In the heavens above, far from mortal reach, the God of Justice staggered backward, clutching his chest.
A searing, unnatural pain pulsed through his divine core. His breathing—once steady and serene—now came in ragged bursts. He looked down at his trembling hand.
Black blood oozed from his palm, dark and viscous, staining his radiant flesh with creeping corruption.
"No…"
He whispered.
The last of his shards—destroyed. He felt every rupture as though Kyle's sword had pierced him directly.
His body, once a bastion of divine order, now trembled under a weight that shouldn't have touched a god.
He stumbled against the marble wall of his sanctum, golden light flickering around him like a dying flame.
He opened his palm again and saw the blackness growing—spreading from beneath his skin like veins of rot.
"Impossible… this should not be happening."
"Kyle Armstrong. You've pushed me to this point…"
He snarled under his breath.
