"Light may burn… but I break before I bend." – Hakan
"You are resistance, nothing more." – Luxarion
The battlefield was silent.
The sky fractured above them, storms caught in hesitation.
Luxarion hovered like a celestial executioner, his silver wings stretched to their limit, glowing with pressure so dense it bent the air into glass.
Each breath of his was a pulse of energy — and each pulse carried enough force to split a mountain.
On the ground below, Hakan cracked his neck. His shirt was torn. His fists were bloodied. But his eyes…
His eyes weren't afraid.
He exhaled once.
And moved.
Luxarion snapped forward — a blur of white light.
Photon Severance.
He struck with a radiant elbow aimed at Hakan's head. But in that same instant—
Hakan bent backward.
His entire body rippled like a wave — perfect muscle control, no wasted energy.
And then—
Coilfang Reversal.
Hakan coiled his body around the strike, redirecting Luxarion's momentum back at him — then flipped him into the air with a brutal counter-kick to the ribs.
The shockwave alone flattened the terrain in a 100-meter radius.
Collision Two — Atom-Splitting Hands
Luxarion roared, wings flaring.
A supernova of silver light blasted from his body as he dove again.
But Hakan stood his ground.
Particle Dreadmill.
His palm met Luxarion's chest — and in that moment, Luxarion's body began to crack.
Not bones.
Not armor.
His particles.
Subatomic friction tore through Luxarion's radiant form, causing his energy to sputter.
Luxarion staggered, coughing silver mist, before retaliating with a spinning heel kick that could shred metal.
Hakan caught it.
Luxarion backed off. Eyes narrowed. Wings curved.
"Enough playing."
Event Spiral.
Hakan spun — a vortex of gravitational disruption unfurling from his rotation. Reality twisted, timelines frayed. Luxarion felt his past and future splinter.
But he didn't stop.
"I am light eternal!"
Luxarion surged through the spiral, taking damage — but returned it with a blinding headbutt that sent Hakan flying miles across the desert.
Hakan skidded to a halt. Blood dripped from his mouth. His shirt was in tatters.
He wiped his jaw.
"Alright then."
Umbraradiance Fang.
No weapon. Just a strike — barehanded, but layered with collapsed photons and compressed dark matter.
He struck Luxarion straight in the chest.
Boom.
The light twisted.
Silver turned black.
Luxarion screamed as his own light betrayed him — inverted, corrupted.
But he retaliated.
Final Form: Absolute Lumina.
Luxarion erupted into a blinding form, pure silver light condensed into a body of burning pressure. Each footstep melted the ground. Each breath distorted space.
And he came.
Fast.
Hard.
Ruthless.
Hakan tapped into the rhythm.
Ghostwalk Rhythm.
He vanished mid-breath — appearing behind Luxarion, then beside him, then below — raining down palm strikes, elbow smashes, and knee shots with seismic force.
He moved without thought.
Only instinct.
Only purpose.
Luxarion countered with Sol Requiem, a field of burning pulses that erased space.
Hakan tore through it with Heaven-Hook Pulse, syncing his heartbeat with the cosmos, breaking the rhythm of the divine light.
Then—
Black Bloom Counter.
Luxarion struck with fury.
Too much fury.
Too much emotion.
From his own chest, a bloom of black energy burst — seeded from his aggression, blooming from his defeat.
Luxarion staggered.
Hakan rose into the sky. No wings. No armor. No weapon. Just breath and gravity and resolve.
Quarkfall Execution.
He brought his palms together—
SNAP.
A singularity formed between them—small, silent, and infinite.
He launched it into Luxarion's chest.
Everything bent.
Then exploded outward.
Silence.
Dust.
Light.
Collapse.
Luxarion hit the earth like a fallen comet, light flickering, breath ragged.
And above him, bleeding, tired, shirtless—
Hakan stood.
No cape.
No fanfare.
Just the man who refused to die.
The air turned to blood.
Seraphina's eyes widened. Her grip over the battlefield trembled—her fingers curling, clawed and trembling with a rage she could no longer swallow.
She had seen it.
Luxarion—defeated.
Dimitri—fallen.
Aurelian—silent.
Her three warhounds—useless.
And Hakan… Hakan stood atop the ruins of Luxarion's light. Ren's aura still flared like a living commandment. Soren's white flame flickered like the last sun that refused to die.
