γπππππππ π1-HE IS ALIVE ! WUKONG IN TROUBLE
β¦Ruptured Expanse β where shredded spirals cough starlight and the horizon is a jagged tooth of ruinβ§
The battlefield tasted of ozone and old iron. Fragments of galaxies spun lazy patterns that betrayed nothing about the violence that had scarred them. Wukong stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving, fur singed with the ghost of too many suns. His staff had sung a dozen truths in the last few breaths; plates of broken armor and melted stone formed a ragged crown at his feet.
Doomsday lay under the fan of Ultimate Slashes, a hulking silhouette staggered by geometry that did not wish to be mended. Holes had been carved into him like windows opened onto nothingβvoid-doors in his flank, yawning apertures where armor met flesh. Light bled through those gaps in thin, accusing ribbons.
Wukong watched, the grin reduced now to a sharp line. He stepped forward, staff poised, the echo of the last spell still cutting at the air. He had timed and struck and given the pig-god ample dance and theater. He had cut clean and hard enough to convince most beings that the performance was over.
He moved in for the finish.
His staff flashed in a clean arc. The strike was a sentence: a dozen slashes uncoiling from the haft, each an incision of intent. They met Doomsday's form and traced across it with the kind of accuracy that made endings look tidy. Light folded into new patterns where the cuts fell. For an instant Wukong's bladework sang like a hymn of closure; the wounds multiplied, a thousand little verdicts along plates and tendon.
Doomsday went still.
For a breath the ruin held its breath with him. The surrounding stars paused in a way that felt more like respect than fear. Silence stretched and then cracked like a thin shell.
Then the flesh knitted.
Not immediately, not as a trick, but with the terrible inevitability of something built to resist finality. Tissue wove back. The first hole sealed like the closing of a hatch; the second followed. Scars braided themselves into new ridges. Where Wukong had expected the body to collapse into nothing, matter regenerated with stubborn economy. Bone reknit, muscle reknit, plates reformed as if the universe had an eraser on Doomsday's behalf.
Wukong's chest tightened. He had cut a thousand times, and the aftermath showed the calculus of it. A thousandβimpressive, precise, enough for many gods. But Doomsday was not merely some creature with a healing curse: he was a construct of resilience built on scales that mocked the very concept of final counts. Wukong's mind ticked through the visible feedback like a scout reading a map; the pattern was clear and ugly in its simplicity: one thousand cuts had been possible. Two thousand were required.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ You think that was enough?β¦
γπππ πππππ πππ π ππππππ πππ ππππππ ππππππππππ π ππππππππγ
His eyes refocused, narrowed with a new, slower flame. It was the look of something that had been poked and found only mildly irritatedβuntil it decided irritation was insufficient. The muscles along his neck corded, and for a heartbeat Wukong saw the shape of something older than mere fury: a patient law.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ I need to care about you.β¦
γπππ ππππ π ππππ π πππππ ππππππππ ππ πππππγ
There was humor in the phrasingβan absurd tenderness wrapped in menaceβand then the edge snapped into place.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ Now. Let's use 100 percent.β¦
γπππ ππππππ πππ πππ πππππ πππ πππππππ γ
It began as a hum beneath the skin of the sky. Doomsday inhaledβslow, monumentalβand the hum became a roar that filled the field. The aura bled out from his body like a tide of black fire. It moved in waves, a folding of raw intent and unrefined energy that made the surrounding space ache. As it rolled outward, the light dimmed within its path, as if some private sun were being snuffed.
The first galaxies to feel it were closeβsmall, cracked things that had been stitched into new orbits by the prior fight. They flared and then imploded. The aura did not merely damage: it unmade the physics that bound stars. Gravity stuttered in the radius closest to Doomsday; orbital vectors collapsed, and the newborn suns collapsed like the roofs of houses under pressure.
The radius grew. In a matter of heartbeats the area of devastation became terrifyingly specificβtwenty meters squared of space shattered into a field of null where even photons seemed hesitant to tread. This was not mere heat or radiation. It was a redefinition of existence within that zone. Where the aura touched, the laws that allowed matter to persist thinned like worn cloth.
Wukong felt the change as a pressure on the mind. It was not only the physical force; it was the sense that something fundamental in the calculus of being had been called and answered. The Monkey King's hair stood on end. His staff vibrated in the air, picking up the tremor of a cosmos being reconfigured.
Doomsday's aura expanded in a living pulseβhot, cruel, unrelenting. Small moons near the epicenter were ground into mica-sheets and then into dust. Rings stripped off planets like necklace threads. The vacuum seemed to taste different inside that field; sounds became hollow and then nonexistent. The way Doomsday's power worked suggested that it had been made to end things with neatness and certainty: if you could stand inside the circle, you were being unmade by decree.
He grinned, and the grin was wide enough to cut. The expression had none of the earlier childlike cruelty; it was the grim smile of someone who had turned to the last option.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ Let's dance.β¦
γπππ ππππ πππππππ π πππππππ ππ ππππππππγ
Wukong readied himself.
He laid his staff on the shattered basalt in front of him with a deliberate, symbolic motionβan act equal parts strategy and theater. The staff's shadow fell like a line drawn through the center of the battle; it was both a declaration of readiness and a measure of the space between them. Wukong's stance widened. He did not pick the staff up immediately; sometimes a weapon placed can tell an opponent more than a weapon brandished. He stood, bare-handed for the moment, letting the golden trickle of his aura whisper outward in small, confident pulses.
Around them the field responded. Dust spun like small galaxies, and the nearest fragments held their breath. Wukong's eyes were stone-bright; the humor had not left him, but it was tempered now with a sober deliciousnessβthis was a fight that demanded all of him.
The aura of Doomsday contracted and then expanded like a beast bearing down. The twenty-meter square of destruction at its heart glowed with a terrible clarity, a focal point upon which the fate of the duel might hinge. Wukong could feel the edges of it like the lip of a blade. Stand within and you were subject to unmaking; stand without and you had the space to move, to think, to animate the cunning that had kept him alive.
Wukong's posture said what words did not. He had laid down his staff as a sign that this was no longer a duel of tricks but a confrontation of bodies and wills. He read his opponent's intent like a man reading the face of an old friend who had become dangerous.
Doomsday flexed. The aura around him roared and raised tiny tempests of newborn star-dust. He bent his knees and prepared to move like a tidal force; the space around him responded with micro-collapses and flares.
The last image to close the chapter was stark and clear: Doomsday standing at the center of his expanding, galaxy-shredding aura, the twenty-meter square of unmaking glowing with an intent that suggested finality; Wukong, staff laid on the broken stone before him, bare hands ready and eyes alive with the combustible joy of a fight that had just crested into its true storm.
The chapter ends thereβon the brink, on the poised edge between impossible violence and the trickster's grin. No resolution follows. No twist beyond what has been stated. Just the hum of Doomsday's full power, the shuddering space where galaxies could be erased, and Wukong, calm and ready, waiting for the dance to begin.
"IS WUKONG IS ABLE TO DEFEAT HIM OR XORATH WILL ALSO JOIN ?"