And the world learned what it meant to see a fight already won.
The ridge was still, the villagers hushed, the air crisp with the scent of steam and ash. Andy's aura glowed steady — dragon-fire braided with phoenix-light — and in that steadiness lay a truth more terrifying to his enemy than any strike: he was not straining. He was not reaching. He was simply present, and the world obeyed.
But the Corrupter was not finished.
From the ruin of his body, shadow bled like oil set alight, thick and choking, laced with the stench of tar pits and burned bone. His crown — cracked, splintered — rattled as if trying to sew itself whole again. Shards of false starlight rose screaming from the ground, drawn back into orbit.
The Corrupter's not-mouth widened, spilling words like wounds.
"Not… enough… I will wear a thousand… to unmake one."
He spread his arms.
The ridge shuddered. The caves groaned. Villagers screamed and fell to their knees as the very ground convulsed. From every fracture poured spirits — a thousand souls, long devoured, dragged forth and knotted into wing-shapes. They rose screaming in a chorus that blistered ears, their cries like children calling for mothers who would never answer.
Two vast wings of corruption unfolded, stitched from agony, feathered with shadows that stank of grief and salt. Faces writhed in every plume: men, women, beasts, forgotten names. A thousand lives woven into a banner of despair.
The villagers clutched each other, sobbing. One old man wailed, "Maker save us, he's wearing our dead—"
Nia lifted her staff though her hands shook, her voice trembling but firm. "Those souls are chained. He's feeding on them."
Aurelia spat blood, defiant. "Not for long."
Andy said nothing. His eyes burned steady, gold slitted with dragon calm, phoenix bright at their edges. His wings flared open, fire-feather and scale together, light pooling at their seams. The Oathblade pulsed once in his grip, the hum of all four elements braided so tightly it became silence — not the Corrupter's, but the silence of decision.
The Corrupter screamed. His crown blazed black, wings beating in a gale of sorrow and shadow. A storm of voices poured over the ridge: a thousand cries, each one begging, each one cursing, each one empty.
Andy stepped forward.
The Oathblade rose. Heat licked his arm, tide cooled his ribs, gale steadied his heels, stone braced his shoulders. Light crowned it all. He breathed once, filling his chest with more than air — with balance.
"This ends," Andy said, voice quiet but so absolute the ridge seemed to exhale with him, "with me."
The Corrupter lunged, wings of souls crashing forward like avalanches of misery. Shadows tore trees from root, shattered stone, devoured air. The cries in them rose to shrieks that clawed at the villagers' ears until blood wept from them.
Andy cut once.
He did not shout a skill name. He did not need to. The Oathblade's edge gleamed white-gold, every element braided perfect, phoenix fire crowning it with memory of rebirth. The strike was clean, vertical, simple as a line drawn by law.
The wings split.
Not torn — released. The cries within broke into sudden silence, not stolen but freed. Faces dissolved, shadows blew away in motes of light. A thousand souls fell like rain, soft and shimmering, returning to sky they had been stolen from. Villagers gasped as some motes brushed their cheeks, warm as a mother's touch, gone the moment they tried to hold them.
The Corrupter froze. His crown split down its axis. Cracks spidered, glowing with white fire. His ribs groaned, fissures opening, black flame coughing into ash. His wings collapsed into nothing, unraveling thread by thread until only his not-shape remained.
Andy lowered the Oathblade. The strike's echo lingered, humming through stone, through bone, through memory.
The crown shattered.
Fragments burst outward in a storm of obsidian shards, then dissolved mid-air, leaving behind only dust that smelled faintly of quenched metal. The Corrupter staggered, tried to form words, but only ash spilled from his mouth.
The system confirmed what the ridge already knew.
[Corrupter Tier III — Rasi Ascendant]
Core Integrity: 0%
Crown Status: Destroyed
Result: Terminated
The Corrupter fell. Not with grandeur, not with thunder. He simply crumbled, wrongness unspooling into dust. The ridge steadied, the sky cleared, the silence broke forever.
Villagers rose trembling, some weeping, some laughing through tears. One little girl whispered, "The stars came back," as dawn poured clean gold over the ridge.
Andy stood unshaken. His breath was even, his face calm, his aura steady. The Oathblade dimmed only enough to stop hurting the eyes. His wings folded, but did not vanish — flame and scale both, calm as a cloak of light.
Aurelia whistled low, voice hoarse. "One cut." She shook her head, grinning through exhaustion. "One godsdamned cut."
Nia exhaled shakily, then smiled — tired, proud, reverent. "Not one cut. The last cut."
Andy looked out over the ridge, the dust settling where shadows had ruled, the villagers kneeling in a circle of gratitude they didn't yet have words for.
It was done.
The Corrupter's crown lay shattered. His silence would never rise again.
And the Dragon-Phoenix did not bow.