The world could no longer contain the power being unleashed.
The Ebon Core had awakened fully, and its heartbeats rippled through reality. Each throb split the sky into ribbons of black and crimson, warping the laws of existence. The six remaining Thrones floated in formation, their forms blazing with a purity so intense it seared the soul to look upon them.
Altharion stood between them and the Core, his breath ragged, blood dripping from his fingertips in rhythmic taps against the broken ground. Every drop sizzled, birthing blood-sigils that pulsed in time with his qi.
Velian's aura had become a pillar of violent shadowfire, the Veilcleaver humming at a pitch that made even the Thrones falter. Each swing threatened to carve through the fabric of existence itself.
Maelis hovered above, her phoenix wings aflame with both golden fire and midnight embers—her qi merged with Altharion's shadows, giving her strikes the weight of annihilation.
Then the Thrones moved.
It was like watching the will of creation itself descend with surgical precision. Each one invoked a Law Manifest—reality-altering decrees:
One turned the air to molten glass.
Another froze time in a spiral around them.
A third inverted gravity so violently the battlefield cracked like an eggshell.
The other three spoke words in the Prime Law, and mountains crumbled in response.
Altharion's eyes narrowed. The shadows beneath him screamed as he unleashed Eclipse Dominion, summoning a field where every shadow obeyed his will. Spears of black light erupted from the ground, skewering the nearest Throne. Its perfection shattered into fractals, and for the first time, it bled—not with mortal blood, but with streams of pure concept unraveling into void.
Velian dove into the rift. Umbra Step. Sanguis Crucible. His life-force flared, coating his blade in molten crimson. He spun in a hurricane of shadow and blood, severing three Thrones from their incorporeal wings.
Maelis descended like a meteor, slamming both palms into the earth. Phoenix fire surged outward, mingling with shadow tendrils. The explosion consumed one Throne entirely, leaving only a collapsing knot of its decree. She crushed it under her heel.
But the Thrones were relentless. One extended a single finger—and Velian's chest exploded in a burst of spatial inversion. He staggered, coughing blood, but planted his blade in the ground, refusing to fall.
Altharion felt the tether of the Ebon Core pulling on him. The shadows inside his veins begged to be unchained. He obliged.
His body split into dozens of silhouettes, each a perfect copy, each wielding his full power. They attacked in unison, weaving Veil Rend, Night Reaving Palm, and blood-qi detonations in a symphony of destruction. Every strike took pieces from the Thrones, until their shapes flickered like dying stars.
One Throne lunged for Maelis—but Velian intercepted, his qi roaring with the force of ten lifetimes. He cut upward in a strike that shattered both his sword arm and the Throne's crown in the same heartbeat.
The Ebon Core's light went from crimson to black. The final pulse came.
Altharion raised his arms, blood pouring freely, and roared the forbidden incantation: "Umbrae Sanguinem Absolutio!"
The shadows swallowed the battlefield whole. For a moment, there was no sound, no sight—only the sensation of falling through endless night. Then came the detonation.
When the darkness cleared, there were no Thrones. Only a scorched horizon, the shattered Core drifting like a dying ember, and three warriors standing in its ruin.
Altharion collapsed to one knee, his qi spent, his blood magic nearly burned out. Velian laughed hoarsely, spitting blood. Maelis lowered her flaming wings, eyes wet but fierce.
They had won—but at the cost of tearing a hole in reality that might never heal.