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Chapter 42: The Aura of the Highs
The sanctuary stood bathed in an eerie twilight glow, the air so heavy it felt as though even sound dared not travel. The battle that had consumed Shinya's heart raged in scattered fronts: Xerx, the mystic, stood firm at the center of the rebel circle, his cloak torn and staff shimmering with unsteady light, the Captain of the King's Guard sprawled defeated at his feet. The rebels cheered faintly, only to be cut short as the heavens above darkened like a curtain being drawn across existence.
And then—they appeared.
The Celtic Highs.
Three towering figures descended from the sanctuary's upper halls, draped in robes threaded with darkness itself. Their aura wasn't just power—it was oppression incarnate. Their very presence pressed into the marrow of every man and woman present. The air bent, the ground groaned, and the sanctuary seemed to bow before them.
Herbet, sword trembling in his grip, gritted his teeth as his knees buckled against the unseen weight. Kaya collapsed to one hand, sweat dripping, her eyes wide at the overwhelming force pressing on her chest. The rebel ranks—men and women who had stood fearlessly against royal armies—found themselves forced onto their knees, gasping as though gravity had been multiplied a hundredfold.
Xerx's lips trembled as he muttered an incantation, trying to stabilize his nearly completed spell, but even his voice quaked. The dark aura of the Highs crawled along the edges of his magic like poison corrupting a stream.
The tallest of the Highs, Erythus, raised one pale hand. His voice rang out like thunder across an empty canyon.
> "Rebellion… nothing more than gnats clawing at the eternal order."
The second, Maelthar, stepped forward, his robe fluttering without wind. His eyes glowed black, and with every word, shadows thickened around him.
> "You dared stain our sanctuary, profane our halls with your mortal insolence. For this, there will be no mercy."
The third, Seyra, a woman with hair as white as winter frost, lifted both hands as a web of dark energy threaded between her fingers.
> "Kneel not in rebellion, but in death."
The sanctuary shook.
Their combined aura surged outward in a tide of crushing weight. It was no longer mere gravity—it was like the very concept of resistance was forbidden. Rebels screamed as their bones creaked under the force. Several collapsed flat, unable to breathe, their faces pressed into the marble floor of the sanctuary. Kaya bit her lip until it bled, her nails clawing against the ground as she tried to rise, but the weight slammed her back down.
Herbet roared, straining to hold his sword up, but the steel bent and trembled under the invisible weight, his knuckles splitting as he refused to let go. Xerx dropped to one knee, staff quaking, the luminous lines of his spell fracturing under the storm of darkness.
The Celtic Highs, in perfect unison, lifted their hands. A circle of black light spiraled above them, runes spinning like storm clouds. The sanctuary trembled as though it would collapse inward, the air burning cold as the spell built.
And then—they struck.
Bolts of black fire, lances of annihilation, surged downward in arcs that could have leveled mountains.
The rebels screamed.
Kaya's eyes shut tight.
Herbet shouted his last defiance.
Xerx tried to shield them with a barrier that shattered instantly.
But before the destruction consumed them, a light unlike any seen before erupted from the far end of the hall.
Blue. Blinding. Eternal.
The beams of annihilation slammed downward—and stopped. Suspended midair, frozen like arrows trapped in glass. The black energy hissed and writhed, yet could not descend further.
Slowly, every rebel lifted their eyes.
There—walking through the haze of rubble and shadow—was Moro.
But it was no Moro they had known before. His body glowed with a brilliance that seemed born of the very essence of creation. His veins pulsed with azure fire, his eyes a radiant cobalt blaze. His aura flowed not like the crushing weight of the Highs, but like a current—lifting, balancing, pushing against the darkness without effort.
This was no ordinary power. This was the Matrix, in its awakened Ultra Fusion state.
Herbet gasped, his chest heaving with relief. Kaya's lips parted, tears springing to her eyes as the crushing weight lifted from her shoulders. Even Xerx, battle-hardened and ancient, stared in disbelief at the sight before him.
Moro raised one hand. The black lances of annihilation dissolved into harmless dust, scattered like ashes on the wind. The sanctuary's crushing aura was pushed back as if light itself refused to yield.
The Celtic Highs faltered, for the first time in centuries.
Erythus's eyes narrowed.
"Impossible…"
Maelthar's voice cracked with irritation.
"The boy should not—could not—command such balance."
Seyra tilted her head, her lips curling into a smile both cruel and amused.
"So… Jara's blood truly awakens."
Moro's voice echoed through the hall, calm, unwavering.
"You call yourselves Highs. Guardians of Shinya. But all I see are tyrants enslaved by shadows."
He clenched his fists, the blue aura flaring brighter, expanding into a sphere that encompassed the rebels, shielding them from the oppressive weight. For the first time since the rebellion began, hope surged like fire through their veins.
Herbet forced himself to his feet, gripping his sword tighter. Kaya rose as well, standing at Moro's side, her chest heaving with renewed strength. Even Xerx straightened, his staff pulsing once again with energy.
The Celtic Highs raised their hands again, their black aura twisting into monstrous forms. Shadow serpents coiled across the floor, claws of darkness reached down from the ceiling. The entire sanctuary warped into a nightmare under their will.
And Moro stepped forward, blue light blazing against black.
The clash shook the sanctuary.
Blue against black.
Hope against despair.
Balance against corruption.
The rebels shouted, their voices filling the chamber with renewed resolve as Moro's power met the impossible weight of the Highs' aura.
The war for Shinya had reached its true crucible.
And though the Celtic Highs still towered in their unholy might, for the first time… they knew resistance was not only possible—
It had begun.
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