Her expression twisted.
A smile.
A twitch.
Then a scream—no, not a scream. A rupture.
"ENOUGH!"
The sky itself tore.
Seraphina erupted into a cyclone of raw void energy, her body now seething with clawed wings of obsidian fire, veins pulsing with unfiltered chaos. The glyphs carved into her flesh ignited as her rage detonated across the battlefield.
A single blast.
Half her army—thousands upon thousands of dark elves, beasts, constructs—disintegrated. Their screams didn't even echo; they were consumed in silence.
The earth split beneath her. The void answered her fury.
But Rhalvion stood between her and humanity's last front.
His golden eyes burned as his cloak unfurled like dragon wings.
"Barrier of the First Flame."
The ground beneath the Silver Valkyries and allied warriors turned gold—encased in draconic runes. The void wave shattered against it like glass on granite. Iffah stood shielded behind him, shocked by the sheer scale of what would have been obliteration.
But Seraphina wasn't done.
"ALL OF YOU… will DIE SCREAMING!"
She launched.
Faster than sound. A barrage of void daggers, spatial implosions, and dark meteors cascaded toward the heroes. Kaelen leapt to intercept, Alaric detonated kinetic bursts to stall her momentum. The Silver Valkyries hurled radiant counter-fire.
And then—
From the sky, two figures crashed down like gods.
One wrapped in pressure and breath.
The other cloaked in authority and command.
Hakan and Ren.
They landed between the others and Seraphina, their combined arrival creating a gravitational shockwave that scattered her next assault.
Seraphina's eyes went blood-red.
"You two again?! What does it take to make you STAY DEAD?!"
Hakan rolled his shoulders.
"Still not enough rage to finish the job, I see."
Ren pointed a single finger toward her, voice cold.
"Submit. Or be erased."
She laughed.
"Cute."
And with a wave of her hand, she tore open the scar in the sky once more. But this time…
It wasn't to summon puppets.
It was to unleash annihilation.
The Legion Dimitri had warned of.
A black tide. A million strong.
Colossal beasts stitched from bone and shadow. Humanoid nightmares riding chariots of flame. Crawling void centipedes the size of buildings. Skies blackened by winged predators. Foot soldiers of the abyss, all armored in screaming obsidian, snarling in unnatural tongues.
The world groaned under their approach.
"This is your fate," Seraphina whispered, her voice like oil sliding across the mind. "The death of your realm. The death of this age."
She raised her hand to command—
And the sky turned silver.
A blinding horn sounded.
High, clear, eternal.
A new portal opened on the opposite end of the battlefield, and through it—lines of soldiers, glowing in pristine whites and greens. Armor crafted from living light, banners bearing the sigil of the moon and forest.
Swords drawn. Bows ready.
The Elves had arrived.
At their front: a tall figure with flowing silver robes, his gaze ancient, his crown woven from starlight.
Elven High King, Elarion Vaereth.
He raised his hand—and the stars moved.
Behind him, the Sage of Dawn, a primordial being robed in light, chanted an incantation that split the skies.
Elarion's voice boomed across the fields:
"Seraphina Nyxthalia, betrayer of Eldorwyn, corrupter of Aurelian... your time has ended."
His sword left its scabbard like a comet.
"FOR ANERION. FOR THE REALMS!"
The two armies collided.
Light versus void. Order versus madness.
And in the center—Seraphina screamed in fury as Hakan and Ren advanced on her once more, backs protected by a new wave of allies.
The war for existence had truly begun.
And this time…
No one held back.
The sky screamed.
The battlefield had become a rift of raw destruction—white flame, void magic, and spectral dragons clashing above the armies. The very air fractured with every blow exchanged between Seraphina, Hakan, and Ren.
Seraphina danced like a shadow wreathed in chaos, her limbs unraveling into spears of darkness, her aura a corruption storm.
Hakan burst through the dark with a Storm Quake slam, lightning and quake rippling through her shields, forcing her to dodge into Ren's trap—Dominion Lock dropped like a prison of golden reality.
She broke it. Barely. Her eyes wild with frustration.
"You shouldn't be able to keep up with me!" she snarled, void chains snapping from her hands toward Hakan.
Ren countered. "You've underestimated the will of men. Again."
"Then BURN!"
