"Anastasia, move!" Chen shouted, barely back on his feet, blood streaming down his face.
But the effort was too much for her heart. She collapsed, her hair turned white from magical exhaustion.
Chen, despite broken ribs and blood pouring from his temple, saw the nemesis's massive paw rise above unconscious Anastasia.
The Magister leapt, pressing both palms against the giant foot. His muscles strained, veins bulging across his forehead, and a golden aura burst from his body.
"Don't underestimate us, monster!"
The impossible happened.
He made the nemesis stagger. The creature, thrown off balance, toppled backward with a roar of surprise.
"NOW!"
Blackthorne didn't hesitate. He raised his staff to the sky, and five pillars of pure light tore down from the clouds, spearing the nemesis mid-fall. The creature's death-cry shook all of Manchester, black blood erupting like geysers from its wounds.
Chen grabbed Anastasia and ran for Blackthorne, legs shaking under him.
"We can't stop it! We need an S-Rank Magister, now! It's our only—"
His words were cut short.
His head exploded in a spray of blood and bone.
The nemesis, still grounded but far from dead, had aimed a claw at Chen. A sphere of concentrated acid shot forth, leaving only a headless corpse behind, Anastasia tumbling from his arms.
A demonic grin split the monster's face. Its one remaining yellow eye gleamed with sadistic joy.
Then it raised its hand, conjuring dozens of acidic orbs around its claws—deadly pearls suspended in the air.
Blackthorne acted just in time.
A barrier of white light encased him and the unconscious Anastasia. The acid spheres rained down, crashing against the shield in bursts of green fire.
Even protected, they could see the devastation. Every missed shot carved craters into the earth, shattered walls, melted fountains. A cathedral, already weakened, lost its spire in an apocalyptic crash.
The nemesis slowly rose. Blood still poured from its ruined eye, but its regeneration had begun. Wounds closed before their eyes.
In his arms, Anastasia stirred faintly.
"Viktor…" she whispered.
"They're dead. But they died heroes."
The shield flickered. The nemesis's endless assault drained it fast, and Blackthorne felt his strength fading.
The old Magister pulled a red crystal from his pocket.
He crushed it between his teeth. His blood mingled with the powder, and chains of light burst from his body, lashing around the nemesis.
"Chains… of Hades…" he growled. "This… is my vow… You… won't move… as long… as I breathe…"
The glowing chains wrapped around the beast's limbs and neck, binding it. The nemesis fought, pulling hard, but the chains held firm.
Blackthorne pulled out a communicator.
"Code… Alpha-class Nemesis… requesting… S-Rank Magister… Manchester… under threat..."
The reply was instant: ["Magister Aldrich en route. ETA: twenty minutes."]
But they didn't have twenty minutes.
The chains began to weaken.
Drained of magic and life-force, Blackthorne could no longer sustain the spell. His white hair turned ashen, deep lines etched across his face as if he'd aged thirty years.
"No…" he whispered. "Not… now..."
CRACK.
The first chain snapped.
The nemesis roared and flexed. One by one, the restraints shattered. The final chain around its neck held for a few seconds more—then burst in a dying flare of light.
Blackthorne collapsed, unconscious. Anastasia crawled toward him, but she too was too weak.
The nemesis was free. And now, it was furious.
The beast raised its head toward the overcast sky and unleashed a roar that echoed across Manchester. Then something extraordinary began.
Its body started to glow—an eerie green light growing brighter by the second.
"Oh no," Anastasia whispered, eyes wide with dread.
In the nearby streets, the few remaining officers and medics felt the air turn heavy.
Birds dropped dead from the sky.
Commander Ashworth, watching from afar, felt the hair on his neck rise.
"Sir?" asked his lieutenant, disturbed by his silence.
Ashworth pulled out his finest whiskey and poured two glasses. He handed one to the bewildered Morrison.
"Care for a last drink?"
The nemesis opened its jaws. A sphere of pure energy formed, swelling fast—from house-size to building-size. The air cracked with electricity; the ground split beneath it.
"This is the end," Anastasia murmured, closing her eyes. "I'm coming, brother."
The orb reached its full size. The nemesis roared one final time and—
A flame, hotter than the noonday sun, erupted out of nowhere. It engulfed the nemesis in an instant, crawling up its limbs, torso, and head.
The beast screamed in agony. The destructive orb dissolved instantly.
The fire was blinding—brighter than a thousand suns. The flames danced in impossible colors: blood-red, pure white, and a golden hue so bright it hurt to look at. They rose skyward in spirals, a pillar of light visible for miles.
But the true miracle lay elsewhere.
Anastasia, lying just meters from the blaze, eyes shut, felt only a gentle warmth—like a hearth on a winter night. Blackthorne, unconscious beside her, breathed peacefully, his features relaxing in the fire's healing glow.
Glass shards and metal debris remained untouched. Water puddles didn't boil. The cracked stones underfoot didn't scorch. Only a few drifting leaves turned to ash upon contact.
The nemesis, however, burned.
It burned like no living thing had ever burned.
Its black scales cracked and crumbled like wax in the sun. Its corrosive blood evaporated before touching the ground. Flesh peeled layer by layer, revealing pearly white bones that, too, began to disintegrate.
And the screams...
The nemesis's screams chilled the soul. Cries of such torment they shattered the last intact windows in Manchester, so guttural they seemed to rise from hell itself.
The beast writhed, thrashed, tried to douse the flames—but nothing worked. The fire devoured it from the inside out.
"AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!"
The roar echoed through the city. In shelters, children clung to mothers. In makeshift hospitals, the wounded fell silent, paralyzed with fear.
Commander Ashworth, whiskey halfway to his lips, stared out the window. The flames reflected in his wide eyes.
"Dear God," he murmured. "What the hell is that?"
Morrison beside him had gone pale.
The nemesis began to collapse. Its once-mighty limbs crumbled to ash. Its massive chest caved like a sandcastle in the tide. Even its terrifying skull, eye still gleaming moments ago, was now a smoking ruin.
A final scream—softer now, almost pitiful—escaped its burning throat. Then silence.
The nemesis that had killed three A-Rank Magisters and torn half of Manchester apart was gone. Nothing remained but gray ash, scattered on the autumn wind.
The flames vanished as suddenly as they'd come.
The air cooled again. Dust settled. In the eerie quiet that followed, only the whisper of wind stirred among the ruins.
Anastasia opened her eyes, blinking in disbelief. She sat up slowly, strength returning bit by bit, and looked at the spot where the creature had stood.
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
No trace it had ever existed—only the destruction it left behind.
"Who..." she croaked. "Who did this?"
Scanning the rubble, her eyes locked onto a small silhouette in the distance. A boy—no older than ten—walking calmly through the wreckage like he was strolling through a park.
He wore plain linen pants and a white shirt, hands in his pockets. Chestnut curls framed his face, and he sucked on a peppermint candy with idle ease.
The child stopped before the pile of ashes that had once been a god.
He tilted his head, examining the remains with casual curiosity.
Then he turned to Anastasia and gave her a smile—pure, disarming, utterly innocent.
"Pretty fire, wasn't it?"