The battlefield was silent for a heartbeat. Thousands stared in disbelief — at the boy in black, standing before the end of the world, his aura burning like the midnight sun.
Vorathrax's molten eyes narrowed. The Calamity-Class beast had seen champions, kings, armies — all crumble under its shadow-fire. But this one… this one stood untouched, unbent, and calm.
Eryndor lifted his hand. The fragments of the annihilation beam still hung in the sky, chaotic fire and void slivers screaming to consume everything. With a flick of his wrist, they vanished, dissolved into sparks drawn into his storm.
"Now…" His eyes sharpened. Lightning traced across his shoulders, wind whispering at his feet. "Let's finish this."
Vorathrax struck first. A claw larger than a fortress swept across the plain, tearing up stone and soil, a strike that could obliterate cities.
Eryndor vanished.
A sudden crack of thunder echoed where he once stood. In the next instant, he appeared at the beast's flank — his foot digging into the earth, his fist driving forward.
Storm Arts: Thunder Fang Strike.
The punch detonated like a cannon. Lightning erupted from his knuckles, spearing through molten armor and sending shockwaves through Vorathrax's colossal frame. The beast staggered, for the first time forced back.
The crowd erupted — soldiers, Kael, Calen, Rhydor, Varian — all watching the impossible.
But Vorathrax roared, shadows coiling like serpents. The air grew heavy.
The monster's spines lit with molten fury, launching a barrage of volcanic shards. Each was the size of a boulder, trailing black flame.
Eryndor moved.
He didn't dodge — he flowed. His steps were precise, practiced from the astral sky. His body weaved between projectiles, each movement carrying wind currents that diverted the shards just enough to miss. His hands redirected two, his heel shattered another midair, sparks scattering like fireworks.
His storm was not wild now — it was controlled chaos, harnessed into martial art.
He launched upward, his body twisting midair.
Astral Flow: Cyclone Step.
Wind erupted beneath his feet, propelling him skyward. Lightning laced across his leg as he spun — a kick descending like a guillotine.
The strike smashed into Vorathrax's jaw, the sound like thunder cracking mountains. The colossal beast reeled, molten teeth scattering sparks into the air.
But Vorathrax was no mere titan.
It roared, and the shadows deepened. Its second phase — the Eclipse Form — surged with new life. Molten veins burned white-hot, tendrils erupted outward, a forest of writhing shadow spears slamming toward Eryndor from every direction.
For anyone else, it would be death.
For him — it was the perfect storm.
Eryndor closed his eyes. His aura shifted, a fusion of wind and lightning.
Storm Domain: Eye of the Tempest.
In an instant, the battlefield warped. A dome of swirling winds and lightning enveloped him, a protective storm that erased the tendrils as they struck. Shadow melted into sparks, flames smothered by gales. He stood untouched in the center, calm as still water.
And then he moved again.
His fists blurred, each punch weaving wind into lightning. Every strike was deliberate, a martial artist's precision amplified by storm-born fury.
A jab shattered a tendril, redirecting its force back into Vorathrax's chest. A spinning elbow ripped through molten armor, leaving cracks glowing with unstable energy. A low kick sent a shockwave through the beast's leg, staggering its balance.
He was no longer just wielding lightning or wind — he was becoming the storm, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next.
Vorathrax howled, clawing wildly, summoning a whirl of shadow-fire to engulf him.
Eryndor welcomed it.
He stepped forward, storm flaring.
Astral Arts: Heaven's Rend, perfected.
A single upward strike of his palm split the sky itself. The flames parted, the shadows ripped apart, the beast's molten armor cracked deeper.
For the first time, the Calamity-Class monster faltered. Its body quaked, molten cracks spreading like fractures in glass. But it was far from finished — its chest began to glow again, a catastrophic energy coiling, stronger than before.
The soldiers gasped. Even Varian tensed. This was the power meant to end civilizations.
But Eryndor only tightened his fists, lightning flickering across his frame, wind roaring louder. His eyes burned with calm resolve.
"This time," he whispered, "you'll break."