He took a deep breath. The hot air entered his lungs, but it wasn't suffocating, it wasn't harsh.
"I'm alive."
At that moment, that alone was enough.
"And as I expected, this body is cursed, cursed by fire... like the boy's condition. There's something wrong with that, but the important thing is that he saved me. The fire did that."
But then—a sound. A deafening screech tore through the silence, the grinding of rocks against rocks, a low roar building like distant tidal waves.
Except they weren't distant.
The Ocean's Grasp, the colossal entity they had thought defeated, was not lifeless after all. Its massive body stirred, its void-like eyes burning with pure, unrelenting hatred.
"It's impossible! How... how are we going to deal with this thing?" one of the Magins cried out, panic lacing their voice.
The entity glowed faintly, blue sparks flickering between its layers, illuminating its massive, decaying form. It began to rise, its movements slow but deliberate, its jaw opening wide. Inside, a dark, icy vortex swirled—a gravitational point of pure malice.
"What's the plan, damn it? Gamora is nowhere to be found, the King! The voices have vanished—did he die? And now this?!" Claude spat, his eyes fixed on the monstrous jaw.
Egologia stood motionless in the distance, watching as if he were safe, as if the chaos couldn't touch him. But the others—the leaders, the Magins, the guards—all froze, their breaths held in anticipation.
"This thing... is it going to do what it does?" Egologia muttered.
The entity's jaw opened wider, the vortex within growing darker, colder.
Then—
"Look!"
A high-pitched scream shattered the tension. But everyone had already seen it.
A golden light cut through the foggy sky, a blazing meteor of pure radiance. The gray gloom was overcome by the golden glow, a celestial festival of light and power.
The Ocean's Grasp, driven by instinct alone, opened its jaw wider, as if to consume the light. But the golden meteor pierced through its mouth, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
Then—
Massive rays of light erupted from within the entity, tearing through its body like divine judgment. Holes opened in its form, not from external blows, but from the light expelling its very existence. The golden beams burst through its cracks, its body glowing before exploding in a cascade of light and debris. Its rocky shoulders crumbled, its legs gave way, and its jaw crashed to the ground.
The once-mighty entity, the size of an island, was reduced to a pitiful heap, its final scream echoing not from its body, but from the halo of its disintegration. The Ocean's Grasp collapsed, its massive body shattering into debris that fell like comets. The shockwaves threw soldiers back, the ground trembling as if finally released from a nightmare.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Amidst the settling dust, something moved above the ruins.
Not a meteor, not energy—a man.
His image became clearer as the dust thinned.
Oriver Morgan
The Eternal Overseer of the Sky War.
The Eternal Heir of the most ancient lineage in Zirafin, the Oriver lineage.
The Golden Structure of Zirafin.
Valeras' only rival.
He stood atop the rubble, his presence alone rendering the ruins beneath him unworthy. His posture was regal, every inch of him radiating loftiness. His eyes—two glowing stars—did not reflect light; they created it. His long, golden hair flowed like liquid sunlight, a purity that could not be forged. His white robe, adorned with threads of gold, billowed softly in the wind.
In his clenched fist, he held the fate of the battle, a silent declaration that the Golden Structure had arrived.
The war was over.
Morgan looked around; there were no corpses. No remains. Only dust. The air was thick with it, a grim reminder of the bodies that had vanished. The human warriors were gone, leaving nothing but this fine, ashen residue on the barren surface.
Morgan could see it. He could feel them, even in their absence.
He spoke, his voice a mix of questioning and self-reproach.
"Valeras, you convinced me. You affirmed the necessity of this. And here you are, not even here to welcome me."
He stood still for a moment, his eyes slowly scanning the rubble, taking in the sheer scale of the devastation. In a hoarse, barely audible whisper, he wondered,
"Where...? Where could you be, a man like you, destined to rest in gold?"
He wasn't asking about Valeras' location. He wasn't seeking an answer. He was trying to understand... how could there be nothing left? How did it all end this way?
The wind rushed past him as he leaped, landing with his golden weight before the surviving leaders and Magins. The Magins quickly knelt, as did the two leaders, Darmin and Claude. Conflicting emotions overwhelmed them—terror, loss, the haunting scene before them, and the grim realization that the war was over... but at what cost?
Morgan slowly turned his head, his piercing eyes scanning the ruins.
The two other unconscious leaders.
A terrain completely wiped out.
The guards' corpses, limbs torn off.
The beasts, crushed and scattered like broken toys.
His voice was calm, but it carried an unshakable command.
"Lift your head."
There was no doubt—he was addressing Claude.
Claude hesitated, then slowly raised his head.
But as soon as his eyes met Morgan's, they dropped again, unable to bear the intensity of that gaze.
"In your opinion, is it all over? Is the war finished?"
Morgan's words were sharp, like a sword hanging over Claude's neck.
Claude hesitated, searching for an answer before the man who embodied Zirafin itself. Finally, he spoke with faint steadiness: "No, my lord."
Morgan's eyes widened slightly. "What do you mean? What remains?"
Then, as if realizing something, he locked eyes with Claude, his gaze glowing with suspicion....
"And how did you survive? I hope it wasn't due to much hiding."
"The king, my lord!... their king, he is free."
"Free?" Morgan's eyes ignited with worry.
But a voice came from above: "Nah, is... he's dead."