The forest was devastated beyond recognition.
What had been pristine woodland hours ago now resembled a battlefield from ancient wars—trees reduced to splinters scattered across scorched earth, the ground torn open in massive craters that would take decades to fill naturally, vegetation simply gone in areas where the energy releases had been most intense.
Silver and yellow lightning still crackled in the air like dying stars, residual discharge from techniques too powerful to dissipate immediately, the electricity arcing between destroyed trees and creating patterns of light that would be beautiful if they weren't evidence of catastrophic violence.
The ambient tan concentration had dropped to dangerous lows—both combatants having consumed environmental energy to fuel techniques that exceeded what their personal reserves could sustain, the forest itself depleted in ways that would affect local ecosystem for years.
Kelvin stood at what remained of the battlefield's center, breathing hard despite his enhanced physiology, blood dripping from multiple wounds that his regeneration struggled to close, each droplet hissing when it hit the ground and corrupted the soil it touched.
His trench coat was destroyed—the enchanted fabric that had survived countless battles reduced to tatters barely clinging to his shoulders, the protective spells woven into it finally overwhelmed by sustained assault from someone who shouldn't have been capable of threatening him.
His messy white hair was matted with sweat and blood, the casual presentation from earlier completely abandoned, his body language showing genuine exhaustion for the first time since the engagement began.
Max stood before him—Ruga state fully manifested and operational, the transformation having consumed whatever remained of his rational mind, nothing left now but the destructive drive that characterized this forbidden technique.
Blue lightning veins pulsed violently across his entire body with rhythm that suggested his heart was beating far too fast, circulatory system pushed beyond safe parameters, each pulse creating visible glow beneath his cracking skin.
The rotating silver rings around his wrists and ankles spun so rapidly they produced audible screaming—metal stress sounds, the constructs vibrating at frequencies that made the air itself uncomfortable, Vista's regulatory mechanisms failing under loads they were never designed to handle.
The floating orbs crackled with increasingly unstable power, their orbits becoming erratic, several showing visible cracks suggesting imminent detonation, accumulated energy approaching critical mass without proper release mechanisms.
His black sclera and crimson iris eyes held almost no trace of the boy he'd been—no recognition, no personality, no humanity visible in that gaze, just predatory focus that tracked movement and identified threats without conscious thought behind the assessment.
Kelvin smiled weakly despite his condition, the expression mixing pain with something that might have been respect:
"You're incredibly strong when you abandon everything human. But look at yourself, kid—you're literally breaking apart. Your body can't sustain this much longer. Minutes at absolute most before catastrophic failure kills you regardless of whether I survive."
Max didn't speak.
Couldn't speak—language centers had shut down completely, vocal cords damaged beyond function, the ability to form words lost when rational thought departed.
He simply raised his right hand toward Kelvin with mechanical precision.
Silver energy began gathering around his palm—not the usual manifestation but something denser, heavier, the concentration so intense it created visible distortion in the air, space itself bending under conceptual weight.
This energy carried everything—all the despair he'd accumulated since dying the first time, all the rage at being powerless, all the fear of losing control, all the pain of watching people suffer while he was too weak to help.
Vista's gift responding to emotional intensity and providing outlet for feelings that had nowhere else to go.
The power condensed further, becoming almost solid, taking shape according to Max's unconscious will.
This was no normal attack.
This was everything he had left. The final technique. The culmination of power purchased through self-destruction.
His distorted voice emerged one final time—layered with multiple tones, barely comprehensible:
"Silver Creation... Despair Judgment."
A massive blade manifested above his raised hand—perhaps fifty feet long, the construct formed entirely from silver-black energy that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, crackling with blue lightning that ran along the edge like sharpening element.
The weapon radiated cold that had nothing to do with temperature—conceptual chill, the sensation of endings approaching, finality given physical form through Vista's domain over despair and cessation.
Kelvin's eyes widened genuinely for the first time in the entire engagement, his combat experience recognizing technique that transcended normal classification, attack that operated on principles beyond simple destruction.
He tried summoning final defensive measure—yellow lightning gathering around him in desperate attempt to create barrier that could withstand what was coming, his gift responding to survival instinct even though conscious thought understood the effort was probably futile.
But it was too late.
Max swung the blade downward with both hands gripping the manifested hilt, putting whatever remained of his strength behind the motion, Ruga state providing power that normal biology could never generate.
The slash was silent.
No explosion. No dramatic shockwave. No sound of impact or collision.
Just clean, devastating cut that separated reality itself along the blade's path, space parting to allow the technique through, physics stepping aside rather than attempting resistance.
The attack wasn't simply sharp—it was conceptual severance, Vista's gift asserting that what the blade touched would end, that continuation was no longer permitted, that existence itself was negotiable when despair achieved sufficient concentration.
