Smoke rose like spirits from the scorched earth.
A single breeze dared cross the battlefield, carrying ash, silence, and the copper sting of blood.
And amid the ruin—
Alex stood.
Katana low. Head bowed. Motionless.
Steam curled from his battered form in lazy wisps, trailing off bruised skin and torn armor. Blood pooled beneath his boots, dark and glistening, mixing with the remnants of shattered stone. The katana in his grip still smoked, a quiet testament to the force it had just unleashed—an attack that defied logic, cost, and consequence.
He hadn't moved.
Not since the strike.
Because even for him—especially for him—that blow had been a double-edged sword. It hadn't just torn through earth and mana. It had carved through him. Flesh, bone, and will.
And yet… he remained.
Across the battlefield, Khepri knelt, half-buried in the rubble of his masterpiece. His greatest creation. His last hope.
Gone.
