Ezmelral's lookalike dashed forward, a streak of white light cutting through the darkness—her robes billowing as she met the endless spawn head-on, their claws snapping and jaws gnashing with feral intent. As if time itself froze in reverence, she drew her blade in a wide, graceful arc—slicing two voidlings cleanly in two, their shadowy forms disintegrating into wisps of smoke before her eyes. Time resumed with a jolt, and she charged onward, unleashing a flurry of sword slashes—each strike a masterpiece of precision, cleaving through the horde with peerless ease, their numbers falling like leaves in a storm.
From the shadows below, Eden's Roots erupted like vengeful tendrils—jagged spikes of ancient wood piercing upward, impaling the voidlings she couldn't reach, their bodies skewered in bursts of violet ichor that stained the obsidian ground. Together with the roots, she pressed forward in a relentless symphony—her slashes syncing with their pierces, tearing through the horde with unyielding force until she stood before Veskyr itself, its jagged form looming like a broken obelisk.
She swung her blade in a horizontal swipe, aiming to split the creature in two—when Morgral struck. With blinding speed, the Scale-Wing of the Abyss lunged from her right, his massive void-clawed hand arcing toward her head, its hooked fingers promising a crushing grip that would end her in an instant.
In a blur, the GodKing appeared between his disciple and Morgral—an instant eclipse. His right hand rose, fingers closing; gravity obeyed. Morgral buckled with a sick, crackling crunch as black, river-pebble scales popped and sheared away, his armor collapsing into a grinding hail that rattled across the Void.
Thamriel answered with a storm of beams—violet lances unspooling from its tower of eyes, each one corkscrewing through the dark like living serpents. Veskyr slid back to re-angle the field, but the disciple didn't chase; she saw the shots angling for her master and backflipped over him, white robes flaring like a comet's tail.
The GodKing tilted his head upward, their faces mere inches apart as he stares deeply into her eyes—his gaze a silent command, a spark of trust passing between them amidst the chaos. His Eden's Roots surged from the abyss, thick and gnarled, rising like ancient pylons. She touched down on one as it speared toward Thamriel's barrage and sprinted along the living bridge—blade bared, a bright line of intent cutting through the dark.
As she neared the beams, she leaped left off the root, facing the incoming assault head-on. With swift, precise motions, she sliced the air—her blade a blur of silver—then sheathed it with a sharp click. The beams froze mid-flight, as if turned to stone, splitting cleanly in half like torn parchment, their fragments falling in a cascade of shattered light.
Through the gaps, she caught glimpses of Thamriel below—its spear-like form a vertical pillar of eyes, its gaze locked on her descent. She landed with a soft thud, shifting seamlessly into a samurai stance, her hand resting on her hilt, blade partially drawn as she channeled her Essence Core. Air Essence surged through her, propelling her forward in a gust that blurred her form—reappearing behind Thamriel in a flash, one of his stacked eyes popping with a wet pop the moment she materialized.
She vanished again, afterimages flickering in a precise eleven-foot radius around Thamriel—each new apparition triggering another eye to burst, the creature's chest erupting in a symphony of ruptures. In a final afterimage, She reappeared high above him, blade lifted in a single vertical sweep. The strike fell—a breath of wind, a rending silence—and Thamriel split neatly in two. His dissolving body evaporated into violet mist, the Void itself quivering at his fall.
Veskyr shrieked from below, unleashing a new torrent of voidlings—hundreds of blade-limbed creatures hurtling skyward. At the same moment, Karthix charged from the opposite side, its ruinous halo blazing, wings hammering air thin as glass. Their assault converged, two storms closing upon one lone warrior.
Before impact, an Eden's Root coiled around her waist like a serpent of salvation, yanking her clear. The voidlings' claws slashed through empty air as Karthix thundered past. The next moment, she was pulled against something solid—unbreakable.
The GodKing's armor.
The contact stole her breath. For a heartbeat, her focus wavered, her heart hammering traitorously fast. He turned, raising his free hand, a gravitational field bursting to life around them just as a cataclysmic blast struck.
The collision was apocalyptic—force meeting force, light devouring shadow. They plummeted through the chaos, shield sparking, the Void's storm howling around them. Yet all she could feel was his steady presence anchoring her against oblivion.
---
Outside the Void Realm, Ezmelral's cheeks burned, the ghost of that intimate moment—her future self held securely in the GodKing's embrace—lingering in her mind. She forcefully shoved the daydream aside, her focus snapping back to the shimmering rift.
"That blast..." she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and dread. "What was that? It was nothing like a Void Beam. It was... raw. And it forced the GodKing back."
Before Raiking could answer, the air in the arena grew heavy, the pressure pressing down on every chest like a mountain. the projection's image distorted, the sands vibrating violently as if rejecting what they were about to reveal. The void rippled—folding inward like a wound reopening—and from its heart, something vast and unspeakable stirred.
At first, there was only darkness. Then came the sound—a grinding exhale, as if the void itself were being inhaled by something colossal. Lightningless flashes rippled through the gloom, illuminating the outline of a form that blotted out the void's horizon.
It emerged, wings unfurling with the slow, dreadful grace of a god stretching after an eon of slumber. Black scales, jagged and layered like the broken plates of a dead star, caught what little light existed—each one pulsing faintly with veins of molten amber. Across its chest, seven eyes burned in a vertical column, their golden light cutting through the void's darkness like the gaze of a predatory constellation.
When it roared, it did not sound—it unmade. The vibration ripped through the projection, and for a heartbeat, the image blinked out entirely. When it returned, lesser voidlings were already falling to their knees in reverence, their bodies trembling under the psychic weight of the thing that ruled them.
The Void's Commander had arrived.
It was said to be the first born of the original abyssal fracture—
Vorrath, the Devouring Apex.
A being not created, but reclaimed from the void's own hunger.
Two smaller wraith-heads orbited it, each blazing with identical golden eyes—echoes of its fragmented mind, whispering madness across the realm. Together, they moved with eerie precision, circling their colossal core like carrion moons around a dying sun.
Vorrath's claws flexed. The void bent in answer, reality twitching like stretched fabric. The corpses of the fallen generals rose, dissolving into streams of black fire that poured into its chest—fueling the commander's rebirth.