steps back.
Heim, holding Flora securely, did not swing the mace at them. He simply raised it high and then brought it down, not with great force, but with finality, tapping its base on the ground.
"[ROOT SERPENT]."
The impact was a command. From the point where Logbuster touched the earth, a network of thick, serpentine tree roots burst forth. They did not move like plants; they moved like hunting snakes, writhing and crawling across the ground with alarming speed. They targeted the barbarians, coiling around their legs, their torsos, their arms. The men roared and struggled, hacking at the roots with their stone axes, but for every root they severed, two more took its place. The more they struggled, the tighter the living bonds constricted, not to crush, but to immobilize completely. In moments, the entire war party was trapped, a garden of furious, struggling statues bound by Heim's unyielding will. He had not defeated them with violence, but with the inexorable, dominant power of life itself.
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Disorientation was a fog in Alstar's mind, the world a blur of ringing ears and swimming vision. The stun grenade had been a perfect, cowardly tactic. The giant python was recovering, its massive body coiling for another strike. The hostile players were almost upon them, their weapons gleaming with lethal intent. It was a checkmate scenario.
But Alstar's mind, the part that was Gamma, did not panic. It analyzed. It recalled the first time his pure logic had been forced to intertwine with the wild creativity of Jungle. The lesson was not the fusion itself, but the principle: sometimes, the most logical solution is to embrace the illogical, to protect what matters.
His aura did not flare with heat or cold; it erupted with illumination. A brilliant, gamma-light burst from him, not as a weapon, but as a pure source of information. It was a flash so intense it overloaded the visual sensors of the game world itself. The python recoiled, its heat-sensitive pits blinded. The attacking players cried out, shielding their eyes, their charge faltering.
In that split second of reprieve, Alstar moved with computational precision. He was at Alexandrite's side in an instant. He scooped her up in a princess carry, his movements efficient and gentle despite the chaos. He placed her on a wide, sheltered niche in the canyon wall, a position where she could recover and snipe safely. He was protecting his ally. It was the logical, and the right, thing to do.
He then turned, placing himself squarely between Alexandrite and the threats. His back was to her, a silent vow. His eyes, now glowing with a steady, orange-yellow light, scanned the recovering python and the blinking players. The memories of the old world, of Boboiboy, flowed through him—not as a chain, but as a foundation.
"I SUMMON YOU!" he called out, his voice calm and resonant, cutting through the din.
"BRIGHTSPARROW."
The very light in the canyon bent towards him. It was as if he had become a singularity for photons. They condensed, solidified, and took form in his hands. It was a bow, but unlike any other. Its body was not a curve of wood, but two long, sharp, golden blades set in a V-formation, connected by a string of pure light. The entire weapon, [Brightsparrow], was carved with intricate, mysterious patterns that pulsed with a soft, intelligent radiance. It was a weapon shaped from the burning emotion of remembrance and the cool logic of his new purpose.
He didn't nock an arrow. He used the bladed ends of the bow itself. With two swift, precise motions, he carved a giant, shimmering 'X' into the air in front of him. The 'X' hung there, made of solidified light. He then aimed the center of the bow at the center of the 'X'.
"AURORA SHOWER."
A single arrow of condensed sunlight shot from the bowstring. It struck the center of the 'X' and pushed it forward, accelerating to supersonic speed, carrying the giant symbol high into the sky above the canyon. At the apex of its flight, the 'X' detonated. It did not explode with fire and sound, but with a silent, beautiful, and deadly rain. Countless shafts of light, each one a razor-sharp arrow of pure energy, fell from the sky like a divine judgment. The rain was targeted, indiscriminate, and utterly precise. It fell upon the positions of the sneak-attacking players and the giant python. The players had no cover; the light arrows pierced through their armor, their bodies, pinning them to the ground in a shower of digital disintegration. The python, too large to avoid the downpour, was riddled with holes, its massive form jerking and twitching as the light arrows impaled it from head to tail, until it finally lay still, dissolving into data particles. The canyon fell silent once more, illuminated by the fading afterglow of the aurora, a testament to the light that could both reveal truth and deliver judgment.