Menma's legs buckled beneath him, the invisible pull from above growing heavier with each passing second.
He dug his heels into the cracked ground of Purgatory, trying to stand upright, but his body refused to cooperate.
It was as if an enormous weight pressed down on every inch of him—his arms, his chest, even the air around him felt thicker.
He dropped to one knee, the sword trembling in his hand.
Holding onto it was an effort now, let alone trying to swing it. Moving felt like swimming through concrete.
The force pinning him down wasn't natural; it was calculated, crushing, and far too familiar.
It was the power of the full moon conjured by Vel'Merath.
But luck, if it could be called that, hadn't completely abandoned him.
Moments before this, Menma had managed to toss a damage potion—more of a gamble than a strategy—straight at Vel'Merath.
And it hit. That split-second decision paid off. Vel'Merath now clutched his sides, his face contorted in agony as if his insides were set aflame.
He collapsed to his knees, the once overwhelming force of his creation beginning to wane.
The pull vanished. Menma could breathe again.
The heavy pressure in the air lifted, and for the first time in minutes, Menma didn't feel like he was being dragged into the core of the earth.
Gasping for air, he let himself fall onto the ground, not caring how it looked.
He sat back, breathing heavily, letting the pain in his limbs subside, letting the moment pass. The silence that followed was welcome.
Eventually, he stood and leapt out of the crater-like hole the moon's pull had carved.
As he landed on solid ground, his eyes found Vel'Merath again, just a short distance away.
The man looked nothing like the confident force he had been earlier.
He clutched his head, rocking slightly, his eyes wide in panic. His voice cracked with something far more terrifying than pain.
"No, no, no, no… I don't want to do that again," Vel'Merath muttered rapidly, over and over, as if trying to convince himself of something.
"It's annoying… I can't do what I want. No, no, no—"
Menma stepped closer, cautious but curious. "Who are you talking to?"
Vel'Merath stopped suddenly, as if yanked back to reality. He turned and spat venomously, "You sneaky bastard.
If you hadn't thrown that potion, you'd be long gone."
Menma smirked faintly. "Gotta think fast in a fight."
Vel'Merath stood upright, his earlier madness pushed aside by a colder resolve.
"It's a shame," he said, voice calmer now. "You're still breathing.
That means I can show you something better. Something final."
The ground rumbled slightly. Menma felt it under his feet before he saw it.
Vel'Merath's eyes narrowed as he raised his hand toward the sky. "Purgatorist Creation—Golden Moon."
Above them, the lone full moon began to change. It expanded, then duplicated.
One became two, then four, then eight—until ten enormous moons hovered in the sky, all circling slowly into formation.
Each one took its place, forming a rough perimeter around Menma, far enough that he couldn't reach them, but close enough to trap him.
His eyes darted from one glowing sphere to another. This wasn't just for show. He knew what was coming.
"This is bad," he muttered to himself. He tried raising his demon energy. 62%, 63%… that was all he could manage.
His body wasn't ready for more.
Still, he wasn't done. Menma pointed his sword at Vel'Merath, pouring the last bit of stored teleportation energy into its core.
In a flash, he vanished and reappeared beside him, blade already mid-swing.
The strike never landed.
One of the moons, moving with an unnatural intelligence, swooped in and blocked the blow before it could connect.
The other moons circled in closer, forming a tighter wall.
They glowed with increasing intensity, flickering like stars on the verge of detonation.
Menma backed off, trying to escape the tightening ring, but the moons followed every movement.
No matter which direction he dashed, they adjusted, herding him back into the center like prey.
Then they stopped moving.
A moment of stillness hung in the air—too quiet, too perfect.
And then, all ten moons fired beams of searing energy at once, converging where Menma stood.
Vel'Merath raised his hand dramatically. "This is where it ends for you."
The beams hit. The sky lit up. The blast that followed shook Purgatory to its core.
The shockwave spread for miles, flattening everything in its path.
The sound of it echoed across the vast desolate lands—so loud and violent that even faraway figures paused to look toward its source.
In the distance, Lunara and the witches turned toward the explosion.
The sky had changed color for a moment, shifting into something unnatural.
"What was that?" one whispered. "Who could've caused something like that?"
No answer came. But the fear was mutual.
Back at the scene, where Menma once stood, nothing remained.
That entire section of Purgatory had been erased, the earth scorched and torn apart.
The ground itself no longer looked real—like something had unstitched it from existence.
But that wasn't the end.
(FLASHBACK — TRAINING DAYS)
In a much quieter place, of the forest that Menma trained at , hr sat by a small fire with Zayne.
A spit with cooked rabbit spun lazily as the scent of meat filled the air.
Back then, Menma could only tap into 40% of his demon power. He poked at the fire, frustrated.
"I can raise my power," he said. "But is that enough? I still don't have a creation."
Zayne glanced over, chewing thoughtfully. "Demon power's one thing, but a Creation changes the whole game.
You need both. Power and purpose."
Menma looked at him. "What if the ability to control demon aura… what if that is my creation?"
Zayne shook his head. "Control isn't the same as creation. There's a difference."
He paused, staring into the fire. "I once heard about a kingdom—far from here. It was surrounded by a waterfall, but instead of water, it poured blood.
Day and night, it flowed, and people believed it was one of the gates connecting the human world and the demon dimension."
Menma's eyes widened.
"The people there," Zayne continued, "used that blood to merge a demon with a human.
Created warriors that were something in between.
They didn't just have power—they had something else.
A presence. A Creation that shaped how reality responded to them."
Menma asked the question lingering on his mind. "If you had a different Creation… what would it be?"
Zayne chuckled. "I don't know. Maybe it's still forming. That's the thing—Creations don't just appear.
They need to be triggered. Like a survival instinct."
Menma raised a brow. "And you're going to test that by trying to kill me?"
Zayne grinned. "Hey, it's the fastest way to find out."
(BACK TO THE PRESENT)
Silence again.
From the center of the destruction, a circular portal began to open.
It wasn't flashy or loud. It appeared like a ripple in glass—quiet, but absolute.
From within it, Menma stepped out, unharmed.
The ring spun once clockwise behind him before vanishing entirely.
He landed gently, his eyes locked on Vel'Merath.
"Human Creation," he said calmly. "Ring Master."