Valkyris-Sergian fixed it's gaze towards the sun to see the tremendous energy pouring from heaven , But when it looked up at the bright sky, It saw the sun had shadowed by the sun god itself. But as its eyes met the source, it froze—
it wasn't the sun god.
It was Abraham.
The sky split and Abraham found himself staring directly into a wound that was not the sun but the shape of a promise.
He hung above the battlefield like a blade caught between dusk and dawn. The six shadowy tails of Oboros had unspooled and reformed — each of them collided hardened, burning into a wing. Golden wings spread from his back, vast and glowing in golden, flapping slowly as if going to burn the whole world. His cloak ripped apart into strips of bright light glowing into mixture of crimson red and golden flame, flowing behind him like a divine cosmic tail.
Every inch of his body in flame – orange, gold, too bright to look at like Sun god itself emerged from heaven. The black of his right eye burned like an eclipse; the left shone like a sun-pupil. The Virgeon Hollow — Girekars' dark shadow sword — dissolved in his hands and became a rod of living flame, a staff of sunlight he held mid-shaft as if cradling the dawn itself. He did not know how he had reached this — a form remembered from a life he had not finished yet resurrected in the bones of a seventeen-year-old body — but the memory came like a rite, precise and terrible.
Sun god. Flame throne. He tasted all of it and did not flinch.
He hung there, The light he made outshone the sun, and for a long, suspended breath he simply looked down.
Below, the fused horror — Valkyris-Sergian — paused. The beast's molten gaze sought the source and found a silhouette wrapped in fire, and the next moment the world answered like a held note released: the battlefield hushed until only the crackle of heat remained.
Abraham's voice cut the quiet, not raised but absolute.
"Beast," he said. "You thought I bore your strikes because I was weak. You were fed by my restraint. Now — blaze."
System Pop-Up in thin air a yellow screen
[Combat Analysis — First Engagement Review]
[Summary: You were clearly the punching bag.]
→ Opening Clash: You blocked with your face.
→ Mid-Fight Strategy: Dodge, pray, get hit anyway.
→ Counter Attempts: Three swings. Two missed. One just made him angrier.
→ Damage Sustained: 68% armor destruction, 95% pride reduction.
→ Mana Efficiency: Like pouring water into a leaking bucket.
→ Movement Flow: Described as "desperate flailing."
→ Overall Performance Rating: 2/10 — points given for not dying immediately.
[Emotional Damage: Irreversible.]
[Recommended Improvement Plan:]
→ "Try not being the training dummy next time."
→ "Less tanking with your ribs."
→ "Maybe hit him once."
[Achievement Unlocked: 'Walking punching bag' ]
[Playback available — do you wish to relive your humiliation?]
Abraham "…Shut up."
[Acknowledged. Saving highlights anyway.]
I'm pretty sure this yellow screen is tongue of that bastard mormend he set it up all of the words in this yellow screen, taking a deep breath he look down on the beast.
"This isn't punishment for looking down on me. It isn't revenge for Jennifer. I don't want justice — I want annihilation.
I don't fight for the erase of Herculis cult; I want to erase you to your last cell.
It's not for the blood you spat from me with your halberd. I don't claim you worthy of the name Lorchen Apocalypse — that title wouldn't survive on someone like you.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's your face. Maybe it's the way you stand. Whatever it is, it makes me want to kill you."
The system blinked beneath his vision, a blue shard against gold:
[Draw — Flame Thrown]
[Stage: Archer of Sworn Sun God — Ready]
[Consume Mana: Maximum]
Abraham did not hesitate. He tightened his grip on the rod of flame. The Virgeon rod answered, the heat compressing into a spine of light between his palms. He set his right hand as if drawing back an invisible string — three fingers on the flame-rest, forming nothing and then forming a thing of pure intent.
He mouthed syllables from a language older than speech. The words had no mercy to them; they were commands, thin and crystalline, made to stitch fire to will.
The system pulsed:
[Flame Thrown — Stage: Archer of Sworn Sun God]
[Skill Access: Blooming Desire of Sun Dragon Arrow]
[Confirm: Consume Full Mana? Yes / No]
He felt the choice dissolve. Yes.
He chanted lines that were not for the beast — they were for the world that would witness this excision. His voice was a rubric of ruin and sun.
"I alone decide what remains and what dies.
Mercy is a word I no longer remember.
The dawn will crumble; the sun will fall like stars.
This world ends not in shadow — but fire.
Fall… O blazing sun."
As he spoke, a filament of flame nursed itself into existence on the rod, then pulled taut into a shaft. The arrow formed from heat and vow, a spine of incandescent will. He smiled, small and certain.
"Blooming Desire of Sun Dragon Arrow."
The arrow launched from nothing. It pierced the sky in a shot of white-gold, and where it moved the air itself burned. The arrow did not fly — it bloomed. Flame swelled around it, expanding as if the shaft were the eye of a star that had been pried open. The heat swelled and rolled outward; trees bent and ash spiraled upward toward the growing light.
Then spirit answered.
From the fire-boulder the arrow had swelled into, something coalesced: a dragon not of flesh but of incandescent will. It unfolded like a myth — long, serpentine, a mane of living flame, scales like polished sunstone. Where antlers would be on a red-deer crown they rose: horns branching like the oldest crown of the sky, serrated and bright. No wings; it rode the arrow's trail as if the world were its current, not its limit. The dragon's maw opened and the thunder of that opening swallowed the horizon.
It passed through Abraham without touch — a spirit that recognized its maker. The dragon did not eat him; it accepted him. It curled, wrapping the flaming head around the arrow's body until the projectile and the beast became one — a living comet in dragon shape, its crown of antlers sparking storms.
Below, the forest shrank to shadow beneath the creature's glare. The dragon's fiery maw grew wider, it's throat a furnace like blazing inferno. Thing that could swallow the world leaned in, ready to consume everything on it's way, while the arrow-dragon sped toward the ground like a falling sun.
Abraham observed the growing sensation of both sacred and profane intensity deep within. His wings stirred, and the fiery cloak streamed behind him like a flag heading into war. He tighten the rod in his grasp tugging at the fabric of the heavens, serving as the center around which an impending disaster — an axis for the coming destruction. The Virgeon flame had become a bow that bent the world to his will.
He knew, without thinking, that the dragon's maw would crash through the canopy and bite at the heart of the forest. Trees would become ash, the cult's sacrificial ground would be swallowed, and the dragon's hunger would answer his command. He knew that Jennifer's face, Joel's frantic run, Oboros' sixfold loyalty — all these were the currency of this hour.
He found his voice again, low and absolute, not a taunt but a decree.
"Fall."
The arrow-dragon hurled down with the intent of mountains. Its red-deer antlers braided the air into thunder. The forest shrank to nothing beneath the swelling light. The maw opened wider — a circle of unmaking — and the whole world leaned forward as if listening for the moment when the sun would strike.
Far below, Valkyris-Sergian's molten bulk glowed and then stiffened. The beast looked up into the bleeding sky and its infernal gaze met Abraham's. For an instant, the molten titan saw the boy and the god at once — a man who had burned with both shadow and sun. The fusion's grin narrowed. The world held, a single inhalation before the thunder of impact.