Auren was wrecked—blood streaming from head wounds, dripping down his pale face. His body screamed, yet his eyes burned wild. Mid-air, above the temple of Mother Snake, he gasped for breath, and behind him the catastrophe shot upward like a beast unchained.

Pain tightened his chest, but Auren roared back, forcing his body to move. He whipped around, foot smashing into the monster's chest. BOOM! The sound echoed like a mountain breaking. The figure reeled, twisting midair, but returned instantly—jaws wide, claws ready to tear him in half.

Auren tilted, grabbed its waist, spun like a storm, and hurled the creature into the snow ridge. Spphhhhhh! Ice cracked, the beast buried deep. Auren, falling, raised his sword, voice tearing his throat—"Tremor Hunt!"

Black-green rays ripped across the sky, slicing the cliff and the land in two. Snow cascaded like broken glass. For a moment, the world froze. Then—ROARRR! The figure erupted from the ruin, body steaming, mouth open like a furnace. It struck Auren midair, fist colliding with ribs. CRACK! Blood sprayed. Auren slammed into the ground, but he rolled, blade flashing upward.

Clash! Metal screamed against hardened flesh. Sparks burst. Every strike shook the earth. The catastrophe swung, hammering kicks and elbows, smashing Auren through trees. Bones jarred, but Auren returned—slashes across chest and throat, slicing grooves into that body. Yet the wounds sealed, skin stitching with terrifying speed.

Aazin whispered inside the fusion, "Ryzin… he's Ash Phantom. If he lives, he'll outgrow us."

Ryzin's voice shook—"So this is Auren Ryuki… the boy wielding Vitara before time. No doubt, he must be erased."

The monster screamed again, louder, shaking snow from the mountains, rattling the temple itself. The sound stabbed into hearts like a curse.

And still—Auren rose, sword trembling in hand, smile bloody, eyes burning like twin storms.

Meanwhile, inside that shattered hall, Vaslimo was raging, his fat grotesque body long gone. Instead, he flipped, jumped, and moved like a jelly beast carved from iron, every motion shaking the ground. His hammer—black steel, weight of mountains—swung and echoed, each strike like punishment from hell itself.

But in front of him stood three giants.

Balira first—three-faced, six-eyed, the giant monkey with veins like rivers, his colossal hammer gripped in both hands. Each face growled differently—wrath, calm, madness. His roar thundered walls apart.

Beside him, Zarkis towered—wolf taller than ten men, his silver bones glowing under tone-flesh, each movement snapping lightning through his frame. His fangs flashed, steam rising, claws tearing stone like paper.

And Fenra—scaled serpent, six curling horns like a crown, eyes storms themselves. Around him, clouds gathered, thunder crawling across the ceiling, air humming with wrath.

Together they charged.

Balira swung first—hammer clashing against Vaslimo's. BOOOOM! The impact rattled the hall, energy ripping pillars apart. Zarkis leapt, jaws closing on Vaslimo's shoulder, silver bones flashing, ripping flesh and blood like metal tearing. Fenra coiled around, his horns glowing, storm pouring down, lightning stabbing Vaslimo's chest.

Vaslimo roared—swung his hammer, smashing Zarkis through three walls. Wolf howled, but came back, claws ripping deep across Vaslimo's belly. Balira hammered his spine, Fenra's storm ripped skin, and blood sprayed everywhere.

The hall became chaos—stone splitting, statues crumbling, thunder shaking every corner.

But Vaslimo—unyielding—fought like ten beasts. He flipped, slammed the hammer down, CRACK! Balira's chest split open, his three faces screaming. Fenra lunged—hammer smashed his crown of horns, blood gushed black, serpent crumbled into dust. Zarkis howled, fangs glowing, but Vaslimo caught his throat midair, hammering his skull into stone, crushing him.

Silence.

The storm faded. The hall burned with echoes. Vaslimo staggered—blood dripping, chest torn, arms broken in places—but alive. The three giants, Balira, Zarkis, and Fenra—gone. Their bodies shattered into fragments of aura, fading into mist, leaving Nyra's cry echoing in the ruined air.

Nova cut through the battlefield like a single blade through rotten cloth, weaving between painted soldiers and stumbling mages. The air smelled of blood and burning ink; the ground still hummed from Vaslimo's hammer shocks. He ran straight for the giant, heart slamming — this was the moment he'd been waiting for, the voice he'd bottled for decades.

