The air had turned to liquid fire.
Every breath drew smoke, every step left an echo in the ruined expanse of Shambhala's outer plains. The sky hung broken — a wound bleeding crimson light through torn clouds, the Red Moon suspended like an unblinking eye. Aether storms raged across the battlefield, painting arcs of gold and violet that slashed through the dying dusk.
The three stood in the center of it — Abhi, Aryan, and Ahan — the last pulse of resistance in a world already devoured by ruin.
Around them, an army gathered.
Vigil's engineered soldiers — faceless husks in obsidian armor — moved in perfect, mindless rhythm. Their weapons hummed with synthetic Aether, blue light spilling from their visors. Above them, perched upon a broken column, Virak watched with that same cold smirk — the smirk of a man who believed in the poetry of violence.
A single drop of molten rain hit Abhi's cheek and hissed away.
"Looks like they sent everyone this time," he said, voice dry, hand tightening around the twin Aether gauntlets that shimmered across his forearms.
Aryan didn't reply. His gaze was fixed on Virak — his breathing steady, eyes sharp, every muscle drawn taut like a bowstring. He didn't need to speak. The hatred between them had already said enough.
Ahan was the last to move. He adjusted the strap of his battered satchel, eyes scanning the field, lips whispering silent calculations.
Vigil's forces were scattered strategically — nodes of Aether circuits planted across the ground, pulsing faintly in rhythm. Ahan knew what that meant. Traps. Control. Pattern.
He exhaled, voice low. "This isn't a war. It's a test."
Then, everything exploded.
The legion charged, metal clashing, ground shaking under synchronized steps. Aether bolts screamed through the air — blue streaks ripping past, burning holes in the ground where they struck.
Abhi roared — not a word, just fury — and charged straight through the torrent.
His gauntlets lit up, golden circuitry running across his arms. The first soldier swung a blade of condensed plasma — Abhi caught it midair, crushed it, and sent a shockwave that shattered ten more. Aether burst outward like liquid flame, painting arcs of brilliance as he moved — every punch, every motion a blur of raw force.
"Come on then!" he bellowed, spinning through another strike. "Let's make it count!"
The army answered — hundreds of weapons converging, but his laughter rose above the chaos. Each impact sent shockwaves tearing through the dust. The sound of splintering armor, metal collapsing, and the echo of Aether detonations filled the wasteland.
Above it all — Virak dropped.
He landed with the weight of thunder, cratering the stone beneath him. His eyes burned — one crimson, one pale. The Aether storm bent toward him, as though drawn to his presence.
Aryan stepped forward, boots scraping the ground. The world seemed to narrow between them.
"It's been a long time," Virak said, voice low, mocking.
Aryan didn't answer. He just raised his arm — his Aether crackling, weaving through his veins like molten gold.
The silence between them shattered as both charged — fist meeting fist, shockwave meeting shockwave.
Stone fractured. Air split open. Every movement carried the weight of memory, of the orphanage, of the screams Aryan could still hear when he closed his eyes. Each strike was a scar rewritten into motion.
"Still holding back?" Virak taunted, twisting through a counter. "You always had that weakness — mercy."
Aryan's eyes flickered, not gold but pure white for a heartbeat. "Not anymore."
Their battle carried through the ruins — pillars collapsing, walls splintering, the ground lighting up with every collision. Neither gained ground, neither yielded. Each strike felt like the world breaking again and again.
Meanwhile, across the field, Ahan finally saw him.
Vigil emerged from the haze, stepping over the broken circuitry of his fallen creations. His coat trailed black smoke, his eyes hidden behind that mirrored glass — that cursed lens that reflected every movement back, like watching your own death play out in advance.
"Ah," Vigil said softly, adjusting the edge of his sleeve. "The prodigy who calls himself a scientist. Tell me — how does it feel to face what you worship?"
Ahan's lips curved slightly. "Depends. How does it feel to play god and fail?"
Vigil chuckled. "We'll find out."
The world between them warped.
Aether surged into form — clay-like molds burst from the ground, humanoid shapes forming instantly from Vigil's will. They moved like puppets — fast, silent, perfect. The battlefield itself became his experiment.
Ahan moved differently.
He didn't fight; he calculated. Every step was geometry, every dodge pre-empted by numbers his mind ran faster than thought. His eyes flickered with faint Aether light, tracing equations midair as he countered — tearing through clay with kinetic bursts, redirecting Vigil's constructs against one another.
"You always think in straight lines," Vigil mocked. "That's why you lose."
"And you," Ahan whispered, "never learned the cost of perfection."
Then the ground ruptured.
Aether vents burst open like geysers, scattering debris. The storm overhead flared red and black as the two disappeared into a rising sphere of energy — the sound of collapsing metal, the hiss of dissolving clay, and the echo of two minds clashing inside the same pulse of light.
Abhi turned, just for a second, catching the explosion at the edge of his vision.
"Ahan—?"
No answer — only static through the link.
He swore under his breath, slammed his fists together, and sent another shockwave tearing through the army.
By the time the light dimmed, the battlefield had fractured into three divides.
One of brute will — Abhi against the tide.
One of vengeance — Aryan against the shadow of his past.
And one of intellect — Ahan against the mind that thought itself divine.
Above all, the Red Moon pulsed once — as though watching.
The storm hadn't passed. It had only chosen its players.
And somewhere, beyond the clouds, a voice neither human nor god whispered through the Aether:
"Balance was never mercy. It was designed."