The battlefield was a storm made flesh.
Clouds roared with the howls of ancient dragons, their wings spread across the bleeding sky. Broken lands cracked and collapsed, floating as fragmented islands above an abyss of time. The ruins of gods, the bones of titans, and the echoes of forgotten wars all swirled in a maelstrom of chaos.
At the heart of it—three beings.
Jin. Zhel-Vorah. Nyreth.
Their blades were not weapons. They were convictions forged in agony, sharpened through betrayal.
Jin moved like a tempest, each slash of his sword a scream of rebellion against destiny. Zhel-Vorah fought with raw thunder, his body a conduit of divine rage. And Nyreth—the Trickster, the Weaver of Fate—danced between them like a shadow given form. Every time they struck him, he twisted the threads of causality, rewriting the outcome.
Again and again.
Until suddenly—
Jin faltered.
His sword arm dipped. His legs buckled. Cracks began to spread across his body, faint at first, then wider—splitting like glass under unbearable pressure. Glowing fissures trailed down his shoulder, chest, thigh. His breath hitched.
Zhel-Vorah noticed.
And in that moment, his fury turned to horror.
"Jin…" he murmured, even as he cleaved through Nyreth's illusions. "You're breaking."
The Thrones—six colossal seats of divine authority, shattered and buried in the land—began to tremble. One by one, they resonated with ancient harmonics, unleashing beams of pure light into the sky. The beams twisted, spiraled, and converged, forming a single swirling portal in the heavens above.
It pulsed with inevitability.
Nyreth laughed.
"You were too late to stop this."
He stood amidst the chaos, bruised but undefeated, robes fluttering like raven feathers in a storm.
"Look at it!" he shouted, arms wide. "The Convergence! The point where every reality collapses into one truth! You were too slow, Jin! It's already begun!"
Jin, panting, burning from within, turned to Zhel-Vorah.
"Hold him off," he said, voice hoarse. "I'll sever the portal."
Zhel-Vorah shook his head. "No. We end this together."
Jin's lips curled into a bitter smile. "That's why you must survive."
And with a violent pulse of energy, Jin unleashed a forceful wave from his palm, hurling Zhel-Vorah across the battlefield and straight into Nyreth's path.
"Buy me time, father!"
The clash resumed.
Zhel-Vorah slammed into Nyreth like a meteor. Their blades met in sparks. Fire, wind, and lightning erupted with each parry. The Trickster sneered, twisting probability to dodge Zhel's attacks.
But something changed. Every attack were reflecting his past actions, brutality, love, peace of Zhel-vorah.
Zhel-Vorah's strikes began to predict the unpredictable. His sword curved just slightly—matching the angle Nyreth would dodge toward.
Nyreth's grin vanished.
"You're… manipulating causality?" he hissed.
Zhel's eyes glowed with stormlight. "You're not the only cheat in history."
Furious, Nyreth summoned his His monster The Great Giant. The spectral beast roared from the heavens, its body formed of blue flame and astral steel. It dove toward Zhel, opening its jaws to incinerate.
Suddenly Kong came punched him. His punched was enough to crash his head. Now the monster fell and he turned toward Zhel-vorah and showed him thumbs up and left.
Zhel-Vorah answered with a scream of his own—and summoned chains made of thunder, ancient bindings passed through generations of skyborn kings.
"Sky Azore Chain—Bind the Liar!"
The chains latched onto Nyreth, wrapping around his limbs like the hands of fate itself. He was trapped—if only for a moment.
"JIN! NOW!"
He threw his sword to Jin and Jin caught it.
Far above, Jin reached the center of the Convergence Zone.
The six throne lights converged here, forming a singularity of truth. Reality pulsed. Destiny wept.
His body was breaking. His right arm was cracked down to the bone, his left eye blinded. But in his hands—
Two blades burned.
Asua, the Blade of Souls. Dragon Ragnar, the Blade of Timeless Dragons.
And now, at the edge of reality—they began to resonate.
They screamed as one.
Time slowed. Jin's thoughts became clear.
"I have lived through every lie. I was born as a pawn. A tool. A variable in someone else's script. But I walked through every ending. I survived every rewrite."
"I am not your protagonist, Nyreth. Nor your antagonist. Nor your audience."
"I am the one who refuses the story."
With one final roar, Jin stabbed the converging point.
The blades merged—soul and dragon—into a singular weapon never meant to exist.
The Blade of Refusal.
And he carved through the convergence.
Light exploded.
Reality screamed.
The portal shattered into fractured truths. The Thrones—monuments of divine narrative—crumbled one by one. History itself wept as its backbone was severed.
Only one remained.
The Silver King's Throne—untouched, radiant, eternal.
Nyreth screamed—not in pain, but in loss.
His story had unraveled.
And Jin…
His body fell.
His arm, fully shattered, disintegrated into glowing shards. His chest cracked. His wings torn.
Zhel-Vorah, still midair, caught him.
He held Jin, trembling, helpless.
"Jin… no, no—don't you dare. Don't leave me to carry this ending alone."
Jin, barely conscious, looked up at the Silver King's Throne.
"Still… one left…" he whispered.
Zhel-Vorah's eyes turned toward the last throne.
Its presence loomed like judgment. Neither dead nor alive, neither writer nor reader. A throne of pure potential.
And from its base… something stirred.
A faint hum. A flicker of light. A whisper.
"Do you hear it?" Jin said. "The next story trying to write itself…"
Zhel-Vorah gritted his teeth.
"I won't let it."