The air cracked.
Not from thunder, but from the sheer force of clashing wills.
Ashura's black glaive tore the wind open as it slashed toward Herzl, who dodged with a pivot that shattered the cobblestone beneath his feet. Buildings burned in the backdrop, and in the far distance, the screams of the Republic's last legions echoed. But neither warrior heard them — they were gods now, locked in a dance only death could choreograph.
"You're slowing," Ashura sneered, crimson eyes glowing like hellfire. "That all your Inn can conjure?"
Herzl didn't answer. His breathing was steady. His body was scarred and soaked, but his gaze—ice.
He remembered the first day Anna taught him to wield Inn. How he couldn't even channel a pulse of energy through his palm. Now?
He stomped.
The ground around him surged—twisted—as his Inn pulsed outward, manipulating gravity itself. Ashura was pushed back slightly, footing shaken for just a second.
And that second was all Herzl needed.
He appeared in front of Ashura—not teleported, but folded through space using compressed Inn. His fist struck the warlord's chest, sending him flying through a skyscraper-like tower of broken stone and glass.
Before Ashura could recover, Herzl followed up, conjuring a spear of condensed light, launching it like a railgun blast. Ashura gritted his teeth, catching it mid-air—but it detonated in a blinding flash, obliterating the ground beneath them.
The city was dying around them.
Above, two dragons—a Republic hybrid and one from Alexandria—locked mid-air, tearing each other apart with fire and claw.
Below, members of the Grim Crew were in full clash with Republic special units. Omi laughed as he danced between enemy blades, severing heads like petals off a flower. Lya fired precision Inn bullets from her rifle, tearing through armored tanks like they were paper. Anna, surrounded by blazing flame, stood on the burning wreck of a warship, screaming a warcry as planes screamed overhead, unloading their payloads.
War. Chaos. Art.
Back in the cratered streets, Ashura emerged from rubble, armor cracked, one eye bleeding—but grinning.
"You've gotten stronger, Herzl. But strength isn't enough."
Then he did something unexpected.
He dropped his glaive.
Hands bare, Ashura activated his full Inn — black chains erupted from his spine, whipping around like wild serpents, breaking through matter itself. He wasn't just manipulating energy. He was bending consciousness—reality distorted around him, memories warped, the sky wept.
Herzl stood firm.
He activated his core stage — his Inn, once raw and unshaped, now became crystalline threads around his body, forming ethereal armor, runes glowing along his limbs. He drew his own blade—short, simple—but it shimmered with the power of a thousand lifetimes of resolve.
"You're not the only one who's learned," Herzl whispered.
And then the final clash began.
Each strike sent shockwaves through the battlefield. Entire blocks of the city collapsed. The sky split with light. Buildings crumbled like paper. The very continent felt their fury.
Ashura laughed through it all, bloodied but delighted. "Good! GOOD! Show me what you've become!"
Herzl didn't scream.
He just whispered:
"I've become what I had to be."
As Ashura went for a final, devastating blow—Herzl vanished again.
Appeared above him.
And drove his blade into Ashura's chest, through the storm of chains, through the flame, through the madness.
The silence that followed was unnatural.
Then—
Ashura dropped to his knees, blood spilling like ink.
But even in defeat, he smiled.
"You think this war ends with me…?" he coughed, voice low.
Herzl said nothing.
Ashura's eyes darkened.
"You still don't know who Grim really is."
Herzl froze. The battlefield kept burning. Planes kept screaming overhead. But in that one moment, time stood still.
And somewhere… far away… in a forgotten corner of the world…
Grim opened his eyes.