The molten god staggered. Its massive fists, capable of leveling mountains, now swung blindly, striking at shadows and illusions. The ground trembled under each impact, but Arin's formations shifted instantly. Hills rose and fell like tides, rivers changed course, and new fortresses erupted from dust where none had existed before.
The god's summoner screamed commands, voice trembling with desperation. "Focus! Strike harder! Destroy him!" But the god, enormous and furious, could not anticipate the boy's battlefield. Every move it made was countered before it could even land. Every firestorm redirected, every strike blocked, every advance flanked.
Arin's empire was alive. His soldiers moved as extensions of his mind. Archers fired from impossible angles, cavalry struck from valleys that had appeared moments ago, siege engines flung molten boulders at joints exposed for only a fraction of a second. Even the rivers themselves became weapons, channeling water, fire, and ice in calculated torrents that struck the molten giant at its weakest points.
The crowd was silent. No one dared breathe. Gold and silver coins lay forgotten, trampled underfoot, as the arena had become a warzone unlike any seen in living memory. Spectators, summoners, even other gods summoned for the battle, could only stare. One boy—a null—was commanding civilizations, armies, and empires, and no god could match him.
Arin stepped forward, staff glowing faintly, his calm aura cutting through the chaos. "You rely on gods," he said, voice carrying over the roar of battle. "I rely on civilizations. Armies, cities, fleets… everything is mine. Everything obeys me."
At his command, the battlefield shifted again. Hills rose behind the frontlines, forming choke points. Valleys deepened, forcing the molten god to advance cautiously. Rivers split, forming moats and water barriers. Towers erupted from nothing, bristling with archers and catapults. Cavalry surged along newly-formed roads. Siege engines pounded the god relentlessly, striking its legs, torso, and joints.
The molten giant's movements grew erratic. Each strike was met with a calculated counter, each advance with flanking assaults. Golems formed and reformed, never stopping, never faltering. For every life lost in the skirmish, Arin's power grew. For every strike the god landed, the empire adapted. Every obstacle it created, Arin turned into a weapon.
The summoner's face twisted with horror. "Impossible! No one can command this! He's… he's not human!"
Arin's smile widened faintly. "I am human," he murmured, "but I am no summoner. I am something greater."
From every corner of the battlefield, armies shifted and multiplied. Cities expanded like living organisms. Fleets glimmered on rivers and seas. Every moment, every move, fed into his talent. Every victory, every destruction, every command made him stronger, faster, more unstoppable.
The molten god roared again, flames shooting high, lava spilling like rivers of molten fury. But it faltered, staggering. Its attacks became frantic, uncoordinated. The battlefield itself was working against it, controlled by the mind of one boy who had been written off as nothing.
Arin's empire pressed forward. Cavalry flanked, archers fired volleys from impossible angles, golems crushed molten fists, and siege engines hammered relentlessly. The god stumbled. Its summoner screamed again.
Arin whispered, calm as ever, voice low but carrying across the arena: "Do you see now? You were playing with gods. I am playing with worlds."
And as the molten giant reeled, its fury growing but its strength diminishing, the first whispers began among the crowd:
"This null… this boy… he's unstoppable."