The sky above Bhutala burned like split charcoal — orange cracks bleeding through layers of industrial smoke. The air reeked of molten dust and the electric tang of Aether distortion.
Every strike echoed through the hollow city.
Aryan ducked beneath Virak's swing — a blur of black energy tearing the air where his head had been. Sparks flared as their weapons met again, gold against pitch. The ground splintered under their feet.
Virak grinned, voice rasping through the static haze.
"Still clinging to discipline? Let go, boy."
A blast of corrupted Aether flared from his palm, hurling Aryan across the concrete. He rolled, coughing blood, eyes blazing with gold.
"You want me to lose control?"
"I want you to remember what happens when mortals imitate gods."
Ash and Iron
Across the battlefield, Abhi moved like wildfire. Bullets hissed through smoke, ricocheting off debris. His blade carved through the storm — every swing a streak of incandescent light.
He spun through a circle of armored soldiers, steel singing. Sparks of Aether burst from his blade — fragments of flame that hung mid-air before fading to ember.
"Come on!" he roared, sweeping the sword wide. "You wanted a war, right?"
A dozen fell. Twenty more replaced them. Even for him, the weight of numbers began to choke the rhythm. His breathing turned ragged, his stance tightening.
Fractures of the Mind
Near the ruins of a fallen statue, Ahan and Vigil fought within a collapsing mindscape.
Vigil's laugh cracked through the static — wild, brilliant, hollow.
"Do you know what's beautiful about intellect?" he hissed. "It fails first."
Ahan's eyes flickered blue with data light, equations spinning behind his pupils. He countered Vigil's projected traps with bursts of radiant circuitry — Aether forming geometric shields, dissolving as soon as they took the hit.
Every calculation burned seconds of his life. Every second mattered.
The Breaking Point
Back in the center, Aryan stood again. Blood streaked his jaw. His spear pulsed, then dimmed. He deactivated it, letting it dissolve into gold mist.
"Fine," he muttered. "No weapons."
He charged.
The impact cracked the earth. Fists met, forearms clashed, the rhythm pure and primal. Each punch carried Aether feedback — sound waves collapsing windows, shockwaves throwing rubble into the air.
Virak laughed louder, faster, more erratic.
"There! That's what I wanted to see."
For a heartbeat, Aryan's rage burned through reason. The gold Aether around him shimmered into a darker hue — almost bronze, almost unstable.
The Surge
The world paused.
An unseen frequency rippled across Bhutala — a low, resonant hum, deep enough to rattle bone. Dust lifted from the ground, suspended in stillness. Every combatant froze — even Vigil's manic grin faltered.
Above them, light bent.
A thin line of white split the smog, widening into a pillar that touched the clouds. Through it, a lone figure descended — coat tattered, eyes pale as dusk, steps silent.
Siddharth.
White Aether spiraled around him like soft flame. It didn't burn — it purified. Where it touched the ground, the soot turned silver-grey.
Virak squinted through the haze, teeth bared.
"You again."
The black Aether around him seethed, crawling up his arms like ink in water.
He slammed his fist into the ground — the impact erupting in a shockwave that shattered buildings across the block.
White met black — silence met scream.
Vigil turned, a crooked smile stretching across his face as the two energies collided. The ground split, releasing a howl of pressure that shook the rusted towers.
"Alright," he whispered, eyes flaring crimson.
"Now everybody turns to dust."