The sky was no longer a canvas—it was a battlefield painted in streaks of fire and shadow.
The bombing hadn't stopped for hours. From both the Republic and the Kingdom of Alexandria, massive sky-carriers loomed like titans in the clouds, releasing waves of mechanized drones and Inn-enhanced missiles. Cities were reduced to outlines. Glass domes melted into obsidian. Inn pressure twisted the air so violently that birds dropped mid-flight, suffocating in silence.
Herzl stood among the wreckage—barefoot, shirt torn, blood dripping from his right eye. In front of him, Ashura, half of his face burned from the last clash, still grinned like a lunatic war god.
"This is it," Ashura whispered. "This is the death of your hope."
Herzl didn't reply. He felt everything: the broken bones, the weight of fallen comrades, the tremor of Inn still rumbling within him like a second heartbeat.
He looked past Ashura—for just a moment—toward the horizon where Grim's shadow loomed above a collapsed spire, watching from a throne of glass. That presence made his blood colder than the flames around him.
"Are you afraid?" Ashura asked.
"No," Herzl answered. "I'm… finally awake."
THE FINAL ROUND BEGINS
Ashura launched forward like a missile, fist glowing red with compressed Inn.
Herzl stepped into his stance. The ground cratered beneath his heels, and time seemed to pause.
CLASH.
The first impact sent a shockwave so massive that a warplane overhead lost all navigation and crashed into a crater below, vaporized on impact.
Ashura's Inn began to warp the battlefield around him—his body split into seven phantoms, each punching at once. Herzl, eyes glowing white, expanded his Inn into a mirror field—each strike reflected, redirected, countered.
"You've evolved," Ashura grunted, twisting mid-air.
Herzl smirked. "And you've hit your ceiling."
Ashura snapped.
He roared and tore open his chest with his bare hands, revealing a heart of obsidian Inn. He threw it forward like a dying star—an ultimate blast designed to obliterate both of them.
Herzl, unfazed, raised one hand. "Collapse."
His Inn folded the star in mid-air, crushed it like paper, and turned it into a singularity—Ashura's trump card had become a black hole. For a moment, there was no sound.
Then—BOOM.
THE AFTERMATH
Ashura lay broken. His limbs bent unnaturally, his eyes bloodied but still alive. "Heh… you really did it…"
Herzl walked to him, breathing hard. "You're not the enemy I fear."
"Grim?"
Herzl nodded. "He's not fighting to win. He's fighting… to cleanse. This war was never about nations."
Ashura coughed blood. "Then… you'll need more than power."
Herzl looked up.
All around them, the Grim Crew was falling back. Not retreating—relocating. Preparing for the next phase. The Republic was in ruins. The Kingdom of Alexandria stood… but barely. Their last ace, Herzl, was now marked by every nation.
And Grim? He remained in the shadows, smiling.