The air on Xylos Prime tasted of ozone and dying stars. It was a taste Boboiboy had grown accustomed to over the years, a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat, as familiar as the creeping fatigue in his bones. He stood amidst the ruins of a ancient, crystalline structure, the mission objective—a pulsating, opalescent sphere known as Aetherbot—hovering serenely in the center of the devastation.
At twenty-five, he looked every bit the veteran hero the universe knew. His frame was leaner, harder, the softness of youth carved away by countless battles. But his eyes, once bright with fiery determination, now held the weight of galaxies. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, carried too much.
A low groan escaped his lips, a sound that had nothing to do with the minor skirmish he'd just ended. It came from deep within, a tectonic shift of power that was tearing him apart at the seams. Seven distinct energies warred inside him, a symphony of elements played on the fraying strings of his soul. The power from Ochobot was a gift that had become a death sentence. One Power Sphere was a lifetime companion; seven was a cosmic anomaly no single body was meant to contain.
He could feel them, his constant companions, his other selves: the crackling impatience of Voltra, the swirling restlessness of Tempest, the unyielding solidity of Crystal, the volatile passion of Nova, the crystalline calm of Blizzard, the resilient sharpness of Jungle, and the radiant core of his being, Gamma. They were no longer just transformations; they were sentient fragments, elemental characters bound to his will, straining against the cage of his flesh. He was a dam holding back seven oceans, and the cracks were beginning to show.
He clutched his chest, his breathing shallow. The only things holding him together were the iron constraint of the elemental beings themselves, who understood the catastrophe of their release, and his own indomitable will—a will forged in the heart of supernovas and tempered in the silence of dead worlds. A will to protect. But he knew. He had known for a long time. The fall was inevitable.
"This is it, Ochobot," he whispered, his voice rough. "The last one."
The small, round robot hovered by his shoulder, his usual cheerful beeps subdued. He understood better than anyone the cost his best friend had paid.
Boboiboy reached for Aetherbot. The moment his fingers brushed against its shimmering surface, the universe screamed.
A dimensional rift tore open beside him, not with a bang, but with a soundless, voracious un-creation. It was a wound in reality, pulling at everything—light, matter, his very essence. The elemental powers within him flared in unison, a defensive, panicked reaction.
"We cannot hold!" Crystal's voice rumbled in his mind, a mountain feeling its foundations crumble.
"The pull is too strong!" Tempest's voice was a frantic whirlwind.
Boboiboy gritted his teeth, his feet sliding across the crystal floor. He could fight it. He could summon a fraction of his power, enough to anchor himself, to resist. It was his first instinct, honed over a lifetime of combat.
But as he felt the agonizing strain in his cells, the fragile balance within him shattering under the external pressure, a profound clarity washed over him.
This wasn't a battle to be won. It was an end to be accepted.
He looked inward, at the seven brilliant lights that had shared his journey, his pain, his victories. They had never known a life that was truly their own. They were born from his need, shaped by his will, bound to his destiny.
And he loved them for it.
A strange peace settled over him. He stopped fighting. He let his feet leave the ground.
"Boboiboy, no!" Ochobot cried, his small frame straining against the pull.
"It's okay, Ochobot," Boboiboy said, his voice soft, almost a sigh. He spread his arms, a gesture of surrender, of release. "Tell everyone... I'm sorry."
He turned his gaze inward one last time, towards the storm of elements that was his soul. He poured all his remaining feeling into a single, final wish—not a command, but a hope, a blessing.
"Live," he thought, the word echoing through the core of his being. "Be free. Live the lives you were meant to have. A life that is yours alone."
The reaction was instantaneous and catastrophic. The constraint shattered. The dam broke.
One by one, the elemental essences were ripped from him. It was not a simple separation; it was an amputation of the soul. He saw them, for a fleeting moment, as pure, screaming tendrils of energy—a bolt of lightning, a howling gale, a shard of earth, a roaring inferno, a glacial shard, a vicious thorn, and a fragment of pure, blinding sunlight.
They fought it, not for their own sake, but for his. He felt their refusal, their loyalty, their fear for him.
"Let go," he urged them, his consciousness fading. "It's alright. Let go."
With a final, silent cry that tore through the fabric of dimensions, the seven fragments were plucked from his being and hurled into the swirling chaos of the rift. The connection, once as constant as his own heartbeat, snapped.
The last thing Boboiboy felt, as the void swallowed him whole, was not pain, nor fear. It was the hollow, echoing silence where seven voices had once lived. And in that silence, there was a terrible, lonely peace.