The sky cracked.
Like a divine drumbeat, the heavens ruptured above the scorched ruins of the battlefield. Ash fluttered down like snow, and silence reigned—until Lucian stepped forward.
Bare-chested, blood trailing down his cheek, his coat torn to ribbons by the shockwave, Lucian's gaze cut through the smoky haze. No glowing eyes. No divine spark. Just wrath—cold and calculated.
His aura burned blood-red.
It pulsed like a heartbeat, distorting the space around him. Pebbles rose. Metal groaned. The air trembled as if the world was rejecting his presence.
Nyssia, crumpled beside a broken wall, looked up through blurry vision. "Lucian... your body—"
He levitated, slow and effortless.
No wings. No sound. Gravity simply gave up.
"This power... it's not theirs. Not the angels'. Not Sephiron's," he muttered, voice low and cutting. "It's mine. Always was."
The enemies who had mocked him seconds ago—laughing at the 'human' who dared stand—now staggered back, blinded by the pressure. One of them vomited. Another fell to his knees, weeping.
Lucian raised a single hand.
Blood-red aura exploded outward, a silent pulse. In its wake, silence—and then reality itself began to fray. Buildings cracked apart without being touched. The wind refused to move. Sound refused to exist.
"You should have killed me before this."
Someone screamed. Too late.
The Omega Radius bloomed—100 kilometers of crimson annihilation.
Not fire. Not light.
Just erasure.
A dome of absolute void surged forward from him like a wave from hell, and everything inside it ceased. No explosion. No flash. Just… gone.
And Lucian, hovering at the epicenter, untouched.
His expression didn't change. There was no satisfaction. No glory. Only silence.
"This is what I am."
Nyssia whispered, voice cracking: "...A god."
Lucian descended slowly, red aura dimming. Dust settled. Ash fell. No enemy remained—not even their memory.
The battlefield had become a crater of nothingness.