Zeros Pov
The fight went on for a long ti against the devil king, even with the blessing of the Dragon Force. I was unable to take out Aamon, and I hit the ti limit, on the limitation of the Dragon Force.
The mont my scales vanished and the Dragon Force slipped out of like fading sunlight, I felt intense pain but it was tolerable.
My body felt heavier. My breaths turned shallow. Every heartbeat echoed painfully in my ribs, as if my fra was trying to rember how to function without borrowed power. The burning gold across my arms faded into dull human skin. My vision lost its sharpness, and the world snapped back into chaotic motion—too fast, too loud, too real.
But I didn’t fall.
Not yet.
Aamon’s massive figure towered above , his aura flickering like a dying sun. The grief in his expression had transford into sothing darker, sothing volatile and wild. His red eyes trembled—not from rage... but from devastation.
"You co at again," he breathed, voice low, trembling. "Even now. With that small body? With so little power left?"
I drew in air through gritted teeth and forced my legs apart, adjusting my stance.
Shadow seeped into my fingertips. Frost crept along my palm.
"I don’t need Dragon Force," I said, though even my voice shook. "I never did."
Aamon’s lips twisted. "Lies."
He lunged.
The air cracked like a whip. His fist ca down like a teor, and I dove sideways, sliding across fractured marble. The impact behind sent up a geyser of shattered stone, dust exploding into the air. I skidded to a stop, imdiately releasing a burst of Shadow Art.
My shadow expanded beneath —like ink pouring outward.
Shadow Step.
I flickered a few ters away as Aamon’s foot hamred down where I’d been standing.
Even weakened, the art gave mobility. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to survive.
Aamon swung his arm like a blade, tearing a vertical rift in the collapsing palace. I answered with Ice Art. Frost shot from my hand, crystallizing the air and forming a jagged shield.
The demonic force shattered it instantly—but the mont of resistance gave an opening.
I leapt.
My dagger slashed across Aamon’s cheek, drawing a thin line of black blood.
His head jerked to the side in disbelief.
"...Human trickery."
"It worked, didn’t it?"
Aamon roared, an anguished, hollow sound that made my bones vibrate.
"You dare—make light of this!?"
He swung again—reckless, furious, hurting.
This ti, I didn’t dodge completely. I wasn’t fast enough. His hand clipped my ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through my torso. I felt sothing crack—maybe bone, maybe pride. My breath hitched, but I forced myself to stay focused.
Shadow flared beneath my feet.
Frost swirled around my arms.
Then I brought both together.
Dual Art: Frostbound.
A spiral of cold darkness erupted around , the shadow-light freezing the floor beneath us while distorting the air around Aamon like a gravitational pull. The devil staggered as his legs partially froze into a pillar of shadowed ice.
His eyes widened.
"You—still have this much power!?"
I glared at him, panting.
"I’m not done."
I dashed forward as the ice held him for a single, precious heartbeat. My daggers tore into his arm, carving across muscle and demonic plating. Black blood sprayed across the air. Aamon jerked violently, wrenching himself free of the frost with raw force.
But sothing had changed.
His movents weren’t calculated anymore.
They weren’t disciplined.
They weren’t cold.
Aamon’s composure was breaking.
His aura surged chaotically, rising and falling like a wounded heartbeat. His breathing turned ragged, unstable. His eyes were unfocused, filled with sothing I recognized instantly—
Desperation.
His brother’s death wasn’t just a wound.
It was a crack that swallowed him whole.
"I have lost—everything," he whispered hoarsely. "Everything I fought for. Everything we built. Everything we bled for."
The Emperor of Destruction took a single step forward.
Aamon didn’t even notice.
"You..." Aamon pointed at with trembling fingers. "You reminded of him. Of Aaron. Of what we used to be. Why we started. And now—now that mory burns more than any blade."
His aura exploded outward in a violent storm.
The collapsing palace groaned as more pieces of the dinsion split apart.
I clenched my daggers tighter, feeling frost gather along one blade and shadow swirl along the other.
"If the mory hurts..." I said quietly, "...then stop running from it."
Aamon shook his head, tears of black blood sliding down his face.
"No. I will destroy the pain."
He roared—
And charged.
The Emperor intercepted.
Aamon’s claws clashed with the Emperor’s destructive fist, the collision sending shockwaves through the air that nearly threw off my feet. The two giants collided again and again, each blow tearing new holes in the dying dinsion.
I backed away, struggling to breathe.
Even without Dragon Force, I had to keep moving. I had to look for an opening. I had to—
Aamon scread.
The Emperor seized his arm and slamd him into the ground hard enough to create a crater. Aamon kicked the Emperor away, but the impact had rattled him. His breath faltered.
The Emperor stepped forward, his voice echoing like the rumble of mountains.
"Aamon. You are broken."
Aamon snarled.
"SILENCE!"
The Emperor didn’t obey. He lifted one hand, and for the first ti since I’d t him...
His aura changed.
It deepened.
Darkened.
Condensed into sothing so absolute, so annihilating, that even the collapsing dinsion seed to recoil. The air beca thick. Heavy. Hard to breathe.
A sphere of darkness focused on his sword.
Dense. Heavy. Quiet.
Not chaotic like devil energy.
Not wild like destruction.
It was... controlled.
Perfect.
Absolute.
It was destruction refined into a single point—an end made physical.
Aamon stared, horrified.
"You... would go this far?"
"You resist reason," the Emperor said calmly. "You resist grief. You resist truth. So I will end your suffering myself."
Aamon didn’t back away,but a slight fear was visible in his eyes, for the first ti.
The sphere pulsed.
The air rippled.
And I froze.
Because the feeling that washed over —
That crushing pressure.
That suffocating darkness.
That precise, impossible concentration of power—
It hit like a mory.
A mory of a technique once used on —
By elves.
My heart stopped.
It’s the sa.
Not in appearance.
But in pressure.
Imdiately, an idea hit , " This could work I gasped,"
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