Far beneath the ruined cathedral, in a realm where even time dared not breathe, Dylan Daniels awoke.
He was no longer falling; he was suspended in a void of limitless stillness.
There was neither floor nor ceiling, horizon nor wind.
Just an expanse of profound blackness, denser than the deepest blindness.
His weapons were absent—sword vanished, the Ring of Death mute, his wolf form lifeless, and his aura extinguished.
Even the meditation that once shielded him from the Black Void had been snuffed out.
"What the hell… where am I?" he murmured, his breath fogging in the absence of chill.
His hand grazed something wet, thick, and viscous.
He recoiled, gagging at the scent—blood; old, rusted, and decayed, not dried but flowing like a river beneath him.
The silence roared. Each heartbeat resonated like a war drum.
Attempting to calm his shattered senses, he retreated inward to the only bastion left: his indomitable will.
And then it began.
Eyes.
They emerged from the shadows, one by one, akin to stars in reverse; disembodied, colossal, and unblinking, they loomed like celestial predators.
Thousands of them, each burning with hunger, judgment, and wrath.
Then, they spoke—not aloud, but directly into his mind.
"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE."
"YOU ARE NOT WORTHY."
"YOU DO NOT BELONG."
Dylan gritted his teeth, having faced far worse.
He sought even the faintest spark of his former self, but silence answered him.
Then, a vision materialized in his mind—a throne, massive and obsidian, cloaked in shadows, with a violet aura pulsing like a dying star behind it.
Towering above it was an eye—vertical and glowing with raw insanity.
He gasped, and the vision shattered, only to coalesce in reality.
The abyss screamed.
Time froze.
The eyes dimmed, the river of blood ceased, and the air solidified.
From a fracture in the sky, she descended.
She traversed the black void as if it parted for her, each step resonating in silence yet deafening his very soul.
Her presence bore weight heavier than the abyss itself.
Her name etched into Dylan's mind like divine punishment:
Aerith.
A name whispered in hushed tones, a name feared even by gods.
She wore a regalia of living flame—purple, wild, searing; her robe danced with sentient fury, streaks of black fire slithering along its edges.
Her figure was both divine and grotesque, tall and fluid.
Her face obscured by a jagged iron mask, scorched into her very skin, while liquid shadow oozed from its slits.
Above her floated a crown of inverted halos—rings inscribed with ancient runes flickering in and out of time.
And behind her?
Gods.
Their skulls floated in orbit—some angelic, some alien, some monstrous.
Dead gods.
Consumed.
She had feasted on divinity, existing beyond ten thousand years, each step a memory of worlds she had annihilated.
And Dylan was but a mote of dust in her cosmos.
The throne—the same from his vision—manifested behind her, vast and obsidian, inscribed with screaming glyphs.
She turned to him, her voice impossibly deep and melodic.
"YOU TRESPASS, MORTAL."
"THIS IS THE DOMAIN OF THE FORGOTTEN."
"AND I AM ITS FLAME."
Dylan's voice cracked as he uttered, "What… are you?"
Aerith extended a hand, and from her palm erupted chains—woven from his own regrets, each carrying a voice, a moment of guilt, shame, weakness.
They ensnared his arms, legs, and neck.
She advanced, her robe igniting the black space around her.
"I AM THE FLAME THAT DEVOURS THE DIVINE."
"I AM THE LAST TRIAL BEFORE THE ABYSS CLAIMS YOU."
"AND YOU… ARE NOTHING."
Dylan screamed—not from pain, but from defiance.
Each link of the chain gnawed at his soul, memories bleeding through:
His first kill.
The girl he failed to save.
The crimes he committed to survive.
Aerith's flame intensified.
She raised a finger.
"YOU WILL BE ERASED."
Dylan coughed blood but then… he laughed.
At first, it was broken, wet, weak.
Then louder.
The void blinked.
Aerith faltered.
"You think this is new to me?" he rasped, voice trembling. "You think I don't know what it means to be broken?"
The chains strained.
His body bled, cracked—but he stood firm, one leg forward, shoulders squared.
"I've endured real fire.
I've faced beings like you."
Aerith's mask tilted, intrigue flickering in her eyes.
"I've burned before.
But this… this is different."
And then—his body ignited.
Not from her fire, but from within.
A black flame with white edges erupted from his heart.
The chains melted away in an instant.
The Ring of Death—silent until now—glowed fiercely in his chest, transforming from a cursed tool into a living symbol of his resolve.
Behind him, a monstrous shape uncoiled.
His wolf form—twisted, taller, drenched in void flame—a creature that bore his pain not as a burden, but as armor.
"I didn't merely survive your trial," Dylan declared.
"I became it."
The throne shattered.
Aerith's body convulsed.
"IMPOSSIBLE," she hissed. "YOU WERE NOT CHOSEN."
Dylan advanced.
The void warped around him, bending to his indomitable flame.
"You believe this place shaped me?
You think your chains defined me?"
He pointed at her, fierce determination burning in his gaze.
"I was forged long before I fell here."
Aerith shrieked, the skulls of deceased gods wailing in agony.
She summoned chains again—thousands, shrieking through the void.
Dylan raised his hand, and the chains disintegrated into ash before they could touch him.
"I do not kneel."
"I do not break."
"I burn."
He reached toward her, not with a blade, but with the very essence of his being.
Aerith screamed, her mask fracturing.
From beneath emerged a spiraling void—an abyss of identity collapsing upon itself.
She imploded, the throne behind her erupting into dust.
"YOU… ARE AN ANOMALY…" she gasped, her voice fading.
Dylan remained silent, resolute.
