Ethan spared Leon a final, indifferent glance; not rcy, not cruelty, just the calm dismissal one gave to a storm that had already spent its rage.
His hand rose slightly.
That was all it took for the battlefield to be quiet.
And in that silence, the tiny orbs orbiting his right hand pulsed with their own soft hums, like miniature worlds acknowledging their creator.
Silvery-blue.
Golden-brown.
Dark purple.
Dark blue.
Ink-black.
Grey-blue.
Crimson red.
Crimson-violet.
Bright white.
Each one rotated with its own rhythm, its own gravity, each leaving faint streaks of power behind them like cots trailing through a private cosmos.
"Psychic. Earth. Necromancy. Alchemy. Curse. Sound. Blood. Creation. Dark magic..." Ethan murmured, his voice low but with a resonance that made the very stones vibrate in agreent.
"So many voices... so many truths."
The orbs spun faster, weaving patterns that wrapped around his wrist, then his palm, then ford a slow spiral above his fingertips like a complex dance choreographed by the universe itself.
"And to think..." he continued, smiling, an expression illuminated with understanding rather than warmth.
"I finally see what you were trying to show ."
His attention shifted to the two much larger orbs floating before him, each the size of a conjured sun in miniature.
One pulsed with solemn gold, the light of order eternal, steady and absolute.
The other shimred with razor-sharp silver, the light of mystic truth, flickering like a concept too advanced for mortal minds to settle on.
"God-arts," Ethan whispered, reverence and curiosity threading through the word as if it carried the weight of his lineage.
"So the Paths the world worships... were nothing but echoes. Outlines. Traces of what our ancestors once wielded freely."
Lightning crawled silently through the fractured sky as he spoke. Clouds twisted, recoiling around the pressure of his presence.
"We are shadows of them," Ethan said, voice strengthening, echoing like a law resurging.
"But shadows can learn to cast their own light."
Thunder followed his statent like applause.
His armor was ruined, torn, shredded, hanging loosely around his waist and thigh. Yet even half-exposed, even bleeding power rather than blood, Ethan stood with the unshakable bearing of a returning monarch.
He flicked his wrist.
Reality obliged.
Light peeled off him, white, gold, silver, wrapping around his battered form like the world itself was stitching him into the garnt of a forgotten legend.
The light solidified.
A long, pristine white military coat took shape over his torso, embroidered in runes of gold that shimred subtly like living calligraphy. On the left breast, the crest of the Primord, three interlocking golden rings, glead proudly, as though freshly forged from dawn itself.
Black military trousers followed, fitted perfectly, lined with delicate golden embroidery that traced sigils of authority down the sides.
His feet settled into polished black shoes with thick, raised soles, sleek, formal, unmistakably reminiscent of a Dr. Martens-style design, yet elevated into sothing regal, divine.
White gloves slid onto his hands, flexible and immaculate, each threaded with golden filigree and bearing the Primord symbol on the back, exact, unyielding, authoritative.
His hair, long, silvery-white, a curtain of moonlit strands, lifted slightly as if caught in a cosmic breeze. Then it gathered neatly, pulling itself into a high ponytail.
The movent revealed the sharp lines of his face, lean, beautiful, severe.
A face sculpted for command, not flattery.
A face that carried both the heritage of a Primogenitor and the insight of a Saint.
Ethan exhaled slowly, letting the new garnts settle over him like the embrace of a throne long abandoned.
"At last," he murmured, lifting his gaze with a calm as deep as the cosmic sea.
"I wear what I am."
The battlefield bowed beneath the weight of those words.
Ethan tilted his head, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze drifting toward the man frozen mid-lunge in the grip of his earlier command.
"Now..." he breathed, voice velvet-soft and dangerous,
"...what do with you..."
Leon could not move, not a twitch, not a breath, not a spark of his own power. Ethan’s command had wrapped around him like chains forged from the spine of Reality itself.
And yet...
Sothing inside Leon writhed.
Twisted.
Clawed.
His hatred, raw, ancient, rotting around the edges, did not simply burn. It scread. The Chaos within him boiled, roared, exhaled like a beast frothing behind steel bars.
A crack ford in the stillness around him.
Then another.
Then...
SHATTER.
The command shattered like glass.
Leon lunged with a bestial howl, claws growing from raw ice, fangs bared, eyes glowing like dying stars.
"I WILL ERASE YOU!"
Ethan did not flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
He sighed, light, almost bored.
A throne rose behind him.
Not conjured with mana.
Not sculpted with earth.
It manifested as though reality finally rembered where Ethan belonged and hurried to construct his rightful seat.
It was vast, golden, ancient, elegant yet dripping with arrogance. Silver runes glowed along the fra. A high back carved with intertwined rings stretched into the sky. The arms were shaped like sleeping dragons. The legs were rooted into the battlefield as if they pierced dinsions beneath it.
The throne of his avatar.
The throne of a king who ruled before kingdoms learned the concept of rule.
Ethan eased onto it, crossing one leg over the other, posture regal and detached.
Leon’s claws descended toward his face.
Ethan didn’t lift a finger.
Instead...
Behind him, the air rippled.
A golden being stepped out from the ranks of those behind his avatar.
This one was tall, taller than a giant, with a humanoid form but elongated, elegant features. Its skin was pure gold, molten into smoothness. Its eyes were twin beams of unwavering white light. A halo-like ring of runic chains floated around its head.
It bowed slightly toward Ethan and then intercepted Leon.
A golden hand closed around Leon’s throat.
Leon gagged, kicking, claws scraping uselessly across tal-flesh that did not even register the attack.
The golden being slamd him into the ground hard enough to create a crater.
Leon gasped, coughing icy blood, trying to stand.
He couldn’t even lift his head before the being appeared beside him again.
It pumled him.
Not with rage.
Not with emotion.
But with cold, divine efficiency.
A fist to the ribs.
Crack.
A backhand to the skull.
Thud.
A knee to the gut.
Whump.
Another crater ford. Then another. And another.
Leon flew through the air, ricocheting off the frozen remnants of the sky, plumting like a broken cot. The being caught him mid-fall and spun him, slamming him into the ground again.
The whole ti, Ethan sat on his throne.
Unmoving.
Expression unreadable, faintly contemplative.
Leon scread, tried to summon Chaos.
A golden foot stepped on his chest, crushing the breath out of him. His aura fizzled. His ice dissolved into useless mist.
His Chaos Avatar flickered, then broke apart like cheap glass under a hamr.
The golden being didn’t stop.
It rained blows on him, each one sending shockwaves rolling across the torn battlefield.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom-boom.
Boom.
Leon’s white hair was stained red. His beautiful face was crushed. His ribs poked through his skin. His screams turned hoarse, then wet, then faint.
The golden being reared its arm back one final ti, power gathering, the kind that would turn Leon’s torso into a mist of red and ice.
Ethan finally lifted a single finger.
"Enough."
The word wasn’t loud.
But the world froze from respect alone.
The golden being halted mid-punch, holding the position like a statue obeying the sculptor.
Leon lay on the ground, twitching, choking on his own breath, barely conscious.
The golden being stepped back, bowed to Ethan, then returned to its place among the ranks behind the avatar.
Ethan rested his cheek on his knuckles, elbow propped casually on the throne’s armrest.
His gaze fell upon Leon, a mixture of cool pity and chilling judgnt.
"You broke free from a command no one else in this era should’ve survived," Ethan mused softly.
"Impressive."
Lightning crackled in the sky in awe of the understatent.
"But you are still... small."
The throne glowed behind him.
The avatar, his true power, watched in silent approval.
Ethan’s voice sank lower.
"And I am not finished with you."
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