He shoved himself forward and screamed with everything in his chest, voice tearing over the clash:"Why did you kill Jerry? Why do you always pretend to saint when you are a murderer? How can you do this, what he did to you?"

Silence snapped for a breath. Even the echoes paused. Everyone felt the accusation hang like a blade.

Vaslimo sat among the wreck, breathing heavily, armor smoking. He turned slowly, lips curling into a smile that had nothing of a saint in it now — a grin warmed by violence and time. The hall watched him — waiting for guilt, for denial — but found only a man who enjoyed the verdict.

He answered, voice soft and dangerous, every word a stone dropped into a grave:"I am a saint of Baku city. I killed Jerry because he deserved to die; he was the demon after all. I just purified land of eito, what I did wrong .ntg. hahaha"

The laughter spilled from him, raw and trolling, and it rolled through the ruined hall like an insult. It rubbed salt in old wounds; it sounded like confession and triumph braided together. Nova's hands clenched; his painted army faltered a step. Around them, mages flinched, Nyra's summons shifted, and some faces paled.

For a beat, the battlefield narrowed to two figures — the accuser and the man who smiled at murder — and the air tasted of iron and rotten faith. The sound of Vaslimo's laughter hung over the hall like a promise: this would not end clean, and the next strike would answer more than a name.

Dax lay slumped against a shadowed pillar in a ruined corner, blood tracing dark rivers down his chest. His breath was ragged, each inhale a battle; each exhale a surrender. Nyra dragged him there with everything her small body could give, arms shaking like cords of steel as she forced him to rest against cold stone.

She settled him hard, every movement urgent, clumsy with fear. Her hands trembled as she propped him up; sweat and ash dusted her skin. Up close, Dax's glossy eyes found Nyra's face. For a moment, the noise of the hall—hammers, screams, clashing metal—fell away.

Nyra's face crumpled. Tears leaked, hot and sudden; she tried to blink them away, to be the same mocking voice that always jabbed Dax into life. But now she couldn't. How could she hold him together when she could barely hold herself?

While she dabbed and cursed the wound, Dax's lips twitched into a smile through the pain. He looked at her and said, low and rough, the words half joke, half truth: Heyy hey, Nyra, don't cry .. my baby. I always used to fight you, bantering with you. But you sucks hahaha.

His laugh came out thin, but real—mocking, defiant, as if pain was only another thing to tease. It sounded like a man trying to make light of his last hour. He pushed breath through broken ribs and grinned like a fool who refuses to fold.

That grin sliced Nyra open all over. "Don't die, Dax, pls don't die. I want to kill you with my own hand. But don't die."

Her voice cracked on the last word—a desperate command, a prayer, and a threat rolled into one. She held him tighter, fingers clawing at his collar as if restraint would stitch life back into him. Around them, the battle roared, but in that ruined corner, it was only two people: a dying fighter who joked through pain, and the woman who refused to let him go.

"Will you miss me, Nyra, if I'm gone? Will you remember our fights, our disagreements—will you remember me?" Dax's voice was small, almost playful, but the question hung like a stone.

Nyra wiped her face, fingers shaking. She tried to laugh it off, voice rough and half-anger, half-love:"No why would i Iiss punk like you, huh?You don't matter to me. You never mattered to me. But just don't die. Nothere. Die sometimes. Ago dyDyingike this is not ok ."

Her words were jagged but honest — a shield around the care she couldn't give openly. She pushed at him with a shoulder, awkward and fierce, trying to shove life back into his ribs. Hands trembling, she pressed a cloth where his blood pooled, breath coming quick.

Dax flinched, then grinned like a bastard who knows the game. He kept teasing, keeping the mood raw and light, because that's what they'd always done—argue, spark, laugh, bleed together. Pain made the jokes sharper; closeness made them crueler and truer.

Around them, the hall roared on—hammers crashed, summons stamped, the Twin Catastrophe's shadow moved like a threat—but in that corne,r it narrowed to two: a dying man who baited the world, and the woman who cursed him into staying.

Nyra's eyes hardened for a second, voice low and fierce: "Don't you even try to leave me, punk."

Dax's laugh was a rasp. "Never. Not while you still suck at fighting."

She slapped his chest—half anger, half desperate affection—and for a breath, the war was outside and they were simply two broken friends stealing a moment.

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