Hex Nocturne stood upon the jagged island of fractured stone and sharp peaks, his chest heaving as rain and mist clung to him, the remnants of the storm dissipating like smoke into the dawnless sky. The city below had become a memory, reduced to echoes of terror and screams, the festival of humanity's joy now erased from the world by the collision of raw, unrestrained power. The streets, the buildings, the people who had screamed and scattered—they were gone, nothing but faint traces swallowed by the storm of Aetherion he had unleashed. And yet, in the center of this desolation, the Ruinborn remained. Its grotesque form stood unbroken, its sinews and bones twisting subtly, reshaping in ways that defied comprehension. The faint glow of the clock on its forehead ticked methodically, each movement a heartbeat in its evolution, a mark of its relentless intelligence, adaptation, and survival instinct.
Hex's chest tightened, not from exertion but from the memory that shadowed him. The screams of the humans he could not save in the city, the echoes of Luna's laughter, the soft voices of his children—the weight of failure pressed against him like a living thing. Every ounce of grief, every shred of rage, every pulse of regret and determination coursed through his veins in tandem with his Aetherion. Shadowflare flickered beneath his skin, invisible arcs of energy coiling, twisting, intertwining with his own life force. Each step he took was deliberate, every breath a measured beat in the symphony of destruction and control he conducted. This battle was not merely survival—it was a test of will, mastery, and the culmination of a life forged through loss and pain.
The Ruinborn tilted its head, a grotesque mockery of curiosity, and Hex could feel the intelligence within it, calculating, predicting, rewriting itself with each passing second. Its muscles flexed, bones subtly rearranged, sinews taut like living wires, and the clock hand glowed faintly brighter, sensing Hex's latent intent. This was no ordinary creature. It was a predator, a being designed for one purpose: survival at any cost. But Hex Nocturne was something else entirely. He possessed not just raw power, but experience, instinct, and an intimate understanding of Aetherion—a mastery that allowed him to bend reality, tear through dimensions, and dissect existence itself. Adaptation alone would not win here. He knew this.
He inhaled slowly, allowing the currents of Shadowflare to gather, the invisible force swirling like a living entity around him, resonating with his innate elemental affinity. There was no need for words. There was no time. Only the singular, unwavering objective: erase this abomination before it could endanger lives again.
Flash-step.
Hex vanished.
The Ruinborn did not anticipate where he would strike. Hex reappeared above the creature, fist descending with deadly precision. Void Sever—Perfect Divide. The invisible slash tore through the air, splitting the Ruinborn's head with surgical exactness, bypassing flesh, bone, and sinew, striking directly at the concept of form itself. For a fleeting moment, it seemed undone. A pause in its otherwise constant regeneration.
And yet, it reformed.
Muscles reknit. Bones flowed. Flesh reshaped itself with grotesque artistry. Hex narrowed his eyes. "…You adapted to the cut already," he murmured, his voice low, measured, but filled with grim acknowledgment. He could feel the rhythm of its evolution, every twitch, every adjustment, every fraction of a second cataloged in his mind.
Hex raised his arm again, letting raw, destructive force manifest this time. Void Sever—Oblivion Crash. The strike tore forward with all the intent of annihilation, an invisible force capable of cleaving mountains, splitting the earth, tearing the atmosphere. Peaks shattered. Rocks exploded skyward. Clouds were shredded as if reality itself could not withstand the force. And yet, when the dust settled, the Ruinborn emerged, intact, its clock hand spinning ever faster, a silent, defiant mocking of Hex's power.
Hex's lungs drew deep. Each breath burned with effort, but he did not waver. This was a creature of adaptation, but Hex was a master of anticipation. He could feel its moments of hesitation, the slight lag between its awareness and its reaction. That was all he needed. The only variable left was him, the one force it could never predict. The master of Aetherion.
Suddenly, the Ruinborn turned, grotesque smile fixed on the distant city, on the fragile, fleeing humans. Hex's jaw tightened. He could not allow them to die—not after all that had happened. Flash-step. He reappeared before the Ruinborn mid-charge, meeting its chest with a fist that sent it rocketing into the clouds. Thunder split. Lightning danced in the storm above, arcs of energy crackling where Hex moved.
The battle escalated into the upper atmosphere, fists and claws tearing through clouds with unearthly speed. Each collision fractured reality. Every dodge, every counterstrike, every strike of power, was meticulously calculated, yet the Ruinborn adapted faster than any opponent Hex had ever faced. Bones reformed, sinews stretched, muscle twisted, all guided by an instinctive intelligence that was terrifying to behold.
Hex dragged the creature through the stratosphere, away from human lives, until they arrived at a desolate island—stone, jagged peaks, and nothing else. Here, Hex could fight freely, unrestrained. He slammed the Ruinborn into the ground so violently that the island fractured, boulders exploding into the air, dust swirling into a temporary storm of debris.
The Ruinborn roared, charging again, and Hex formed two slashes simultaneously, one surgical, one catastrophic. Void Sever—Twin Cataclysm Barrage. Meteors of invisible force rained from above, carving peaks into dust, reducing valleys to ash. Yet the Ruinborn moved through it, reforming faster than Hex could register, its clock hand spinning wildly, pushing adaptation to a horrifying degree.
Hex exhaled, mind calculating, body responding instinctively. The Ruinborn had adapted to slashes, to destructive force, to annihilation itself. The only variable remaining was him. And he would not fail. He condensed stellar energy, forming a sphere so dense it bent light around it. Solar Dominion—World Pyre. The sphere collapsed inward, detonated outward, erasing the island within ten kilometers. Silence. Smoke. Nothing remained.
Yet… footsteps.
From the scorched void, the Ruinborn emerged. Its clock hand had moved erratically, faster, more precise. Hex smiled grimly. "…Slashes don't work. Fire doesn't work. There's no way you should have survived that. Which means I underestimated you."
Lightning arced over Hex's body. Ancient spectral gates carved reality into flowing energy behind him. First Great Gate… Heaven-Lock: Storm Sovereign—Open. Reality trembled, his bones screamed, Aetherion pushed beyond natural limits. Five minutes. Enough to end this.
The Ruinborn growled, adaptation reaching its apex. Hex inhaled slowly. He would need every ounce of strategy, every measure of power, every fragment of experience. This was no longer just survival. This was war.
And the universe was about to witness it.