The world trembled as divinity met defiance.
Aamon's throne room—once a place of reverence and terror—was now nothing more than an open wound in reality. Its walls had long since melted into streaks of light and shadow; its ceiling no longer existed, only an endless void above, filled with storms that roared in rhythm with each collision of power.
In the heart of that maelstrom stood three beings—each carrying enough strength to erase nations, but only two still human enough to bleed.
Zero Elea stood on one side, half-kneeling, his breath shallow and ragged. Frost curled from his lips as his mana flared in desperate surges, freezing the ground in a thousand fractal patterns. Beside him stood his creation—his other half—the Emperor of Destruction, a figure carved from shadow and power, radiating a calm that was not human. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dimness, reflecting both pride and unspoken concern.
