So the crowd was wilding again, their cheers a chaotic symphony of war and awe.
Malthus had said impossible and I had told him that even Impossible says that I am possible.
At that, one man who was watching the war through the sky-screen blurted that he never said that.
Hearing him, another man corrected the first man.
The second man told the first man that , the hero king, was talking about Impossible, not about the first man.
But then, the plot twist ca.
The first man's na was Impossible. And he was saying that he never said that he was possible. Possible was his younger brother.
The second man had nothing to say but he did ask the na of the father of Impossible.
And the na of the father was…
"Probably."
"..."
The second man went silent.
Unfortunately, I could hear all this shit too.
But then the second man probably got fed up with this shit and said:
"You know what? Don't talk to . Shut up. Focus on the fight."
The first man didn't like that. "What? How dare you? What is your na then?"
The second man sighed. "My na is way better than yours, mate."
"Oh yeah? What is it?"
"Second man."
…
"Da fuck?" I said this.
The first man could only stare at the second man.
"You are the last person to complain about my na, bitch. You stay shut. Let watch the fight."
"Sure."
"Yes? What is it?" A third man chid in.
"Who are you?" The first and second man both asked.
The third man took his ti and said:
"I am Sure."
...
Sure.
His na was Sure.
At this point, I was pretty sure Christopher Nolan was watching this from another tiline taking notes for Inception 2: The Confusioning.
I tuned them out before I lost my remaining brain cells.
Because Malthus?
Malthus was trembling.
He had just seen hell on earth — and hell had better VFX.
I smirked. "You good, bro? You look like soone just unplugged your ego mid-download."
He was muttering to himself. "I… I can't lose like this…"
I flashed my teeth. "You already did."
He held his head, shaking. His whole aura was giving "midlife crisis energy."
Below us, the battlefield had gone quiet — eerily quiet.
Because there were no more soldiers.
None.
My allies, the Nano Bites, and my master were all chilling.
Literally sitting on mountains of corpses. They weren't just mounds; they were monunts, piled high with the freshly decommissioned soldiers of Malthus's army. It looked less like a battlefield aftermath and more like a macabre, grotesque, yet undeniably majestic art installation. There were three main mountains, each a testant to the efficient brutality of my allies. At the top of each one sat Erect, Sexis, and Stronges T — my master — casually vibing, like they'd just won a tournant of murder and relaxation, sipping invisible, post-slaughter cocktails.
It was glorious.
And horrifying.
Like if Picasso painted a genocide.
Malthus' army — wiped out.
Completely.
We had just reversed history's L.
The last ten percent of this war was standing in front of — red, angry, and freshly hornless.
He hovered midair for a second, clutching the bumps on his head where his horns used to be, then slowly descended to the ground.
I followed.
He stood still for a mont.
Then — to my surprise — he grinned.
I frowned. "What the hell are you smiling for? You lose a war, your horns, and your barber — what's left to laugh about?"
He t my eyes.
"You won, Human King."
My frown loosened. "You giving up?"
He smirked. "Not a chance. You won't kill ."
I tightened my grip on the katana. "Why? You planning to respawn?"
He chuckled. "No. Because I still have your family."
My stomach dropped.
He laughed harder — a manic, full-throated, truly committed "ani villain final episode" laugh. It was the kind of cackle that shook his entire body and could crack a cheap mirror. Head tilted back, arms outstretched with dramatic flair, his ego was inflating faster than crypto in 2021, and the sound echoed across the silent, bloody plain. It was a performance, a final, spiteful broadcast of his victory in defeat. And the worst part? He was right.
My family was still trapped — in K-Cup City, Titilis Continent.
Too far. Too close to death.
"But since I lost," he said between laughs, "my pride demands blood. You took my army. You took my horns. So I'll take your family."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his little murder walkie-talkie, and spoke into it.
"Kill th—"
I moved.
Faster than thought.
Faster than regret.
Faster than your ex deleting ssages.
My fist crushed the walkie mid-sentence — tal shards scattering like confetti at a funeral.
But it was too late.
The order was given.
Even if I moved at light speed, I'd never reach them in ti.
His lackey was right there — one button away from ending everything.
My rage boiled.
The kind of rage that could rewrite religion.
"You bastard!" I roared, grabbing Malthus by the throat.
He laughed in my face. "Hahaha! Too late! You'll die knowing they died first!"
His voice was fire. His breath slled like pure evil and bad cologne.
I squeezed harder.
His neck creaked.
My blood scread.
"I'll kill you," I hissed. "I'll skin you, burn you, and feed you to your dead ego."
He grinned through the choke.
"That's not a way to talk to soone. Be polite."
…Huh?
That wasn't Malthus' voice.
"Who the fuck said that?" I barked, glancing around. "Who had the balls to say sothing like that right now!?"
The battlefield fell silent, the tension of the impending tragedy montarily shattered by this bizarre, out-of-place instruction.
Then…
"Is this a way to talk to your mother?"
I froze.
Malthus blinked.
Even the Nano Bites paused their internal monologue.
The voice was calm. Familiar.
Unshakable.
And so maternal it could make an orphan feel guilty for breathing wrong. It was the ultimate weapon, a sound that bypassed all my cosmic-level powers and went straight for the 'bad child' guilt center of my brain.
My pulse stopped.
"Is… that you, Mom?"
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