The air between them was heavy, thick with the weight of power. The crimson glow of the cursed sky clashed against the white-hot embers flickering around Mikhail’s body, two opposing forces in a silent battle of supremacy. The being tilted its head, its hollow eyes locked onto the boy before it.

  “Back in my days,” they mused, voice dripping with condescension, “children understood the wisdom of their elders. They knelt when commanded. They obeyed.”

  Mikhail’s expression remained unreadable, his burning gaze never faltering. Then, in an instant, he moved. A blur of motion, Mikhail shot forward, his feet barely touching the ground, white flames licking at his heels.

  The being made no attempt to evade. They simply stood there, their lips twitching into something resembling amusement. Then, with no more than a flex of their fingers, the earth erupted. A grotesque, pulsating tentacle of raw, bleeding flesh tore free from the ground, its surface lined with jagged teeth and protruding shards of bone. It lashed toward Mikhail, hungry to ensnare him.

  The moment it should have wrapped around his body, it passed right through.

  The god’s eyes flickered in surprise. Instead of Mikhail, it had snared an afterimage, a shimmering mirage left behind in a trail of ghostly white flames.

  The moment the tentacle made contact, it ignited.

  A high-pitched wail, like something beyond human comprehension, erupted from the burning flesh. The god watched as the divine fire spread like a disease, devouring its creation with relentless hunger.

  Mikhail was already moving again.

  Another tentacle exploded from the ground, then another, and another, forming a writhing mass of unpredictable, bone-ridden appendages. They struck at him from every angle, shifting their direction mid-air, twisting unnaturally to catch him off guard.

  Yet, he was faster.

  Mikhail weaved through the chaos, effortless, his afterimages burning any tentacle that touched them.

  The god observed, their expression unreadable, before laughing.

  And then, they created something new.

  The ground beneath them rippled like liquid flesh before something massive broke free from below, a monstrous, budding flower of raw muscle and bone, its petals quivering violently before peeling apart. From within, several thick, grotesque tendrils burst outward, each one gripping a slab of earth. With a sickening crunch, they ripped the ground apart and hurled massive chunks of land at Mikhail at sonic speed.

  Mikhail had only a second to react.

  He twisted mid-air, dodging the first projectile as it ripped through the space where he had just stood. The next chunk came faster, he had no time to evade.

  Instead, he faced it head-on.

  He exhaled sharply, focusing his power into his palm. The white flames roared to life, condensing into a single, concentrated inferno in the shape of a blade. With a single swing, he split the massive projectile in half, the flames tracing his movement like a comet’s tail. The molten halves of rock crashed harmlessly to either side of him.

  Still, the god sent more.

  One after another, impossibly fast barrages of flesh-bound stone hurtled toward Mikhail. He didn't falter. He danced between the chaos, his fire cutting through every attack like divine judgment itself.

  Then, at last, he was close.

  Within striking distance of the god, he threw a punch.

  A fist engulfed in white fire aimed directly at their head.

  The god didn’t dodge. They didn’t even blink. They simply raised their hand and caught Mikhail’s burning fist in their palm.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then, the god’s hand ignited.

  The divine fire clung to their flesh, crawling up their wrist, past their elbow, racing toward their shoulder like it sought to consume the false body whole.

  Yet, the god remained unmoved.

  Mikhail gritted his teeth, his strength pressing forward, yet the god’s grip remained firm, unyielding.

  And then, in a single effortless movement, the god slammed Mikhail into the ground.

  The impact was thunderous. The earth beneath them shattered apart, deep fissures spiderwebbing outward as a massive crater formed where Mikhail’s body hit.

  "Argh?!"

  For the first time, Mikhail let out a sharp gasp of pain.

  He had endured worse. He had trained for worse. But this… this was different.

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  The god, still clutching his burning fist, gazed down at him with an expression of complete indifference.

  The flames that should have devoured their arm continued to burn, but the god was unfazed.

  The flames burned: so they let them burn.

  The divine fire ate through its hand, turning it to ashes, yet their expression never changed. As if it did not matter.

  Mikhail, still lying in the crater, watched as the god’s severed hand regenerated in mere seconds, forming anew, flawless as before.

  Then, slowly, the god clapped their hands together.

  Clap.

  The sound was deafening in the stillness.

  “For a child,” the god mused, “you can fight quite well.”

  Mikhail forced himself up, breathing heavy but not backing down.

  The god smirked, their hollow eyes glinting with something unreadable.

  “But the question remains… how much longer can you burn?”

  Mikhail steadied himself, planting his feet against the cracked ground. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast. His ribs ached with each inhale, his muscles screaming from the endless strain. But none of it compared to the burning, the slow, all-consuming fire licking at his insides.

