CHAPTER 33- ZOKRAKS EMERGED, XORATH LOYAL FRIEND!
⟦Shattered Expanse — rim of three folded universes where the light smells of iron and old oaths⟧
The figure strode forward like a verdict. Ten feet of compacted muscle and authority, silhouette carved against the ragged bleeding of collapsed stars. He carried Xorath by the head as if the Bat‑King were a cloak and casually announced his ownership of the scene with every measured step. Around him the wreckage of the battlefield whispered and settled; the air felt like the space after a bell has been struck.
『Wukong』
⦅Back to business.⦆
〔𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅: 𝑺𝑺2 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓〕
He had not taken on the Bad Monkey form; the four flags had folded away. Instead, Wukong reasserted Super Sun 2—sharper, heavier, an aura that made the shattered firmament blink. He planted his feet amid the scattered dust and drew himself up to his full measure; whatever amusement might have lived in his grin was tempered into the dangerous calm of a predator that had decided to work.
The giant—Zokraks—stopped when he was a handful of strides away and lowered Xorath with the casualness of setting down a tool. Xorath slumped in the debris, wings folded like ragged sails, eyes closed and breathing shallow. The presence of the stranger rearranged measurement; where he stood, the gravity of titles answered in silence. Wukong read the name and the rank in the way soldiers read a formation: the king of the fixed, ruler of three universes. A thing that big carried tax and verdict both.
『Zokraks』
⦅You entertain well, monkey. I will test your strength.⦆
〔𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒙 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚〕
Wukong's eyes narrowed into slits of bright intent. He pushed one shoulder forward and the gold spikes along his fur seemed to draw more of the broken light.
『Wukong』
⦅Ahh. Okay. Let's see your strength, pork chop.⦆
〔𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆〕
Zokraks closed distance in a blink that felt wrong for his bulk. His palm thundered into the ground and the plate of crust beneath Wukong shattered like thin pottery; Wukong hit the ground hard enough to make dust banners rise along ribs of the plateau. He rolled, golden aura flaring, and came up with his staff ready. The collision was immediate and devoid of ceremony: the ruler's strike carried the weight of jurisdictions, the bite of a sentence delivered.
Zokraks slammed a knee into Wukong's ribs as they locked, the force folding him into the broken stone. Wukong tasted the tang of dust and old suns and felt the heat of an impact that wanted to declare finishing. He spat out a grin and popped up, staff arcing in a counter. But Zokraks' defenses were practiced and absolute. The giant moved with a clockwork efficiency, responding with blocks that had the inevitability of law.
The ruler's hand blurred; his fingers closed and from them poured a phenomenon like a census given shape: ten thousand formations, simultaneously birthed. In five seconds they arranged themselves—shimmering constructs of order, each a node of gravitic certainty that read like a phalanx across the field.
『Zokraks』
⦅Order. Production: 10,000. Activate.⦆
〔𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓〕
The visible effect was elegant and terrifying: ten thousand blades of structured force, lines of predatory geometry that converged with the speed of decree. Wukong blinked and spun, the Super Sun aura snagging light into a halo as he pushed through the first wave. He called on the flame that had served him before—Autumn Coal—dropping it like an embered net over the advancing array.
『Wukong』
⦅Autumn Coal. Burn.⦆
The spell bloomed with its rusted, elegant decay—fiery decay that ate structure and threatened to corrode formation into nothingness. The Autumn Coal flare coiled and uncoiled, and for a breath it seemed the tide might turn. But Zokraks' constructs were not mere soldiers of force; they were the output of a ruler of three universes—sculpted logic bound to law. Autumn Coal singed and blistered, but the constructs reconstituted from axioms and hard-matter law faster than the flame could eat them. Damage came but did not stay; the formations rebuilt and pressed on.
Wukong felt the sting of miscalculation. Autumn Coal damaged them—enough to make them hiss and melt at the edges—but not enough to halt the flood. He jarred through a hail of those constructs and found himself being slammed down again. Each impact was a punctuation, a reminder that Zokraks did not play in the same rulebook.
From the ground, Wukong's eyes flicked to Xorath. The Bat‑King's lashes quivered and his body slumped deeper into the crater. Xorath's eyes opened, slow and wet with dust and surprise, and he blinked once, disoriented into focus.
『Xorath』
⦅Where is Wukong…?⦆
〔𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒗𝒂𝒈𝒖𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒇𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒔〕
He saw then—Wukong pinned, battered by the ruler's absolute strikes. Zokraks' gauntleted fist found Wukong's face in a brutal arc and the Monkey King tasted stars and old iron. The impact sent him sprawling, golden fur flecked with the ghost of nova dust. For a moment the field narrowed to a single instinctive ache in Xorath's chest.
『Xorath』
⦅My friend Wukong is getting beaten by a pig…⦆
〔𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔〕
The words surfaced clumsy and small, but they were large in the slow way the universe understood. For Xorath the sensation was unexpected and sharp—emotion twisting like a thorn he had not felt in a long time. It was not merely anger but the warm, ridiculous ache of concern: Wukong, who had once been enemy, whose laughter had been both a provocation and a solace, was being hurt.
He let the thought sit: this is emotional. The recognition was almost comic in its clarity, a small human thing lodged in the ribcage of a god.
Zokraks lifted Wukong again, a practiced motion, and slammed him to the basalt hard enough that dust skittered like rain along the scarred plane. Wukong's teeth clicked; he smiled through it, a bright, stubborn thing. Xorath watched the scene—his breath shallow—and felt the kind of loyalty that does not ask permission but only answers in the moment.
The chapter closes on that image: Wukong battered and defiant on the ground, Zokraks towering and composed, his ten‑thousand constructs pressing order into the field, Autumn Coal smoldering but inadequate, and Xorath strangely raw and aware—emotional—because his friend is being beaten by a ruler whose hand writes laws in the bones of worlds.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK WOULD ZOKRAKS BE ABLE TO DEFEAT WUKONG OR NOT?"