The mont the Brotherhood moved, the arena ceased to exist.
Not destroyed—transford. Reality itself bent around the seven figures as they unleashed power accumulated over five thousand years of preparation. The ground beneath them beca sothing else, a battleground that existed between dinsions, where the normal rules of magic and physics were rely suggestions.
Kaelen struck first.
His shield, unremarkable a mont ago, expanded into a barrier of absolute defense that encompassed the entire circle. Light rippled across its surface, not reflecting but absorbing, consuming, nullifying. When Dagon’s counterattack ca—a wave of divine force that would have leveled a mountain—it struck the shield and simply stopped.
"You’ll find," Kaelen said calmly, "that five thousand years of practice makes a shield very difficult to bypass."
Dagon’s eyes narrowed. He raised his hand, and the air around Kaelen began to compress, to fold, to crush.
Seraphine’s threads caught the compression before it could touch him.
Her binding magic wasn’t simple restraint—it was fundantal reordering. She didn’t block Dagon’s attack; she unraveled it, pulling apart the threads of divine will that held it together, scattering them into harmless motes of light.
"You used to be more creative," Seraphine observed. "Five thousand years of sleep made you rusty?"
Dagon smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.
"Rusty," he repeated. "Interesting word choice."
He vanished.
Not teleportation—sothing else. Sothing older. He simply ceased to exist in one location and began to exist in another, bypassing all the barriers and bindings the Brotherhood had placed.
Mira was ready.
Her flas erupted not around her but at the location Dagon appeared, a column of fire that burned hot enough to damage concepts, not just matter. Dagon erged into it, and for the first ti, sothing like discomfort crossed his features.
"Fire," he said, stepping through the flas untouched but slower, more cautious. "You think fire can hurt ?"
"I think fire can annoy you," Mira corrected. "And an annoyed god makes mistakes."
Valeria’s blade found him in that mont of distraction.
She moved like water, like wind, like nothing that should exist in physical form. Her sword—ancient, perfect, hungry—sliced across Dagon’s side, and this ti it left a mark. A thin line of gold light, not blood, but evidence that he could be wounded.
Dagon looked at the line with sothing approaching wonder.
"You cut ," he said quietly. "No one has cut since—" He stopped. "Since before the binding."
"Get used to it," Valeria said, already moving for another strike.
Corin appeared behind Dagon, his ghost-like form solidifying just long enough to drive a blade of pure shadow into the god’s back. Dagon spun, hand reaching, but Corin was already gone, dissolved back into the spaces between visibility.
Theron the Scholar had not moved. He stood at the edge of the transford arena, ancient texts floating around him, his eyes scanning, calculating, predicting.
"His patterns," Theron called out. "He’s not fighting randomly. Every move is connected to sothing older. A rhythm. A purpose."
Lyra’s mind touched his, sharing observations at the speed of thought. The binding damaged him more than we knew. He’s compensating—using power to hide weaknesses, not just to attack.
Where? Theron thought back.
Everywhere. Nowhere. He’s layered himself so deeply that—
Dagon’s attention snapped to her.
"You," he said, and the word carried weight. "The mind-reader. The one who thinks she can understand a god."
Lyra didn’t flinch. "I don’t need to understand you. I just need to find the cracks."
She pushed.
Her mind, honed over millennia, expanded beyond normal limits, reaching into the vastness of Dagon’s consciousness. It was like diving into an ocean—cold, infinite, overwhelming. She saw fragnts: a world being born, creatures taking shape, worship rising like incense. She saw betrayal, though not clearly—shadows of figures, whispers of words, a corruption that spread from outside rather than within.
And she saw pain.
Deep, buried, forgotten pain. The wound of being twisted against his nature, of becoming sothing he never chose to be.
Dagon scread.
Not in physical agony—in violation. Soone had touched parts of him that hadn’t been touched since before the corruption. Parts he’d buried so deep even he forgot they existed.
"You dare—" He raised both hands, and the sky itself responded, darkening, churning, preparing to unleash divine judgnt.
Kaelen’s shield expanded further, covering everyone. Seraphine’s threads wove through the shield, reinforcing it. Mira’s flas rose to et the darkness. Valeria positioned herself for a killing stroke. Corin flickered, ready to exploit any opening.
But it was Theron who spoke.
"He’s afraid," the Scholar said quietly. "Not of death. Of being seen. Of what Lyra found."
Dagon’s eyes snapped to him.
"Be silent."
"Why? Because I’m right?" Theron’s voice was calm, relentless. "You’re not angry at us for attacking you. You’re angry because we reminded you of who you were. Who you could have been."
The sky trembled.
"ENOUGH."
Dagon’s power exploded outward—not an attack, but a revelation. For a single, terrible mont, everyone in the arena saw what he had been. A god of light and protection, walking among mortals, healing, teaching, loving. They saw his joy, his pride, his devotion. And then they saw the corruption—the strangers who ca, the touch that twisted, the slow, agonizing transformation into sothing he never wanted to beco.
The vision faded.
Dagon stood in the center of the devastation, and for the first ti, he looked... tired.
"You wanted to know," he said quietly. "Now you know."
The Brotherhood didn’t hesitate.
They attacked as one—shield, binding, fla, blade, shadow, mind, knowledge—all focused on a single point, a single mont, a single chance.
Dagon t them.
The battle that followed was beyond anything the young competitors could comprehend. Gods and god-slayers clashing in ways that defied normal perception. Ti bent. Space folded. Concepts warred with concepts.
Kaelen’s shield cracked, then reford, then cracked again. Seraphine’s bindings held for seconds, then dissolved, then rewove themselves from different angles. Mira’s flas burned through divine defenses, only to be extinguished and rekindled. Valeria landed blow after blow, each one smaller than the last as Dagon learned to predict her. Corin struck from everywhere and nowhere, his shadow blades finding flesh more often than not.
Theron directed them all, his calculations feeding information faster than thought. Lyra linked their minds, creating a single consciousness spread across seven bodies, each acting with perfect coordination.
And Dagon...
Dagon fought like the god he was. Not with desperation, but with the cold, patient power of soone who had existed since before ti had aning. He absorbed their best attacks, countered their strategies, adapted to their coordination. When they pushed, he pushed back harder. When they found weakness, he concealed it. When they thought they had him, he proved them wrong.
Minutes passed. Hours. Ti had no aning in this transford space.
Morgana watched from the edge, her body slowly healing from Dagon’s attack. Beside her, Moore worked with frantic precision, his ancient knowledge pouring into an array that grew more complex with each passing second.
"The brotherhood can’t hold him forever," Morgana said quietly.
"No," Moore agreed. "But they don’t need to hold him forever. They just need to hold him long enough."
He looked at the array taking shape before them—layers of magic drawn from every tradition he knew, powered by every array across the continent, focused through Morgana’s connection to rlin’s gift.
"This will kill him," Moore said. "Not wound. Not bind. Kill. Permanently."
Morgana nodded. "Then finish it."
Moore returned to his work, the array growing brighter with each passing mont.
In the center of the transford arena, the Brotherhood fought on.
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