Chapter 50 – Descent into Darkness
The sanctuary of Shinya, once a bastion of hope and light, had become a tomb. The walls, scarred by the clashes of the rebels and the Celtic Highs, groaned under the weight of dark energy. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering as if alive, reacting to the presence of the Highs. The air was thick with an oppressive heat that burned the lungs, yet chilled the heart. Every breath of those remaining rebels was a struggle.
Kaya, trembling and drenched in the remnants of her water spirit form, knelt in the middle of the battlefield. Her eyes, wide and glistening with tears, scanned the devastation around her. The water she had wielded to protect her allies now lay in shattered pools across the floor, powerless against the overwhelming aura of the Celtic Highs. Every cry of her comrades was muffled under the monstrous pressure of the darkness, their struggles barely audible against the roar of the energy that consumed the sanctuary.
Xerx hovered above, his robes soaked in blood, and his face pale. His hands traced faint patterns in the air, attempting to channel light energy to counteract the onslaught, but each attempt was met with invisible walls of resistance, the dark aura twisting and corrupting his power. His body trembled, sweat running down his temples, as he tried desperately to stabilize the environment. His gaze kept drifting to Moro's form lying prone on the shattered floor, a pang of despair tightening his chest.
Hanks, the king who had defied the Celtic Highs and dared to rebel against their tyranny, had fallen. His colossal form was crumpled, his mighty aura extinguished, leaving only a trembling shadow of the king who had once stood so proudly. Herbet and the rebel squad were scattered around, some unconscious, others barely holding their positions, their faces reflecting the weight of despair. There was no escape, no refuge, and no hope to grasp.
And then Moro.
He lay on the shattered stone, a broken silhouette among the ruin. Every strike he had taken, every battle endured, every ounce of his strength expended—it all seemed to have culminated here. His chest rose and fell faintly, the faintest hint of life glimmering through the carnage. To the naked eye, he was gone, an apparent casualty in a war that had become hopeless.
The Celtic Highs circled him, their fusion of dark energy forming monstrous shapes, their voices a chorus of mocking superiority.
"Even in death, he refuses to yield," they hissed. "Even when broken, he cannot surrender."
A subtle glow began to emanate from Moro's chest, barely perceptible through the storm of shadows. A faint pulse, rhythmic and deliberate, grew steadily. His eyes, glassy and unfocused moments ago, now opened slightly, revealing the familiar blue that had always burned within him—a spark of unyielding determination.
Xerx, noticing the faint pulse, felt a surge of hope, though his body ached and his strength faltered. The Highs, sensing the disturbance, froze momentarily, their monstrous forms rippling in confusion and agitation.
Within the Matrix, Moro's core stirred. His spirit, his essence—the culmination of his training, his experiences, his love for Shinya, and the memories of his friends—anchored him. Though his physical body was battered and broken, his core was alive, glowing faintly with the light of his resolve.
Memories flooded him: his father guiding him through lessons of strength and courage, the laughter of Kaya in their childhood, the warmth of allies who had stood beside him, and the faces of every person he had vowed to protect. These memories coalesced into a force, faint but unyielding, radiating outward in pulsing waves through the Matrix.
The Highs, now alert, surged with renewed fury. Dark energy rippled violently around them, twisting the sanctuary and warping reality itself. The walls groaned, pillars splintered, and the ground quaked. Waves of black energy reached outward, threatening to pull everything into a void of despair.
Kaya tried to maintain her form, her water spirals clashing against the dark waves, but the resistance was overwhelming. Xerx's incantations, though precise, barely scratched the overwhelming field of darkness. Hanks, his body battered and weakened, struggled to hold his ground as the gravitational pull of the Highs' aura dragged him closer to the center.
One by one, the rebels were lifted off their feet, dragged by invisible forces toward the core of the dark fusion. Their cries of defiance turned to shouts of desperation as the Highs' power increased exponentially.
And yet Moro's core pulsed stronger, responding to his memories, his bonds, and his unyielding will. His body may have been pinned to the floor, but his spirit radiated, an unbroken thread of light weaving through the shadowy chaos.
The Highs, sensing his resistance, summoned a trench—a vortex of darkness, a deep abyss capable of consuming anything and everything. One by one, the rebels were drawn toward it. Even as Kaya's water form tried to shield them and Xerx channeled light to counteract the pull, the force was inexorable.
Moro's body was flung violently across the debris-strewn floor, yet his eyes never wavered. The faint blue glow of the Matrix in his chest grew, illuminating the destruction around him, defying the crushing despair that sought to consume all.
The Highs' laughter echoed, a sound that reverberated through the very bones of those who remained conscious. "None can escape," they boomed, their voices shaking the walls. "Even he, who refuses to die, will fall."
Moro's lips moved, faintly:
"I… will… not… give… up."
The trench's pull increased, dragging everyone—the wounded rebels, Hanks, Kaya, Xerx—into its yawning void. Stones, debris, and fragments of the shattered sanctuary spiraled into the abyss, yet the faint pulse within Moro's Matrix core persisted, a beacon of life against the consuming darkness.
The sanctuary had crumbled. The rebels were scattered. Shadows swallowed everything.
But Moro… Moro's essence endured.
He rose slightly from the ground, chest heaving, breaths shallow but steady, eyes blazing with determination. Even in the heart of the abyss, he remained. The Highs, massive and terrifying, stood as if carved from darkness itself, but Moro's gaze never faltered.
The Matrix within him glowed steadily, a silent promise that this was not the end. And in that faint blue light, hope—fragile yet unbroken—remained.
Moro's eyes, wide and burning, stared directly at the Celtic Highs' monstrous aura. Shinya trembled around him, the battlefield warped by the colossal energy, yet one truth remained clear: even in this darkness, Moro's spirit refused to be extinguished.
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