  Then, a jolt.

  A sudden flare of pain shot through his body, deep and searing, spreading outward from his lungs.

  "Damn it… Not now."

  His body was the holy flame. It burned with righteousness, but every fire needed fuel. His strength. His soul. His very existence. The brighter he burned, the more it took, not just from his strength, but from his very existence. The greater the enemy, the hotter the inferno, yet the faster he withered.

  A violent cough tore through him, racking his frame. His hand trembled as he wiped his mouth, his fingertips coming away smeared in crimson.

  Blood.

  He spit onto the ground, the stain of red sinking into the ash-coated soil.

  The god was watching.

  Their hollow, endless eyes studied him with mild curiosity, their grin never wavering.

  “How fragile,” they mused, tilting their head slightly.

  “You crack so easily. What will you do when you shatter?”

  Mikhail closed his eyes.

  He let go.

  Not of the pain, no, he couldn’t afford to, but of everything else. His body, his exhaustion, the ache screaming through his nerves. He became only sensation.

  The trembling earth beneath his feet.

  The residual heat of his own fire.

  The swirling mass of wrongness, pulsing like a beating heart inside the god’s grotesque form.

  There.

  He opened his eyes, raising a single finger. Slowly, deliberately, he pointed directly at the god’s chest.

  The god chuckled. And then, mirroring his movement, they raised their own finger, pointing it toward him.

  For a moment, everything stilled.

  And then—

  Light.

  A searing pillar of white flame erupted from Mikhail’s fingertip, streaking forward like a lance of divine judgment.

  It was not fire. It was not heat. It was pure destruction.

  A force so concentrated, so righteous, that even the crimson glow of the cursed sky seemed to wither in its presence.

  The god?

  They smiled.

  And from their fingertip, something darker was born.

  A beam of tainted, blood-red energy burst forth, thick with the whispers of something ancient. The voices slithered into Mikhail’s ears: hungry, venomous, cloying. They didn’t just echo. They fed. It was not just power. It was a disease. Not merely blood, but an infection. A wound in reality itself, laced with the decayed essence of a forgotten Elder God.

  Both beams met.

  BOOM.

  The world shattered.

  The collision erupted in a massive shockwave, tearing apart the battlefield. The air itself split open, cracking, screaming, as waves of holy light and wretched darkness clashed violently, struggling for dominance.

  Mikhail gritted his teeth, pouring more of himself into the attack. His arms shook from the force, his very bones straining as the divine fire surged through him.

  The god didn't even flinch.

  Still smiling. Still leaning forward, as though watching something entertaining.

  The corrupted beam twisted, slithered, pushing back against the white flames with slow, inevitable force.

  Mikhail’s breath hitched. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  The god’s attack was… growing.

  It did not fight against his fire. It consumed. It swallowed. It crept inside his light, infecting it, breaking it apart.

  A slithering, corrupt coil of red energy pierced through the center of his beam, twisting toward him like a hunting serpent.

  Mikhail’s eyes widened.

  No-!

  He pushed harder. Forced more into the flames. His entire body burned, his veins screaming, his very soul stretched thin.

  But the darkness didn’t stop.

  It crept closer. Inching forward.

  Swallowing the light inch by inch.

  The god’s grin stretched wider, their hollow eyes locked onto Mikhail’s own.

  They wanted to see it.

  That moment.

  The exact moment when his light would break.

  And Mikhail knew it.

  His fingers trembled. His knees threatened to buckle.

  The god’s voice slithered through the air, soft and mocking.

  “Do you feel it?”

  The weight of it.

  The slow, creeping futility.

  The sheer, merciless inevitability of loss.

  Mikhail clenched his jaw, his heart hammering. His entire body was telling him to stop.

  That he couldn’t win.

  That the flames would fade.

  That the darkness would take everything.

  But he didn’t lower his hand.

  Not yet.

  Not now.

  He had been here before, facing the impossible, outmatched, outnumbered.

  And still, he had stood.

  Because it wasn’t just about him.

  Because behind him, Kassie was running, carrying Regna’s broken body, escaping. Rayne laid on the ground, her pale body still as ever. Because if he fell now, if he let the god win, then every fight, every wound, every desperate struggle would have been for nothing.

  Mikhail’s teeth bared in a silent snarl.

  He wouldn’t break.

  He couldn’t.

  The light in his palm flared, flickering violently. Not fading, but fighting.

  A flicker of defiance.

  A single ember refusing to die.

  The god saw it.

  Their expression shifted, just slightly. The faintest flicker of something that wasn’t amusement.

  A new whisper slipped from their lips, so quiet, so soft, that it almost wasn’t meant to be heard.

  “...Interesting.”