Burngear's head lifted slowly from the cracked cobblestones, his mismatched eyes blazing with an intensity that could melt steel.
Not Burngear.
Not John.
Crimson Apocalypse.
The air around him wavered, distorted by the oppressive heat radiating from his body. His mechanical limbs hissed, vents along his forearms spewing jets of vapor as his inner furnaces surged.
Above, perched effortlessly on the bell tower, the Director of Continuity chuckled lightly.
"Ah… there it is."
His voice was calm, conversational, as though speaking to a dear friend over tea.
"I understand your anger, truly. These constructs…"
He gestured lazily toward the two Theresa-shaped forms holding Burngear down.
"They aren't perfect. Flawed, even. Honestly, it pains me to present such a poor product to the Ember Priest's little puppy."
He smiled, faintly amused.
"But, I suppose I shouldn't bite the hand that feeds me."
Burngear's roar cracked the ground beneath him.
A surge of white-hot heat exploded outward from his core, so intense that the cobblestones beneath him began to bubble, the graphite and tar liquefying into black pools.
The constructs' grips faltered for the first time as their limbs hissed under the sudden temperature spike.
Burngear planted both feet hard into the ground, forcing himself upright with sheer, furious strength. His arm pistons extended, vents blasting sparks as he twisted and ripped himself free.
The constructs lunged, but Burngear's molten fists slammed into their chests, forcing them back with a spray of vaporized stone and twisted metal.
What followed was pure chaos.
Burngear tore across the courtyard, movements erratic but devastating, each strike denting the ground or shattering nearby debris into clouds of molten shards.
When one construct swung a crystalline blade, Burngear ducked beneath it, caught the edge with his melting arm, and snapped it apart with a vicious wrench, the fragments glowing red as they hit the ground.
He hurled the broken blade like a javelin, forcing the second construct to pivot away before retaliating with an overhead hammer strike that split the cracked pavement further.
Burngear didn't dodge.
He didn't weave.
He simply broke everything that came near him.
Spotting a rusted fence nearby, Burngear punched the post with enough force to bend the rods loose. His heat flared again, molten sparks welding the lengths together into a jagged makeshift spear.
He swung it like a club, the construct barely blocking the strike with its forearm—but the welded mass shattered on impact, sending shards spinning in every direction.
Through it all, the Director simply watched.
Amused.
Pleased.
"Ah… yes. That's it. Push yourself."
His voice carried effortlessly across the courtyard, unhurried and calm even as Burngear's rampage tore apart everything within reach.
"You are contributing to something far greater than yourself, Crimson. An optimization test… a necessary step in ensuring efficiency."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.
"You should be glad."
Burngear didn't respond.
He couldn't.
His throat was raw from the guttural roars that accompanied every strike, his mind singularly focused on obliterating anything that stood in front of him.
But the constructs weren't idle.
Even damaged, they moved with unnerving coordination, slipping between Burngear's wild swings with smooth, precise motions. Their counterattacks hammered his frame relentlessly, each blow cracking the reinforced plating of his arms and legs until sparks sprayed with every movement.
Finally, after minutes that felt like hours, Burngear fell to one knee.
His chest heaved, his breathing ragged.
Every single limb was warped, melted, and sparking.
He could barely lift his arms. Not that he had any left.
The Director's smile widened.
"And so, we reach the threshold of the data set."
He raised one finger casually, as if clicking a mouse.
"Shall we test their… fatality?"
One of the constructs stepped forward, its arm reshaping into a single elongated blade as it swung downward toward Burngear's head—
A flash of silver cut through the air.
Kharon's spear slammed against the blade mid-swing, snapping it in two before spinning with impossible speed to cleave the construct's entire arm clean off.
The second spear followed immediately, thrusting upward to pierce the other construct's chest, driving it several steps back before its form began to glitch and stutter.
Both constructs staggered, their movements now jerky and unstable.
Kharon planted himself firmly in front of Burngear, his spears humming as faint trails of dust curled from their edges.
His glare cut upward toward the bell tower.
"Test me next."
The Director tilted his head slightly, his smile calm and unbothered even as the constructs' fractured frames sparked and sputtered.
"Ah… time's up, I suppose."
He raised both hands and gave a single sharp clap.
The constructs flared crimson. Their bodies pulsed with jagged waves of light, fissures splitting across their surfaces as heat bled through the cracks.
Kharon's eyes widened instantly.
"Burn—!"
He hooked one spear under Burngear's arm, hauled him upright with sheer force, and turned to sprint without hesitation.
The constructs' pulsing reached a fever pitch.
BOOM.
The explosion ripped through the courtyard like a tidal wave of flame and force.
Stone shattered.
Steel warped.
The church behind them split apart at its base, the stained glass windows bursting outward in showers of rainbow shards that glittered for the briefest moment before vanishing in the smoke.
Kharon leapt clear of the main blast radius, his back braced to shield Burngear's slumped body. Debris rained down in a storm of ash and glowing embers, the impact echoing across the streets.
When the dust finally began to settle, the Director was nowhere on the bell tower.
Instead, he floated calmly several dozen feet above the ruined church, his figure supported by nothing but air.
His posture remained perfect, one hand behind his back, the other loosely holding a polished cane he hadn't been carrying moments ago.
"Thank you once again," he called down cheerfully, "for contributing to my research."
He bowed slightly in midair, his movements smooth and precise, as if mocking courtesy.
"As a reward… I shall let you enjoy the show."
His smile sharpened, though his voice remained steady and pleasant.
"Do make sure to savor it."
"And realize the gap you must cross."
His form flickered briefly, then began to fade, his figure dissolving into streams of data that dispersed into the night sky like strands of silk.
A faint crackle of static drew the group's attention back to the ruins of the church.
Amid the shattered pews and broken masonry, one of the screens that had previously displayed the Director's face flickered to life again, its surface lined with fractures but still operational.
Kharon set Burngear carefully against a surviving wall, his chest still heaving from exertion, while the others gathered cautiously around the glowing display.
The image stabilized.
And every single one of them froze.
On the screen, framed by the roar of flame and the infernos colliding midair, was Fang—calm, resolute, his incense rods striking aside waves of fire as his movements flowed seamlessly between attack and evasion.
And across from him, eyes blazing with fury stood Talulah.
Her sword split the ground with every swing, fountains of molten rock bursting in her wake as her Arts scorched the buildings behind her.
The two clashed with such force that the very street around them trembled.
"…That's…" Leto whispered, barely audible.
No one could answer.
The sight said more than words ever could.