Mark stood still.
His sword was raised—but not to strike.
The battlefield had fallen into an unnatural silence. Even the raging storm of power that had moments ago threatened to tear apart the mountain now seemed to hesitate.
Before him—
Om stood.
Cracked.
Burning.
Unrecognizable.
White flames seeped from the fractures in his body like a divine force trying to escape its vessel. His eyes held no clarity, no identity—only a deep, consuming madness.
Mark exhaled slowly.
"Stop this," he said, his voice firm yet controlled. "Or I will have to make you sleep."
Om's lips curled into a sneer.
"So…" he said, his voice low and distorted, "you want to kill me now?"
The white flames around his sword intensified, crackling with unstable energy.
Mark did not flinch.
"If I wanted you dead," he replied calmly, "you wouldn't still be standing."
The words were simple.
But they carried truth.
Even Om knew it.
Somewhere deep within the chaos consuming his mind, a part of him recognized that Mark was far superior in battle experience. If Mark truly intended to kill him, this confrontation would have ended long ago.
But that realization…
Was buried beneath bloodlust.
Om's rationality was slipping.
The hunger for destruction, the thrill of power—it was devouring him from within.
His expression shifted.
The amusement faded.
Coldness took its place.
"Why…" Om asked slowly, "do you need them alive?"
Mark's gaze hardened.
"Look at yourself," he said sharply.
"Another five minutes like this—and you'll die."
Om's eyes flickered.
"Look at your body."
For the first time—
Om looked down.
Cracks covered him.
Dozens.
No—hundreds.
White light leaked through them like fissures in reality itself. His skin looked less like flesh and more like a breaking shell, unable to contain the force within.
His breathing faltered.
A realization struck him.
I'm… breaking apart.
But the bloodlust resisted.
It clawed at his thoughts.
It whispered.
Fight.
Destroy.
Finish it.
Inside his mind—
A battle began.
Mark saw it.
He understood instantly.
There was still a chance.
He raised his sword.
"Om," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Remember who you are."
Then—
He attacked.
Om reacted instinctively.
Their swords clashed.
A sharp metallic sound rang through the battlefield.
But Om did not counterattack.
Not immediately.
For a fraction of a second—
He hesitated.
Mark jumped back, creating distance.
His chakra surged.
For the first time—
Om took a step back.
Mark's aura was overwhelming.
It wasn't just power.
It was control.
Precision.
Experience.
The kind of strength forged through countless battles.
Om felt it.
And yet—
His ego resisted.
Mark's sword glowed with natural chakra energy, a pure and steady force, unlike Om's unstable flames.
He stepped forward.
But he did not strike.
He spoke.
"Remember how your father died."
The words hit.
Hard.
Om froze.
"If you continue like this," Mark continued, his voice steady, "you will die… without your revenge."
Silence.
Then—
Mark moved.
"Astral Hallucination."
The world shifted.
Om closed his eyes instinctively as a blinding light engulfed him.
When he opened them—
He was no longer on the battlefield.
He stood in a quiet place.
Still.
Peaceful.
And in front of him—
A figure.
"Father…?"
Viranth stood before him.
Alive.
Unharmed.
Just as Om remembered him.
"Stop this, Omi," Viranth said gently.
"You'll destroy everything… including yourself."
Om's body trembled.
For the first time since the battle began—
Emotion surfaced.
His eyes widened.
A tear formed.
"No…" Om whispered.
"This… this isn't real…"
His mind resisted.
His bloodlust surged again.
The flames within him roared, trying to consume the moment.
"He's dead," Om said, his voice breaking.
"He's gone!"
He stepped back.
Shaking.
Conflicted.
And that moment—
Was enough.
The illusion shattered.
Mark appeared behind him.
Without hesitation—
He struck.
The hilt of his sword hit Om's head.
Thud.
Om's body went still.
The white flames flickered—
Then vanished.
His body collapsed.
Silence returned.
Mark stood there, breathing heavily.
His grip tightened on his sword.
He looked down.
Om lay motionless.
His body was in a horrifying state.
Cracks covered every inch of him. If any ordinary healer saw him, they would assume he was already dead.
But—
He was breathing.
Faint.
Weak.
But alive.
Mark exhaled.
"It worked…"
Across the battlefield—
Everything had stopped.
From the moment Om unleashed his attack against Vyasa—
Time itself had seemed to freeze.
The beasts.
The Eaglemen.
Even the wind.
No one moved.
The sheer pressure from the clash of powers had pinned them to the ground. Many had died instantly from the aftershocks, their bodies unable to withstand the force.
Even ancient beasts—
Those at the Soul Stage—
Had perished without resistance.
And yet—
The survivors remained frozen.
Unable to move.
Unable to breathe freely.
Then—
The pressure disappeared.
Abruptly.
High in the sky—
Vyasa stood.
The flames that had been consuming his hand vanished.
He looked down.
Confusion crossed his face.
"Why… did it stop?"
Moments ago, he had been fully focused on resisting the white flames. The power had forced him to concentrate entirely on defense.
But now—
It was gone.
He turned his gaze toward the ground.
There—
He saw it.
Om.
Collapsed.
And beside him—
Mark.
Sampati descended slowly.
His wings trembled.
His energy reserves were nearly exhausted.
He had been using wind techniques continuously to prevent the white flames from spreading further.
Even for him—
It had been taxing.
When he saw Om lying on the ground—
He froze.
Anger rose within him.
Questions filled his mind.
Why did you stop him?
Why didn't you kill him?
What have you done?
But—
He stopped.
Because of what he saw.
Om's body.
The cracks.
The condition.
Sampati exhaled slowly.
"I see…"
His anger faded.
Replaced by understanding.
Mark had not stopped Om to save others.
He had stopped him—
To save Om himself.
The battlefield slowly came back to life.
Beasts lifted their heads.
Warriors gasped for air.
The pressure was gone.
But fear remained.
Everyone looked toward one place.
Om.
Mark knelt beside him.
For a moment—
He said nothing.
Then—
He noticed something.
The flames had vanished.
Completely.
Except—
For one place.
On Om's back—
A symbol burned.
White flames flickered faintly, forming an unfamiliar mark.
Not chaotic.
Not unstable.
Controlled.
Mark's eyes narrowed.
"What… is that?"
Above—
Vyasa's expression changed.
For the first time in this entire era—
His face showed shock.
Not because of the battle.
Not because of the power.
But because—
He recognized it.
And that recognition—
Changed everything.