Chapter 60 – Fate, Life, and Death
The sky split further apart.
Not by thunder, not by storm, but by something far older—
the clash between the first and the last essence.
In the heart of formless void, three beings stood still.
Elarion—his blue eyes gleamed, a scroll of radiant fate unrolled in his grasp, threads of the world dancing at his fingertips.
Enver—his gaze burned with the fire of life, his body pulsed with the rhythm of every soul ever born.
And Maxcen—the first Hellseer, his black eyes devouring all light, his mouth chewing on prayers that never reached heaven.
"Everything has been written," whispered Maxcen, his voice echoing like a tomb's breath.
"Life is but a brief pause before death's embrace. Fate is the fabric I weave—never the one you choose."
Elarion lifted his hand.
Threads of destiny spilled from the scroll, twisting through the air, forming paths—thousands of them, branching into infinite possibilities.
"No, Maxcen," he answered softly, yet firmly.
"I will alter the threads you've woven. I connect worlds, unite races, and give them choice. Fate is not a chain—it is a bridge."
Enver stepped forward, his eyes unwavering.
"I don't wish to speak much," his voice pulsed through the trembling ground.
"I only wish to be myself—to walk my own path of purification. And now, Maxcen, I will purify you."
Maxcen laughed—a laugh that wounded the air. From his body burst black mist filled with the whispers of nameless dead. They screamed, wept, and fell from the empty sky, forming an ocean of death beneath their feet.
The battle began.
Elarion unfurled the threads of fate, creating a circle of light. From the spiral rose ancient shadows—forgotten dragons, primal humans, spirits of nature. They appeared for but a moment, summoned to resist Maxcen's tide of death.
Enver ignited his core of life. From his body burst golden-green sparks that became forests in an instant—trees, flowers, and grass blooming from his blood's breath. That life clashed against Maxcen's mist, making it hiss and recoil.
But Maxcen, with his weaving of death, reached out a hand. The trees withered. Flowers crumbled to dust. The spirits summoned by Elarion collapsed into hollow skeletons.
"Your life is fragile, your fate easily burned," he said coldly.
"You may fight me now—but when death greets you, will you still resist?"
Elarion did not flinch. He spun the threads of destiny directly into Enver's body—binding the essence of life to his chosen path.
Enver gasped as his power doubled, his pulse cracking and fusing with the void.
"Enver, don't let him drag you into the Hollow," warned Elarion.
Enver nodded, his gaze sharp on Maxcen.
Maxcen spread his arms wide.
From the darkness, thousands of black crosses were born—each forged from the souls he had once destroyed. They cried and writhed, forced into weapons. The crosses rained down upon Enver and Elarion.
Enver raised his hand—light burst forth, pale white-green: the essence of life. Every cross that touched it shattered, freeing the souls within. They wept in relief before vanishing completely.
"No chain is eternal. No weaver lasts forever," said Enver.
Elarion redirected the remaining crosses with his threads, turning them against the mist. For the first time, Maxcen staggered backward.
His black eyes flared. A cruel smile spread across his face.
"Good. Very good. But remember—" his voice deepened, "you are both fragments of me. Life and fate are born from the womb of death."
The battle reached its peak.
Enver leapt, his body blazing bright—each motion spreading life. From his blood bloomed flowers, from his breath came beasts, from his gaze—purified souls.
Elarion wove paths beneath his steps, ensuring every move Enver made was guided by a rewritten destiny. As if the road itself bent toward victory.
Maxcen absorbed it all. Every flower he withered, every freed soul he devoured again, every fate-thread he shredded with his blackened claws.
But the more he resisted, the more reality trembled—
as though the world could no longer contain three primordial essences at once.
Finally, light and shadow collided.
The explosion tore through the dimensions.
Enver knelt, his breath ragged—his life-force nearly drained.
Elarion still stood, but his threads quivered, fraying to dust.
Maxcen, though cracked and bleeding black, still smiled.
"You've made me feel it again… the thrill of weaving fates anew," he murmured, blood dripping from his lips.
"But death cannot be erased. Only delayed. Only paused."
The world trembled, as if their battle would decide not only one ending—but the fate of every creation that ever existed.
---
The clash raged on.
The secret sky of Maxcen and Elarion shattered like glass. The barren earth roared, swallowing every strike and echo of power.
Yet Enver's steps faltered—not from defeat, but because the realm itself rejected him.
That world was never meant for "the breath of life."
He fell unconscious—crashing upon the lifeless soil.
Elarion, standing before him, was no longer whole.
He was but a shadow of the past, a remnant formed from the power once left in Prufen, the secret chamber of the Council—now intruded upon.
And his fragment began to disintegrate.
One by one, shards of his light drifted away—like fragments of dusty glass carried by silent winds.
Those fragments entered Enver's unconscious body… and struck the intruder within Prufen, hurling the being back—too impure to contain the trace of a Founder.
Elarion vanished.
Some of his dust fused into Enver… and into the intruder.
Maxcen, his breathing heavy, slowly faded from sight.
The mist consumed him, leaving behind an expression not of hatred, but of understanding—
as though he gazed upon something long lost.
–––
And within Maxcen's sanctum, surrounded by the murmurs of a million astral voices, the weary being spoke to Zephyr.
His tone was soft, heavy—almost a prayer.
"Someone has awakened Elarion's power. But who?
If this repeats, I must be stronger next time, Zephyr.
Because my opponent is no longer Elarion alone… but my own blood."
Zephyr stayed silent, head bowed, fear trembling in his chest.
He knew—
the closer Maxcen drew to his true form,
the thinner the veil between life and death became.
Maxcen closed his eyes, his body quivering—not from rage, but from exhaustion.
The battle had drained even the essence of death within him.
And beneath that fatigue, a realization stirred—
Enver's bloodstained cards.
They were not mere tools of purification, nor wild power.
Now he understood—they carried a legacy.
They were not from Morren entirely, yet much of Morren's essence resided within those cards—
especially the three Enver had used against him.
A faint, bittersweet smile crossed Maxcen's face.
As if greeting an irony he had foreseen all along.
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