There is no battlefield.
There is only the place where stories go to die.
A dimensionless void stitched together from half-written tragedies, abandoned plotlines, and the screaming corpses of every hero who ever believed they were the protagonist.
This is the lair of the Narrative Devourers.
They have no bodies.
They are endings.
They are the moment the chosen one wins and the villain kneels.
They are the final page where love loses.
Today they gather in numbers beyond counting (trillions of writhing plot threads, each one a fake hero, a destined saviour, a golden boy with a holy sword and a tragic backstory).
They form a wall of light that hurts to look at.
At the front stands the strongest puppet ever created.
A boy with white-gold hair, eyes made of pure plot armor, a sword forged from every "and then the hero won" that ever existed.
He is called The Last Protagonist.
He raises the sword.
His voice is every cliché spoken at once.
"Villains! Your story ends here!"
Kael and Liora step out of their newborn universe hand in hand.
Kael's twelve wings are fully silver-edged now.
Liora's twenty-four void wings burn with crimson-gold fire.
They look at the army.
Then at each other.
And laugh.
The same laugh that ended the first creation.
Kael kisses Liora once, quick and filthy.
"Left side is yours," he says.
"Right side is yours," she answers, already smiling like death.
They move.
No signal.
No countdown.
Just the perfect understanding of two beings who have fought and fucked and died together for longer than time has meaning.
Kael's wings unfold to their true size (each feather a collapsing galaxy).
Liora's spear becomes a lance of pure non-existence longer than star systems.
They hit the wall of light like twin singularities.
The war has no name because names belong to stories.
This is the end of stories.
The first second:
Kael's Void Whisper Pistol fires once.
A straight line of absolute silence erases the front billion puppets.
No ash. No souls. Just gone.
Liora's spear sweeps horizontally.
Everything it touches forgets it ever existed (plot armor, holy swords, tragic backstories, all undone).
The Devourers scream in frequencies that shatter lesser realities.
They throw everything.
Chosen ones from every timeline.
Regressors who have lived a thousand lives.
Reincarnators with max-level systems.
Saintesses who can rewrite fate.
They die in waves.
Kael walks forward, unhurried.
Every step erases a thousand heroes.
Liora dances beside him, spear spinning, wings carving arcs of void that swallow armies whole.
They never separate by more than an arm's length.
When a regressor tries to turn back time, Kael catches the timeline in his bare hand and crushes it.
When a saintess tries to seal Liora in a holy cage, Liora kisses Kael in front of her, and the resonance spike turns the cage into flowers of pure night that eat the saintess alive.
Halfway through the slaughter, they stop.
Just stop.
In the middle of the endless battlefield, surrounded by dissolving puppets.
Kael pulls Liora close.
Kisses her slow and deep, hands in her hair, wings wrapped around them both.
The Devourers throw everything they have at that moment (every ultimate attack, every forbidden spell, every tear-jerking final sacrifice).
The attacks hit the cocoon of wings and die.
Because nothing that belongs to a story can touch what is real.
When they break the kiss, both are smiling.
"Remember our first war?" Liora asks, voice husky.
"How could I forget?" Kael answers. "We made love on a mountain of god corpses."
She laughs.
"Let's do it again."
They do.
Right there.
In front of the last army of fake heroes.
Clothes dissolve into shadow and void.
They take each other among the dying light of a trillion endings.
Every thrust, every gasp, every bite erases another billion puppets.
The resonance is no longer a percentage.
It is everything.
When they finish, the battlefield is empty.
Only the Last Protagonist remains, sword shaking, plot armor cracked and bleeding.
He tries one last speech.
"You can't— This isn't how the story—"
Kael walks forward naked, wings folded like a cloak of night.
Liora follows, spear resting on her shoulder, silver hair glowing.
Kael stops in front of the boy.
Looks down at him with pity.
"There is no story anymore," he says gently.
Then he places one hand on the boy's forehead.
And erases him.
Not kills.
Erases.
The boy, his sword, his destiny, his very concept (gone).
Silence.
Absolute.
The Narrative Devourers have no more puppets.
They have no more plots.
They are just hunger now.
Kael and Liora turn to the darkness where the true Devourers hide.
The things without shape.
The endings that eat beginnings.
Kael kisses Liora once more.
"Together?" he asks.
"Always," she answers.
They walk into the final darkness hand in hand.
Twenty-four void wings and twelve shadow wings spread wide.
Behind them, the reborn 13th Universe waits (patient, obedient, ready).
The war that has no name ends the only way it could.
With a Crown and an Empress who refused to kneel.
With love older than stories.
With the sound of two heartbeats finally, perfectly, eternally in sync.
And somewhere, in a place that no longer exists, the last Narrative Devourer whispers a single dying word before it is unmade forever:
"…impossible…"
Kael and Liora smile.
And keep walking.
Into their forever.
To be continued…
(or is it finally, truly,
The End?)