As the kings continued to clash,
**space bent**
**time staggered**, and **reality itself began to fracture** like brittle glass.
Moments overlapped. Seconds stretched into eternities, then collapsed into nothing. The sky split into impossible angles, showing stars that did not belong to this universe. Gravity failed—mountains floated, oceans climbed into the air, and shards of frozen fire drifted like dying constellations.
At the edge of the battlefield,
the **Royal Knights** stood at bay.
They had been ordered to hold formation, to observe, to wait.
But now—even beings born of pure power could feel it.
This was no longer a duel.
This was **annihilation**.
Cracks raced through the ice beneath their feet, not from heat, but from existence unraveling. The Pale Arbiter stepped forward first, raising its blade toward the storm.
"My King," it called, its voice carried by every frequency of frost it could command.
No answer.
The Crystal Veil Maidens followed, their voices harmonizing into a single cry that could freeze souls.
"My King—reality is failing."
Still nothing.
Their words vanished before reaching him, swallowed by distorted space, torn apart by the collision of sovereign wills. To the Ice King, there was only the Flame Monarch—every sense locked onto his equal, every thought sharpened into combat.
The knights understood then, with silent dread:
**Their king could no longer hear anything that was not his rival.**
Across the shattered battlefield, the **Flame Monarch laughed**.
Not cruelly.
Joyfully.
His armor burned brighter as fractures of molten light crawled across his form. He spread his arms wide, welcoming the chaos they had unleashed.
"Yes…" he said,
voice echoing through collapsing dimensions.
"This is what it means to be alive."
The abyss beneath the battlefield answered him.
From the inferno of nothingness,
**flames erupted—not upward, but outward**, tearing holes in reality itself. From those wounds marched his armies.
They were not soldiers of flesh.
They were **cinders given will**—knights forged of blackened steel and living fire, wings of ash unfurled behind some, others dragging chains that glowed white-hot. Each step they took burned existence thinner, leaving scorched voids in their wake.
An endless legion.
The Flame Monarch turned his blazing gaze back to the Ice King, grin widening.
"Let the world witness," he declared,
"what it means when kings stop pretending to be merciful."
Behind the Ice King, the Royal Knights tightened their formation, ice sigils flaring violently. Even without orders, they knew what must come.
If their king could not hear them—
Then they would **stand against the end itself**.
Above them all, reality screamed.
And somewhere beyond the reach of gods, fate itself began to panic.