The battlefield held its breath as flames decorated the ruined skyline. Nolan and the Lord's personal guard had finally arrived on the scene—but they too stood frozen as Rikash and Falkore faced each other across the scorched earth. Whatever was about to unfold was beyond them.
No core magnitude detector was needed to measure the monstrous strength radiating from Falkore's body. They could feel it—his very presence pressing down on them like an invisible weight, making their existence feel insignificant.
Beads of sweat gathered on Nolan's forehead. Fear coiled in his gut, primal and unshakable, as he stared at the abomination before him. And then there was the other one... His gaze flickered to Code, standing motionless atop the city walls, observing. That man terrified him just as much.
Rikash wiped the blood trickling from his mouth, then unleashed the full force of his violet aura. The aura seemed to devour the light around it, dimming the world as his raging power surged skyward in a pillar of darkness and death. The scythe in his hand glowed a deeper shade of violet, and the scent of decay filled the air.
"Here I come."
His eyes blazed violet.
BOOM!!
The ground beneath his feet exploded into a crater as he launched forward with unimaginable speed.
Then—
BANG!!
Falkore barely managed to raise his great sword in time to block the strike, but the sheer force sent him crashing through several buildings in a storm of rubble and dust.
[Reaper Art: Wrath of the Damned]
The violet aura surrounding Rikash expanded violently, growing until it formed a colossal spectral scythe—twice the size of two school buses. The world itself seemed to shudder at the concept of death, incomplete yet undeniably lethal.
Then—
BOOM!!
Rikash struck with the fury of a dying star, obliterating everything at the point of impact.
A thick veil of smoke swallowed the ruins, pierced only by a sinister red glow. Lava bubbled from a sixty-meter crater, painting the devastation in hellish light.
"That was wild," Falkore's voice slithered through the haze as he emerged, bloodied but grinning. "Almost killed me. Almost."
His clothes hung in tatters, his body a canvas of wounds, yet his manic smile never wavered.
"My turn—"
Rikash gave him no chance. He struck again, a whirlwind of slashes and kicks, each movement precise and ruthless.
Nolan watched the battle unfold, and for the first time in what felt like forever, hope sparked in his chest. Watching Lord Rikash dominate that terrorist fueled his spirit—and the soldiers beside him, all viscounts, roared in approval. Yet deep in his gut, Nolan knew something was wrong.
BOOM!!!
Another city block disintegrated.
Rikash sent Falkore flying once more, tearing through another line of crumbling buildings. Rikash looked unstoppable, but he was tiring—bit by bit, and he knew it. He had to take down both Falkore and Medusa himself if Nolan and the others were to have any chance against Code.
So he unleashed it.
The power that separated a Duke from a Count.
[AVATAR'S EMBODIMENT: Harbinger of Death]
Rikash's aura condensed, wrapping around him in a cocoon of death so potent that nearby corpses withered to ash.
Ten seconds passed.
Then—the cocoon detonated.
And there he stood—reborn.
He now wore a dark violet robe with a hood drawn over his head. Beneath it, his face was skeletal, his eye sockets burning with violet fire. The scythe in his bony hands was now blackened obsidian, larger and heavier than before—its mere presence sucking warmth from the air.
Nolan and his men flinched, instinctively stepping back. Rikash looked terrifying—dangerous, even repulsive to those who clung to life. But they understood what this meant.
The path of ascension was one of will.
Each stage brought not only physical growth but a sharpening of the soul's authority.
A Soldier learns to channel Aether inward, reinforcing flesh and bone. They are raw potential—unrefined. Their will is simple: survive, endure, conquer.
A Knight does not just wield Aether—they command it. Fire, wind, steel—they bend the world's elements to their will. Their authority begins to extend beyond their body, shaping the battlefield itself.
A Viscount speaks, and the world answers. By invoking the true names of their techniques, they summon deeper, older forces to augment their techniques.
A Count's will bleeds into reality as aura, an unrefined but overwhelming pressure. They do not just fight—they impose their presence, forcing the weak to falter with sheer spiritual weight.
But a Duke?
A Duke is different.
They do not merely wield will—they define it. The authority of their existence crystallizes into form, a manifestation of their deepest truth, this was not just power—it was identity made tangible. This is the stage where will transcends the body and becomes law, the Avatar's Embodiment.
Falkore emerged from the rubble, still grinning. He felt it—the crushing authority of Rikash's Avatar form. Deadly. Oppressive. And amusing.
"Guess I'll step it up too," he mused.
Then—his aura erupted.
Vile. Black. All-consuming.
It shook the city to its foundations. Cracks spread across already crumbling walls. The darkness drained color from the flames themselves, leaving only a void-like emptiness in its wake.
"HERE I COME!" Falkore bellowed, and charged.
---
By dawn, Cliffhaven was no more.
Falkore had reduced Lord Rikash to a decapitated corpse. The city lay in ruins, districts flattened by their battle, his laughter echoing through the flames.
Medusa had twisted half the defenders into grotesque abominations, unleashing them upon the survivors. Nolan and his men fell, their final moments a chorus of screams.
And Code?
He watched.
Recorded.
And when silence finally claimed the ruins, he pressed a button on his watch.
A spatial rift tore open.
Saturn, the Ninth Hand, stepped through without a word.
His eyes swept over the devastation—cold, unmoved.
Then, they left.
The Hands of the Divine had sent their message.
Now, the world would listen
AUTHOR'S NOTE[ Please vote if you enjoy it. ; ) ]