She unleashed a burst of anti-reality—flames that unmade structure and memory—but Hakan's Chronoblade Reversal carved back through the instant, undoing her spell at its origin.
"Your flames burn nothing," he growled.
But she still moved faster than belief, fighting like a rift given form. Every second was survival. Every dodge, earned.
Until—
A second sun exploded into the battlefield.
The Sage of Dawn had arrived.
A being of living radiance and measured silence, Elarien Solvannis, stepped forward beside the Elven King. His presence alone dimmed Seraphina's chaos, as if even corruption knew to bow before truth.
Rhalvion appeared beside him, golden energy swirling from his back in vast draconic sigils.
Seraphina turned—eyes wild now, uncertain. Her grin cracked. "No…"
Rhalvion's voice rang like a bell forged in the beginning of time.
"Your end has come, Seraphina."
Solvannis raised one hand, and the battlefield stilled as light pulsed outward in perfect waves. Primordial radiance.
Seraphina backed away. Her facade crumbling. "I won't fight two Primordials… not while that cursed dragon watches... and that damn sage breathes."
She screeched in rage, slashing her arm open and drawing a glyph of departure in the air.
"I'll return. Stronger. With Him."
She vanished into a collapsing black vortex, her last words a hiss of defiance.
The battlefield stilled. Monsters still clashed with elves and humans in the distance, but the storm at its center had broken.
Ren stood, breathing steady but eyes sharp. The Elven High King, Elarion Vaereth, descended from the skies with grace, his armor shining silver and green.
He landed beside Ren.
"You fight like one of our own," Elarion said calmly. "And yet… you are of men."
Ren gave him a sideways glance, unreadable. "You came late. But you came."
Elarion studied him. "You wear the weight of sovereignty. But not of arrogance. Why do you fight?"
Ren's tone was quiet. Final.
"To make sure none of this happens again."
The king nodded slowly. "Then you and I… will speak. Soon."
The light dimmed. The winds slowed.
Rhalvion stood alone beneath the crescent sky. And from the shimmer of golden flame… came a shape long thought lost.
Azharel.
The First Monarch. The Eternal Flame.
Not summoned—reflected, through Rhalvion, as if the dragon's true soul had always been watching.
Across from him, the Sage of Dawn stepped forward. Time seemed to pause as the two beings who had once stood side by side at the edge of the cosmic war now faced each other again.
Azharel's voice echoed through Rhalvion.
"Solvannis."
The Sage's eyes shimmered. "It's been too long."
"Eons," Azharel replied.
"And yet here we are. Again. At the edge of ruin."
The silence between them held weight—memories unsaid, battles not yet healed.
Azharel's voice was low.
"She's trying to bring Him back."
Solvannis nodded. "And the only thing standing between her and that… is them."
They both turned to look—at Hakan, Soren, Ren, Iffah, Alaric, the Valkyries.
Azharel spoke again.
"Then we stand behind them."
\
Amid the broken silence of victory, as wounded soldiers were tended to and the sky dimmed from its fury, Solvannis stood still—gazing across the battlefield. The Sage of Dawn's radiant eyes flickered… and stopped on one man.
Hakan.
His body bore no elemental resonance. No divine marking. No aura signature. Nothing that spoke of power.
But he stood—unbroken, untrembling, a warrior who had just battled a weaponized being of light and fury… and won.
Solvannis frowned. Then his expression sharpened.
He looked to Rhalvion.
"...Azharel."
His voice shook the air, not from volume—but weight.
Rhalvion turned slowly, his golden gaze steady. And when he spoke, it wasn't his voice.
It was Azharel.
"Yes, old friend."
Solvannis stepped forward. His calm was gone. His jaw clenched.
"You did it," he whispered. "You actually did it."
Azharel didn't answer.
"You saved him," Solvannis continued, voice rising now, cracking with celestial disbelief. "You saved the sacrifice."
Gasps echoed among the Valkyries. Even the Elven King, Elarion, turned.
Hakan stiffened.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, but neither answered.
Solvannis' eyes never left Rhalvion—never left him.
"You knew the cost. We all agreed. All the realms. Eleven unified councils. The sacrifice was the key—the price for sealing the True Master."
Azharel's silence deepened.
"Only two refused," Solvannis said, almost spitting the words now. "You, Dragon of the First Flame. And a human—a mortal with a mind too vast for any age."
He pointed directly at Hakan.