Kelvin's body froze mid-motion, his defensive technique half-formed, yellow lightning still gathering but no longer directed by conscious will.
A thin silver line appeared running from his left shoulder down to his right hip—perfectly straight, geometrically precise, the kind of cut that suggested the blade had traveled through him without encountering any resistance whatsoever.
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Kelvin looked down at the wound bisecting his torso, then up at Max standing twenty feet away, blade still held in finishing position.
A small, genuine smile crossed his face—not mocking anymore, not contemptuous, just honest appreciation for capability he hadn't expected to encounter.
"...Not bad, rookie. You actually... did it. Killed a former Heavenly Star General. Achieved what most fighters... never manage in entire lifetimes."
His voice was fading, breath coming in gasps as his bisected body began failing.
"Maybe... you'll actually survive... what's coming. Maybe Vista... chose better than I thought."
His body split apart along the silver line—not dramatically, not with gore or visible suffering, just cleanly separating into two halves that dissolved before hitting the ground.
The former Star General Rank Two disintegrated into black ash and fading yellow sparks, his physical form breaking down into component energies and dispersing, leaving nothing behind except scorched earth where he'd been standing.
He was gone.
Eliminated. Defeated. The legendary warrior who'd held the second-highest military position in the kingdom for fifteen years, killed by a sixteen-year-old who'd been powerless just months ago.
So this is it..
Not power. Not talent. Not destiny or chosen status or Vista's blessing specifically.
Desperation
That's what creates monsters like me. That's what pushes people past limits that should be absolute. When you're desperate enough—when you'll accept any cost, pay any price, sacrifice anything including your own humanity—that's when transcendence becomes possible.
I've seen thousands of fighters through Vista's memories that bleed into mine. Heroes, generals, prodigies. All of them chasing strength. All of them trying to become powerful enough to protect what they cared about.
But none of them ever reached this level. None of them accessed Ruga state or techniques comparable to it. None of them burned this bright even briefly.
Because they were still holding on to something.
Hope that there would be better way. Control over their own actions and choices. Morality that prevented them from becoming what they fought against.
I let it go... didn't I?
Let go of hope when I died the first time. Let go of control when I accepted Vista's resurrection. Let go of morality when I chose to survive regardless of what survival required.
I chose power over myself. Chose capability over humanity. Chose to become weapon rather than remain victim.
Good.
That's the only way forward when apocalypse approaches. When the Vision shows everyone dying. When normal strength proves insufficient.
(pause)
Now... was it worth it?
The forest fell into absolute silence.
No wind. No bird calls. No ambient sounds of nature—everything living having fled the area when the battle's intensity exceeded what normal creatures could tolerate.
For a moment, the White Lions and Daybreak squad members felt overwhelming relief.
Kelvin was dead. The threat was eliminated. They'd survived against impossible odds through Max's sacrifice and transcendent power.
Then Max turned.
His movements were mechanical, lacking the fluid grace that characterized conscious action, body operating on automatic threat assessment without personality guiding the decisions.
His eyes—glowing crimson within black sclera—locked onto his own friends with the same predatory focus he'd directed at Kelvin moments ago.
No recognition. No acknowledgment of shared history or bonds formed through months of training together.
Just potential threats identified. Targets requiring elimination.
Ruga state didn't distinguish between enemies and allies once fully activated. Everyone was just movement to be tracked, heat signatures to be analyzed, things that might pose danger and therefore needed to be destroyed preemptively.
Captain Elara stepped forward slowly despite her injuries, hands raised in placating gesture, white flames extinguished to avoid appearing threatening:
"Max... it's over. Kelvin's dead. The fight's finished. You can come back to us now. You can let the transformation go."
Her voice was gentle, carefully modulated to sound non-threatening, the tone you'd use with frightened animals or people in psychological crisis.
"We're your friends. Your squad. We're not enemies. You know us—Jax, Kael, everyone. We've trained together, fought together, survived together. Please recognize us."
But Max didn't respond to words.
Couldn't respond—language processing was offline, verbal communication meaningless to whatever remained of his consciousness, sounds just noise without semantic content.
He roared instead—distorted, painful sound that emerged from damaged vocal cords, the noise barely human anymore, more like tortured metal than living voice.
Then he attacked.
Not hesitating. Not showing any sign of internal conflict. Just pure berserker assault targeting the nearest sources of movement and body heat.
He charged at the squad with speed that made him blur, blue lightning trailing behind his motion, the silver rings screaming as they spun.
Everyone tried desperately to restrain him without causing serious harm—understanding that he wasn't in control, that hurting him would be attacking their friend rather than genuine enemy.
Jax grabbed him from behind despite his own injuries, arms wrapping around Max's torso in attempt to immobilize through superior positioning:
"Max! Stop! It's me! It's Jax! We're brothers, remember?!"
