The first clash was not steel against steel, but shadow against light.
Altharion blurred from sight, dissolving into a streak of nightfire as he invoked Umbra Step, his qi folding space itself. He reappeared behind the nearest Throne, fingers crackling with crimson arcs as he plunged them into its core. Blood-magic sigils blazed up his arm, and the entity shrieked—a sound like shattering glass across every realm.
Velian was a storm in human form. The Veilcleaver spun through the air, trailing ribbons of void-flame. With each swing, it tore open pockets of nullspace, swallowing enemy projectiles and spitting them back as spears of anti-light. His qi pulses turned every step into an afterimage, making him appear to be in ten places at once.
Maelis rained fire from above, each flame seeded with her phoenix essence. Her qi fused with Altharion's shadow magic, birthing black-gold firestorms that bent around allies but consumed enemies down to ash and bone.
But the Thrones were not idle. The sky erupted with Axiomatic Blades, crystalline weapons forged from the raw decree of creation. Each strike altered reality—turning air into steel, freezing time for heartbeats, warping gravity to crush the battlefield.
Altharion's shadow skills flared again—Eclipse Vein. Shadows bled from the ground, wrapping around his limbs and weapon. His qi harmonized with the Ebon Core, giving him both speed and weight beyond mortal measure. He weaved between incoming reality-shards, his blade lashing out in counterstrikes that cut not flesh, but concepts. One Throne's perfection shattered like a mirror, revealing a pulsing knot of raw essence beneath.
Velian roared an incantation in the First Tongue. Blood spurted from his palms as he traced a rune mid-air—Sanguis Crucible. The battlefield trembled as his life force ignited, fueling a crimson vortex that dragged three Thrones into its heart. The screams were not of pain, but of indignation—they had never been touched by mortality, until now.
Below, the armies clashed in chaos. Qi adepts unleashed wave-palm strikes that sent shockwaves ripping through enemy ranks. Hollowborn assassins flowed through shadows, their blood-blades whispering through armor. Eldran druids bound enemy war machines with roots infused with lunar qi.
Altharion's senses sharpened—time dilated. A Throne was moving in perfect stillness, bypassing every defense to strike at the Ebon Core itself. His eyes flared white as he invoked Veil Rend. The world went silent. Space tore like wet parchment as he surged forward, his body dissolving into shadow mist, reappearing inside the Throne's own geometric form.
His heart slammed once—pumping pure qi into his veins. His second heartbeat pumped blood-magic. Shadow and life entwined. With both, he detonated.
The explosion was not fire—it was absence, swallowing everything in a sphere of null-light. When the darkness receded, the Throne's form lay in shards, dissolving into motes of law undone.
Maelis screamed his name, but he was already moving—bleeding from his hands, his chest torn, yet his qi still raging.
Velian appeared at his side, breath ragged, eyes blazing. "We hold until the last one falls."
"Not just hold," Altharion growled, his voice like a blade being drawn. "We finish this."
The last six Thrones closed in, their forms warping into weapons beyond comprehension. Above them, the Ebon Core pulsed like a beating heart—its light deepening into a dangerous crimson.
The air thickened with power. Qi raged, shadows danced, and blood-sigils flared brighter than the sun.
The final strike was coming—and in it, the fate of creation itself.