It was not a battlefield.
Not in the way anyone understood it.
There were no armies. No banners. No cries of steel on steel.
Only a throne.
A broken sky.
And two men—both kings.
One, born of silence, carved from perfect logic, untouched by grief or joy.
The other, once the same… now flawed, bleeding, human.
Ael stepped forward, sword lowered but steady.
The Hollow King rose from his throne of ash and memory. His cloak dragged behind him like a mourning shroud. Eyes like polished obsidian bore down on Ael—not angry.
Just… questioning.
"You had every reason to give up," he said. "You saw the truth. The weight. The futility."
Ael didn't argue.
He nodded.
"I did."
The Hollow King tilted his head.
"Then why are you here?"
Ael looked at the sky—splintered, cracked, as if reality itself was holding its breath.
Then down at the ground—nothing but fragments of what had once been a world.
He smiled—not from triumph.
But from understanding.
"Because I chose to feel."
—
The Hollow King raised a hand.
And the sky fell.
Blade-shaped meteors forged from Ael's darkest regrets crashed around him—each one a memory turned weapon.
The village he burned.
The brother who betrayed him.
The soldier who died whispering his name, still believing in a king who didn't care.
Ael didn't run.
He stepped forward.
Every step echoing with seven lights—Emotion. Hope. Longing. Trust. Remorse. Faith. Self.
The sword in his hand responded—not with power, but meaning.
He cut through the first meteor.
It burst, not in flame, but in light.
He cut through the second.
It whispered a name: "Aeryn…"
He didn't stop.
He cut through all of them.
Until only the Hollow King remained.
—
Their blades met.
No sparks.
No slow-motion impact.
Just truth.
The Hollow King fought with precision. Every strike perfect, calculated, merciless. He moved like gravity—inevitable.
Ael fought with heart.
His technique was flawed.
His form was uneven.
But he adapted. Reacted. Felt.
He bled.
And still, he smiled.
"You don't understand," Ael said between breaths. "That's what makes us different."
The Hollow King struck harder. Faster. "Understanding is weakness. Emotion is error."
"No," Ael whispered, eyes blazing.
"It's choice."
—
The duel raged through memory.
They fought in Ael's first battlefield—where he killed his mentor.
They fought in Lyra's library—where magic had first shown him beauty.
They fought in Elric's dream—forged from guilt and fire.
Every step broke and remade something.
Until they came to a place neither had ever seen.
A place of pure white.
No past.
No pain.
Just potential.
The Hollow King staggered.
He looked at his own hands—and saw cracks.
Hairline fractures where Ael's presence had begun to spread.
"What is this…?"
Ael stood across from him.
"You were built to end the world."
He raised his sword—not in violence, but in mercy.
"I was born to begin one."
—
The final blow was not a strike.
It was a release.
Ael dropped his sword.
Stepped forward.
And embraced the Hollow King.
The being froze.
Shook.
Shattered.
Not into ash.
But into light.
And from that light…
A whisper.
Not Ael's voice.
Not the Hollow King's.
But something older.
And softer.
"Then let it begin."
—
The world reset.
Not into the past.
Not into perfection.
But into possibility.
Rain fell. Real, wet, warm rain. Not tears, not ash.
Mountains reformed.
Cities remembered.
The sky turned blue—and stayed.
And Ael Rynhart stood in a world he no longer ruled.
But belonged to.
—
Lyra found him in the center of the first green field.
She didn't speak.
She just held him.
He didn't cry.
But for the first time… he knew he could.
—
The Ashen Banner disbanded—not in sorrow, but in peace.
Each soldier returned home.
Not as warriors.
But as witnesses.
The war was over.
The world had changed.
Not because a king decreed it.
But because a man who had once felt nothing… chose to feel everything.