Kael manifested copper chains that wrapped around Max's arms and legs, the metal designed to bind rather than cut, trying to restrict movement without inflicting damage:
"Please! You have to fight it! We know you're still in there somewhere!"
Steel activated full metal transformation and bear-hugged Max from the front, his liquid steel form attempting to absorb and redistribute the struggling:
"We're not giving up on you! Ever! So stop fighting and let us help!"
Elara tried restraining him with white flame bindings—purification fire shaped into rope rather than weapon, the technique meant to burn away corruption without harming the host:
"Max! Listen to my voice! Focus on something human! Remember who you are!"
But it was useless against Ruga state's overwhelming strength.
Max broke free with raw terrifying power that exceeded what their restraints could handle—blue lightning exploding outward in omnidirectional pulse, the electrical discharge enhanced by his berserk state, sending everyone flying backward and breaking all their binding attempts simultaneously.
He stood in the center of the scattered squad members, breathing raggedly, eyes tracking movement as people struggled to their feet.
His gaze locked onto Jax specifically—identifying him as primary threat based on criteria only the Ruga state understood, target acquisition system deciding that this person required immediate elimination.
Max moved in blur of motion.
Before anyone could react or intervene, before Jax could dodge or defend, Max's hand stabbed straight through his chest—fingers extended into spear configuration, the strike delivered with precision that found the gap between ribs, blue lightning crackling along the path of penetration.
The sound was sickening.
Wet. Final. The specific noise of flesh being violated, of structural integrity failing, of something essential being irreparably damaged.
Jax's eyes widened—not with pain exactly, shock overriding physical sensation, his brain struggling to process what had just happened, struggling to accept that his friend had just delivered lethal injury.
Blood fountained from the wound, coating Max's arm, the liquid hissing where it touched the blue lightning still crackling across his skin.
Then Jax smiled.
Despite everything—the agony, the betrayal, the knowledge that he was dying—he smiled.
A soft, genuine, brotherly expression that carried no anger or accusation, just acceptance and residual affection.
He wrapped his arms around Max in weak embrace, pulling himself forward despite the hand impaling his chest, closing the distance until their bodies pressed together, Max's arm going deeper—passing completely through Jax's torso until it emerged from his back, the exit wound larger than the entry.
Blood dripped steadily onto the forest floor, each drop carrying fragments of life that would never return.
Jax's voice emerged quiet, fading with each word as his punctured lung struggled to function, but still full of warmth that defied his circumstances:
"I'm glad... I got to meet you... little rookie. You made... everything more fun. Training, missions... even dying feels... less scary... with you here."
A cough interrupted him, blood speckling his lips.
"Wanted to become... Heavenly Star General... fight beside you... at the top. Guess I won't... make it that far."
His legs gave out, strength failing completely.
"But you will. You're strong enough. Just... remember to stay human... okay? Don't let the power... take everything..."
His head fell forward onto Max's shoulder, the final words emerging as whisper:
"...my friend."
Everything became silent except for the sound of blood dripping.
Max and Jax slowly collapsed together, still locked in that final embrace, bodies falling to the scorched earth in heap of tangled limbs.
The Ruga state's glow began fading—blue lightning flickering out, silver rings dissolving, floating orbs dissipating into nothing, the transformation finally releasing as Max's consciousness completely fragmented under the weight of what he'd just done.
The silver mark on his forehead went dark.
The horns and tail dissolved.
His eyes returned to normal silver—no longer glowing, just empty.
He lay there holding Jax's corpse, unmoving, barely breathing, his body too damaged to function properly even with the transformation ended.
The squad stared in absolute horror.
Elara dropped to her knees, hands covering her mouth, trying to suppress the scream building in her throat.
Huna's scream emerged instead—raw sound of grief that needed outlet, her healing gift activating automatically and reaching toward Jax but finding nothing to heal, life already departed, damage too extensive for recovery.
Kael's copper chains fell limply from his hands, clattering on the ground, the metal suddenly too heavy to maintain, his gift failing as shock overrode concentration.
Tears streamed down every face—even Robert's, the normally emotionless vice captain's hollow eyes visible behind his lowered bandage, moisture tracking down his cheeks despite his usual control.
Steel's metal form reverted to flesh, his body unable to maintain transformation through emotional trauma this severe.
The boy who'd wanted to become a Heavenly Star General since childhood—who'd trained harder than anyone, who'd maintained optimism even when circumstances demanded despair, who'd been the squad's heart and enthusiasm and unfailing positivity—
Had just been killed by one of his closest friends.
By the person he'd called "little rookie" with affection rather than condescension.
By Max, who'd wanted nothing more than to protect the people he cared about and had instead destroyed one of them while lost to power he couldn't control.
The irony was devastating.
The guilt would be permanent.
And somewhere in Max's fragmenting consciousness, the small part that remained aware understood exactly what he'd done and would carry that knowledge forever.
End of Chapter 54