"And now he stands here. Alive. Breathing. After everything we gave up—after the lives, the worlds, the oaths… you hid him?!"
Azharel's reply was quiet. Heavy.
"I didn't hide him. I don't know how he survived."
Solvannis flinched like he'd been struck.
"Liar."
Azharel's voice sharpened, echoing across the sands.
"I don't lie, Solvannis. Not to you."
For a moment, even the wind was afraid to move.
Then—
Solvannis turned away, rage still in his chest… but doubt slowly bleeding into his gaze. He looked once more at Hakan—at the fire in his eyes, the blood on his fists, the will that bent even cosmic prophecy.
He whispered, half to himself.
"…Then what is he?"
Azharel said nothing.
Because even he—did not know.
The battlefield had quieted.
The cries of war had dulled into silence. Only the wind moved now, sweeping over the broken sand, blood-soaked stone, and the bodies of monsters too cruel to be remembered.
Dragons flew overhead, circling protectively. Elven banners were being raised beside human standards.
And at the center of it all—Hakan walked forward.
His clothes were torn, his body battered, and his aura still humming with the tension of war. But his eyes… they were calm. Sharper. Grounded. He had seen what he needed to see. And now, he was back.
Iffah stood just ahead—still in battle posture, her blade at her side, her silver-and-blue cloak torn at the edges. Her face turned the second she sensed him.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then—
She walked toward him. No words. Just steps.
He stopped a few feet from her, breath steady.
"Iffah."
Her throat tightened.
"You said you'd return…"
A pause.
"I meant it."
And without warning, she stepped forward and hugged him, gripping his tunic tightly. She didn't cry—but he could feel it in the way she held him. Not relief. Not weakness.
Something deeper.
Reassurance.
"You came back at the edge of the world, you idiot."
Hakan gave a small smile. "Wouldn't miss the end of the world for anything."
She pulled back slightly, her eyes locked on his. "We almost lost everything."
"But you didn't," he replied. "Because you were here."
Before Iffah could answer, another voice broke the moment.
"…You're really back."
Alaric.
He stood just behind Iffah, arms slack at his sides, clothes soaked in blood and sweat, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes held the storm.
Hakan turned toward him, silent.
Alaric stepped forward, each step heavier than the last.
"You said I was your second."
"I was," Hakan said.
"No," Alaric cut in. His voice cracked, just a little. "You are. And you left me. You left all of us. Rina almost died. I—"
He exhaled hard, eyes lowering.
"I wasn't enough."
Hakan didn't hesitate. He stepped right in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder.
"You carried the world," Hakan said, voice low. "You weren't supposed to win it. Just hold it long enough for me to come back."
Alaric's jaw clenched. "I kept asking myself, what would Hakan do? Every damn day."
"And you did it," Hakan said. "Better than even I could've."
Alaric's shoulders dropped—just slightly. He looked up.
"…We lost people."
"I know."
"But we're still here."
Hakan nodded. "And we finish what we started."
Behind them, Soren was being lifted onto a reinforced stretcher, his white-flame-scorched armor barely holding. His chest moved—faintly. Still alive. But barely.
"He fought Aurelian alone," Iffah whispered.
"He's Soren," Hakan replied, eyes following the medics. "He'd fight the sky itself if it looked at him wrong."
And then, he looked back at Alaric.
"I'm proud of you."
Alaric didn't speak. He just gave a nod.
A real one.
Like a blade being reforged.
The calm didn't last.
The wind had settled. The battlefield was still. Elven healers moved through the wounded. The dragons in the sky circled slowly now, a quiet victory echoing through the air.
But then…
A pressure.
Familiar.
Wrong.
A ripple of unstable energy tore the silence apart—Aurelian's body began to reconstruct itself just outside the perimeter of the medic tents.
He rose—slowly—his eyes dim, chest still burned open where Soren's last strike had landed. But breath returned to his lungs, and the light beneath his skin began to glow once again.
He was alive.
"I moved all of it," he gasped, blood running down his chin. "All of my power… condensed into my heart. That was always the failsafe…"
He looked up.
And he saw Hakan. Standing just a few feet away.
Hakan's arms were around Iffah, her head on his shoulder. Peace. Reunion.
Aurelian's expression twisted.
"…You don't deserve peace," he snarled.
He lifted his hand, golden frost and starlit flame coalescing again.
