The battlefield was silent. Smoke curled through the air, twisting between broken stones and scorched streets, the heat still lingering but the fear gone. At the center stood Mirshad—unmasked, untouched, unstoppable—his white robes drifting in the breeze, his sword resting across his back, humming with victory. His eyes shimmered not with pride but with peace. Civilians, soldiers, reporters—all froze where they stood, their minds struggling to grasp what they had just witnessed. Five beings who tore through armies, erased like shadows before the sun. Mirshad looked at them, his voice soft but reaching every heart. "Sorry about the mess. No more chaos. No more fear. You're safe now. Forever." And then he smiled—not as a king, not as a god, but as someone who had died and returned because he could not bear to see his people suffer. A breath later, the wind screamed as he vanished into the sky, a shockwave exploding beneath his feet. The Earth shuddered, not in fear but in respect, as a streak of blue light tore through the clouds and was gone.
Across the globe, every screen froze. Live feeds, satellites, networks—all locked onto the image of one man rising from fire. Anchors stood trembling, some openly weeping. "This… this wasn't a fight. This was a declaration. He came back from death, and the sky itself obeyed him." The replays flooded every channel—the glowing sword, the bodies of the Five, his calm walk, his raised hand, the chaos ending. Hashtags ignited across the world: #TheGodReturns, #MRDIsBack, #Unbreakable, #GuardianOfEarth, #TheSkyBowed. World leaders watched from bunkers, scientists whispered in fear, prophets went silent, for one truth stood above all: MRD was not from this world… but this world was his.
In Africa, children knelt in red soil, whispering his name. A mother lifted her child and said, "That's your protector." In Brazil, fireworks painted the night while music bled through the streets, a barefoot man shouting, "He rose from death! What god does that?!" In India, temples filled as people placed their hands together before a glowing symbol of a flaming sword, calling it The Flame of MRD. In Egypt, the pyramid grounds were covered in flowers, someone painting on stone, "He walked here… and now the stars walk with him." America, Palestine, Russia, Indonesia, Japan, South Africa, England—every flag lowered, not in defeat but in respect. The planet had found its protector not in a leader, not in a system, but in a man who fought, bled, died, and returned.
On the island, the family room was silent. The final blow replayed again and again, the divine glow, the soft smile, his flight. Sophia stood, hand pressed to her belly, tears in her eyes. Sara whispered, "We saw death take him once…" Amir's voice trembled. "And now, we saw death return him." Rayyan's gaze stayed on the screen. "He's not our brother anymore." Malik answered, "He's the world's heartbeat now." Baba stepped forward, placing a hand on the screen. "He didn't just win a war… he reminded darkness why it fears the light." And Sophia, smiling softly, added, "They all saw what I already knew… he's not just a protector… he's my miracle."
As dusk fell, people prayed across the Earth. Not to religion, politics, or wealth, but to hope. And one phrase began to spread across every screen, in every voice: MRD… our Guardian Flame. MRD… the One Who Returned. MRD… the Last Light. Children whispered it before sleep, warriors before battle, the world in unison because for the first time in history… they did not feel alone. And in every language, on every paper, on every broadcast, one headline burned into history: "THE SKY BOWED TO ONE." Because this day, the Earth witnessed not a warrior, but a god who smiled, flew, and whispered peace… before shaking the stars.