Chapter 49 – The Death of Moro
The sanctuary no longer felt like a place of worship. Its once-proud marble walls were torn asunder, its mighty pillars cracked and bent. What had once been the spiritual heart of Shinya was now a battlefield stained with blood, trembling under the oppressive force of the Celtic Highs.
The air was heavy. The rebels gasped for breath as if the very atmosphere had become a weight crushing down on them. All around, fragments of stone floated slightly above the ground, suspended in the unseen currents of dark energy that twisted and bent the laws of nature.
At the center of it all stood Moro.
His body was battered, clothes torn, blood dripping steadily from a gash across his forehead. Yet, though his body trembled, his spirit did not falter. The Matrix that flowed within him pulsed faintly, glowing with a dim, blue light that flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat. Every flicker was a reminder that he was still standing, still fighting, still breathing.
Behind him, Kaya strained under the pressure. Her Water Spirit form shimmered weakly, a thin veil of liquid energy circling her arms as she attempted to hold back the relentless waves of dark soldiers summoned by the Highs. Each strike she delivered carved through the dark army, yet each time another rose to take its place. She was exhausted, her breaths sharp and shallow.
Hanks, the defiant king, stood with his hands pressed against the ground, his Colossum energy forming protective walls around the last cluster of rebels. His once-regal armor was dented and stained, his cape torn to rags, but his jaw remained set in defiance. Every ounce of strength he still had, he poured into shielding those who followed him.
And above them floated Xerx.
The mystic magician's robes were drenched in blood, his face pale as death. Yet his hands moved tirelessly, weaving arcane patterns in the air. Light energy—brilliant but unstable—spiraled around him like silver threads, forming the beginning of a spell so vast and dangerous that even the ground beneath him hummed with its resonance. He coughed violently, blood staining his lips, but he refused to stop. His eyes flickered to Moro below, silently pleading:
Just a little longer. Hold on, my boy. Hold on.
The Celtics, however, were far from silent.
The fusion of the Highs stood tall, their bodies merged into a colossal being of shadow and steel. Six eyes glowed red with malice, and their laughter rolled through the sanctuary like thunder. Every time their monstrous voice spoke, the walls cracked further, as though the very stones feared them.
"You resist still?" the Highs sneered, their voice layered and hollow, echoing as though spoken by a thousand throats at once. "Your courage is wasted. You are flickers of light in an endless void."
Moro lifted his head. His breath was ragged, his limbs shook, but he clenched his fists, forcing the Matrix to flare again, if only faintly. The glow bathed him in pale blue, casting his shadow long and jagged across the broken floor.
"I don't care how endless your void is," he rasped, his voice hoarse but steady. "As long as I stand… as long as I breathe… you won't have them."
With that, he surged forward.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as he launched himself toward the Celtics. His fists glowed as he struck, one after another, driving blow after blow into the dark giant's form. Each impact sent out shockwaves that rattled the sanctuary. For a brief, fleeting moment, it seemed like his determination alone could carve through the darkness.
But the Celtics did not waver.
They laughed, lifting one enormous hand and conjuring into existence a spear—longer than any man, forged entirely from pure, concentrated dark energy. Its surface writhed like liquid shadow, and its tip shimmered with a cruel, violet gleam.
"Enough."
The spear shot forward with impossible speed.
Moro tried to dodge, tried to push his battered body one step faster, one motion quicker—but he was too slow. The weapon pierced through his chest, the sound of the strike echoing like the tearing of the world itself.
Time seemed to stop.
Moro's body froze mid-stride. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening but no sound escaping. The glow of the Matrix flared brilliantly for one final moment, then dimmed, the light sputtering as blood poured from the wound.
The rebels screamed.
"MORO!" Kaya's cry tore from her throat, raw and anguished. Her water energy flared violently around her, reacting to her grief.
Hanks' knees hit the ground, his Colossum shield flickering. He stared wide-eyed at his ally, the man who had stood beside him, the one who had made him believe that rebelling against the Highs was possible. "No… no, not you… not now…"
The Celtics twisted the spear, then ripped it free, letting Moro collapse to his knees. His body swayed, blood soaking the ground beneath him. Still, impossibly, he tried to rise. His hand pressed against the floor, his legs trembling as he forced himself up—just one more strike, one more step, one more fight.
The Celtics raised their massive foot and brought it down.
The stomp shook the sanctuary, crushing Moro beneath its weight. The blue glow of the Matrix flickered once… twice… and then went still.
The silence that followed was worse than the stomp itself.
Kaya fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands clawing at the dirt. "No, no, no… you can't—please, you can't leave me too…"
Hanks clenched his fists so tightly that blood poured from his palms. His teeth ground together, fury and grief burning in his chest. He wanted to roar, to strike, to destroy—but the weight of despair pinned him where he knelt.
Above, Xerx's hands faltered. His spell, once weaving so carefully, wavered and crackled with instability. His eyes locked on Moro's lifeless form, and the grief struck him like a blade.
"No…" he whispered, his voice breaking, blood dripping from his lips. "Not him. Not now… not after everything…"
The Celtics threw their heads back and laughed. Their terrible voices echoed through the ruins, mocking, taunting.
"Behold your savior. Broken. Dead. Your rebellion dies with him."
Their aura expanded, pressing down harder, making even standing impossible for the rebels. Kaya, still sobbing, clutched at the ground, her water energy spiraling uncontrolled. Hanks trembled violently, unable to breathe under the crushing weight.
And Xerx… Xerx's spell nearly collapsed entirely.
He floated there, pale and trembling, his grief warring with the fragile threads of hope that still clung to him. His hands shook, the arcane symbols breaking apart. For the first time since the rebellion began, despair truly rooted itself in his heart.
Moro lay still upon the ground.
The sanctuary—once a place of faith—was filled only with the laughter of gods who mocked the fall of men.
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