"I'll tear it from your soul—"
But he never finished the sentence.
Schhhhhhkk—
A black claw—massive, curved, and forged in abyssal silence—burst through Aurelian's back.
His breath caught. His body froze.
The magic in his hand dissipated.
Blood trickled down his lip. And slowly, his head turned to see what had pierced him.
It was a claw of pure darkness—seething, ancient. A force of finality.
"You'll go through me," a voice rumbled, "before even thinking of approaching my master."
Aurelian's mouth opened—but the breath never came. His heart, the core of his rebirth, shattered inside his chest. The light in his veins flickered.
And he died. Fully. Absolutely.
The claw pulled back.
His body collapsed like broken crystal.
And behind it stood a figure cloaked in ever-consuming shadow.
A being so feared that even death dared not speak his name—
Xyvarion.
The Dragon of Death.
Master of the Tenebral Hollows.
Keeper of endings.
He stepped forward, obsidian scales crackling with sealed power. His very presence silenced the air.
Then—he dropped to one knee.
"My liege… I have returned."
Hakan stepped forward, guarded but calm. Iffah instinctively took a step back.
Xyvarion kept his head low. "The Hollows no longer belong to the dark. They are yours now, Monarch."
Hakan's eyes narrowed.
"…You're stronger," he said quietly. "Stronger than when we last met."
The aura—the pressure—he hadn't felt this from Xyvarion before. Not even close.
"Did you gain it back?"
Xyvarion looked up, dark eyes glinting.
"All of it. Sixty percent—unsealed. I am at full power now."
Hakan's expression didn't shift. But something passed behind his gaze. Memory. Caution.
"…We'll talk later."
He turned to walk away, but Xyvarion spoke again.
"Master. May I have your permission… to take Aurelian into my soldiers."
Hakan stopped.
He turned slightly.
"…What do you mean by that?"
Xyvarion slowly rose to his feet.
His smile was unreadable.
"I mean… his soul still lingers. And in the Hollows, even the light… must kneel."
Hakan's silence lingered in the air, the battlefield frozen around him.
Aurelian's body—still warm, still radiating the last flickers of ancient power—lay sprawled beneath the crimson sunset. Broken. Defeated. Quiet.
Xyvarion stood over it, one clawed hand extended.
"I ask again, my liege…" His voice was low, respectful, but laced with the unshakable weight of power. "Let me claim him for the Hollow Legion."
Hakan glanced at Iffah, who gave a faint nod, then looked to Rhalvion in the distance, who only watched—silent and unreadable.
Finally, Hakan spoke.
"Do it."
The moment the words left his lips, the sky seemed to darken.
WHOOM.
A surge of death energy burst from Xyvarion. The sands beneath Aurelian blackened, crumbling into ash as a circle of abyssal glyphs formed under the corpse.
Aurelian's body trembled—tendrils of void coiling around him, wrapping like silk spun from the Hollow Realm itself.
"From light you rose. From pride you fell."
"Now rise again… as death's eternal blade."
The glyphs ignited.
Aurelian's eyes opened.
But they no longer held pride or purpose. Only cold obedience. A spectral silver glow replaced his usual gold, and blackened armor of cracked celestial fragments sealed over his body like burial plate.
He rose slowly, silently, kneeling before Xyvarion.
The once-king of the elves… reborn as a shadow of death.
Behind Xyvarion, the sand split open.
And from it—dozens more began to emerge.
Shadow warriors—some once elven, some beast, some unrecognizable. Twisted forms clad in blackened bone and armor, carrying weapons forged from void.
This was Xyvarion's Legion.
Each one bore a mark of the Hollow Throne, glowing faintly on their chest. Not undead. Not soulless. Something else entirely.
Loyal. Eternal. Unrelenting.
Xyvarion turned to Hakan, now with Aurelian behind him as a silent sentinel.
"My liege," he said with a quiet bow, "he is yours now. Bound to the Monarch's command, should you ever call upon him."
Hakan's eyes didn't blink.
"…Even in death, he'll serve."
Xyvarion gave a small, amused nod. "In death… he's finally useful."
Behind them, the rest of the shadow army assembled—hundreds and growing. Each one ready to be unleashed.
And as night fell over the battlefield, only one truth echoed:
This war had gained a new faction.
The Hollows had returned.
And they served the will of the Monarch.