He turned away, and Aerith's final cry vanished into the silence.
Dylan didn't defeat Aerith through brute strength, divine power, or some hidden weapon.
He defeated her by being everything she had abandoned.
Aerith was not born as a goddess—she became what she was by consuming others: gods, spirits, memories, souls. Over ten thousand years, she devoured countless divine entities, growing in strength with each one. But in doing so, she erased herself—her name, her past, her face—until there was nothing left but borrowed power. She was a hollow throne wrapped in flame, a being who had forgotten her own soul in pursuit of domination.
Dylan, on the other hand, remembered everything.
The pain. The losses. His failures. His fear.
He carried his suffering like a weight, but never let it define him. While Aerith ran from identity to become untouchable, Dylan embraced his—scars and all. And that was the key.
When she chained him with despair—using illusions of past trauma to break his will—Dylan didn't deny it. He accepted it. He didn't fight the memory of his suffering. He walked into it, embraced it, and said, "Yes. I survived this."
That broke her illusion.
Worse, it reflected her greatest fear: that someone could be stronger because of their pain, not in spite of it.
The Ring of Death Dylan wore wasn't a weapon—it was a mirror of truth. It amplified the soul of the bearer. To those without identity, it was lethal. But to Dylan, who had faced his demons and made peace with them, the Ring awakened its true power: to reveal lies, illusions, and false gods for what they were.
When Aerith attacked, Dylan didn't dodge—he spoke her true name, the one she buried thousands of years ago. That name, echoing from a mortal's lips, shattered her sense of invincibility. She couldn't bear to face the truth of who she once was.
Her flames turned inward.
Her stolen divinity rejected her.
And in the void where nothing returned, Dylan stood unmoved—bleeding, exhausted, but real.
Aerith faded into screams and ashes, not because Dylan overpowered her, but because he endured her. Where gods shattered under her will, Dylan simply refused to break.
He didn't kill her.
She destroyed herself trying to erase what made him human.
That's how Aerith—Devourer of Gods, the Eternal Flame of Nothingness—was defeated.
Not by a blade.
Not by a spell.
But by a mortal who remembered who he was.
And refused to let her forget it.
Up above in the broken cathedral, the fractured remnants of the cathedral trembled as Zephyr slammed into the demon midair, their collision sending shockwaves that rippled through the void like thunderclaps. The air itself seemed to buckle under their power.
Without hesitation, the demon's clawed hand flared with dark energy, hurling a spiraling torrent of corrupted souls toward Zephyr. These souls were twisted remnants of the damned, each a fragment of pure entropy seeking to devour life itself.
Zephyr reacted instantly, igniting the soles of his boots with kinetic energy, vanishing in a blur of motion—a technique known as the Flash-Step—reappearing above the demon with gauntleted fists glowing red-hot.
"Storm Pulse: Heavenfall!" Zephyr shouted, channeling his kinetic energy into a focused strike. His fists slammed down like falling meteors, unleashing a powerful shockwave that shattered the void around them. The impact sent the demon crashing into the shattered cathedral floor, where ancient bones and relics burst to dust beneath its weight.
But the demon was relentless. Its body liquefied, flesh melting into shadowy smoke before reforming midair with sinister grace. It unleashed its next assault—"Aether Maw"—sending jagged, black tendrils laced with pure entropy snaking outward like venomous serpents.
Zephyr spun, invoking a circle of ancient runes around himself that shimmered with pale light—the Runic Guard: Eclipse Spiral. These rotating sigils formed a protective barrier designed to absorb and neutralize magical attacks. The tendrils struck the barrier, shattering several glyphs in a cascade of sparks, but the last tendril pierced through and grazed Zephyr's shoulder. A thin line of blood ran down, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to falter.
Gathering his resolve, Zephyr surged forward, fists blazing with vermilion energy—a manifestation of his inner fire and willpower known as Vermillion Drive. As he punched, the fabric of time around his fists warped, slowing the demon's reactions.
The hit connected with explosive force, hurling the demon backward through the void's darkness. Zephyr pursued relentlessly, his movements crackling like lightning, every strike charged with unyielding precision.
The demon roared in fury and countered with a devastating incantation—"Void Psalm: Verse of Extinction"—ancient, cursed runes that blossomed around it before detonating in violent bursts, each explosion like a collapsing star.
Zephyr plunged through the blasts, cloak singed and armor cracked, but his gaze burned with unwavering intensity. He stamped the ground, summoning a crimson sigil beneath his feet—the Bloodrite: Chainburst Lotus. From the sigil erupted dozens of glowing red chains that whipped outward, binding the demon mid-attack.
Trapped, the demon thrashed wildly as Zephyr descended like an avenging tempest.
"Crimson Apex: Heartpiercer!" With a primal yell, Zephyr drove his fist into the demon's chest, focusing all his kinetic and blood energy into a single devastating blow. Time seemed to pause as a ripple of red energy pulsed outward like a heartbeat, detonating the chains in a fiery explosion. The demon screamed, its body unraveling from the inside as ancient ichor sprayed into the void.
But this was not the demon's end.
Its form erupted into a final, terrifying manifestation—six vast wings of black flame burst open, blotting out the void with shadowy fire in its Oblivion Form: Azar'kul.
Zephyr's eyes narrowed, a fierce grin breaking across his face.
"Good. You're finally trying," he said calmly.
He tore open his chest armor, revealing the glowing sigil of the Crimson Aspect, the symbol of his lineage and inner power. His veins pulsed with molten energy as he prepared for the ultimate clash.
The air around them crackled as Heaven and Hell collided in a cataclysmic roar—the battle of titans was only just beginning.