Chapter 44 – One Man Against the Highs
The sanctuary was no longer sacred.
The marble floors, once polished with centuries of ritual, were cracked and stained black. Statues of kings lay broken, their stone eyes rolled into the dust. From the great pillars hung corpses of guards resurrected into things without souls — their hollow sockets glowing faintly red as they marched again, servants to a power older than the kingdom itself.
The rebels stood in the midst of it all, their weapons shaking in their hands. Men and women who had once been farmers, smiths, or students now found themselves staring down gods clothed in mortal robes.
The Celtic Highs.
They stood in perfect formation, four figures cloaked in darkness, their combined aura bending the air as if the sanctuary had sunk into the depths of the sea. The gravity pressed against everyone — rebels, soldiers, even Hanks himself felt it. Knees trembled. Chests cracked with the strain of drawing air.
And yet, there was one who still stood tall, his aura burning against the tide.
Moro.
His form glowed in the center of the battlefield, bathed in blue fire, the essence of Ultra Fusion. His aura was wild yet steady, a current that resisted the suffocating weight the Highs forced on the world.
Behind him, Hanks gritted his teeth, veins bulging in his neck as he forced his colossal form to remain upright. He was no longer a pawn of the council — he was a king with nothing left to lose.
"Moro," Hanks growled, his massive fist tightening, "side by side, we crush them here and now."
But Moro didn't look back. His eyes were locked on the Highs, his expression calm, even serene, as though the chaos around him meant nothing.
"No," he said. The word was quiet but heavy enough to cut through the roar of clashing steel and the screams of dying men.
Hanks blinked. "What did you say?"
"You're a king," Moro replied. His voice carried the weight of command, though it was not his to give. "And they are your people. They need you to hold them together, or they'll break before this night is done."
"I won't run from them," Hanks snapped. His aura flared, his shadow stretching across the cracked stone like a beast ready to strike. "I won't let you face gods alone."
"This isn't about running." Moro finally turned his head, his blue fire flickering across his scarred cheek. "It's about trust. Let me carry this fight. You carry the rest."
For a long moment, the king stared at the young warrior. Rage battled with pride, defiance with reason. Hanks had lived his life under the shadow of the Highs, bound by their decrees, poisoned by their lies. To strike them now — that was the rebellion he had longed for.
But in Moro's eyes, he saw something else. Not arrogance. Not desperation. Something colder, sharper. Certainty.
Hanks spat blood into the dust and smirked. "Don't die, boy."
Then he turned, his Colossum aura igniting fully, his massive arms swinging wide as he charged into the tide of Dark Guards. His blows landed like hammers against iron, shattering corpses and scattering bone and steel alike. His voice thundered across the sanctuary, calling the rebels to his side, igniting courage where only despair had lived moments before.
And with Hanks gone, Moro faced the Highs alone.
They moved.
Four hands raised in unison. Their voices wove together, chanting words that did not belong to mortals. The very air darkened, the torches snuffed out, and from the floor rose spears of shadow sharper than any blade forged in steel.
The spears surged toward Moro in waves.
He moved faster than sight. His aura flared, fists striking like storms. Each blow shattered a spear, each kick tore holes in the advancing tide. The ground split beneath his steps, blue fire carving through darkness.
But for every spear he destroyed, three more rose. For every chain he burned, another coiled behind him.
One slipped through. A spear the size of a tower struck his side, hurling him across the sanctuary. He slammed into the wall, stone collapsing around him, his fire dimming for a breath.
He staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his lip. Across the chamber, the Highs stood untouched, their faces hidden, their bodies unstrained. Their aura only grew heavier.
Moro grinned anyway. "Not bad."
He charged again.
The battle shook the sanctuary. Every strike was thunder. Every clash of energy ripped apart the air. Blue fire slammed against void, shockwaves tearing the ground into rivers of molten stone.
Still, the Highs pressed him down. Their chains bound his arms, their void-lances pierced the air around his chest. A great hand of shadow descended from above, threatening to crush him whole.
And then — light.
Soft at first, like threads woven through the cracks of his aura. Then brighter, filling him from within, sharpening the edges of his flames until they burned white at the core.
Moro staggered, his breath catching, his power flaring brighter than before. He could feel it — energy not his own but blending seamlessly with his essence. A hidden ally.
Across the battlefield, cloaked in broken stone and darkness, Xerx stood.
The mage's body trembled, his robes torn, sweat dripping into his beard. His hands glowed faintly as he threaded light energy across the battlefield, weaving it into Moro's aura. He dared not speak, dared not be seen. If the Highs noticed him, they would destroy him instantly.
But he whispered anyway, his voice lost in the storm.
"Burn, boy. Burn brighter than them."
Moro straightened, his aura now burning not only blue but streaked with white fire. The chains shattered against him. The void-lances dissolved in his light. The hand of shadow disintegrated before it touched him.
The Highs paused. For the first time, their silence was not one of contempt but of calculation.
Moro smirked, blood still on his teeth.
"Round two."
He charged again, but this time the ground broke beneath his steps, his aura blazing like a second sun in the sanctuary. His fists slammed into their shields, and where once they had held with ease, cracks began to spread.
The Celtic Highs raised their hands higher, darkness surging to drown him. The sanctuary shook, walls collapsing, the rebels crying out as the very air turned to poison.
And at the center, one man burned brighter than gods.
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