Below us, Mobius sprawled like a shattered chessboard.
From this height, it barely registered as a planet anymore. The familiar curves and continents had been flattened into abstraction—an ugly collage of fractures and scars, as though someone had once cared enough to draw careful lines and then, bored or angry, crushed the whole thing in their fists. Cities that had prided themselves on symmetry and efficiency were now jagged wounds, their gridwork twisted into meaningless angles. Towers leaned against one another like exhausted drunkards. Others had simply folded inward, their skeletons exposed, glass blown outward in glittering halos that caught the light before falling in slow, deadly rain.
Smoke climbed in uneven columns, thick and black in some places, thin and gray in others, as if even fire had lost the will to burn consistently. The air was heavy with it—ash, scorched metal, pulverized stone, and something sharper beneath it all. Ozone. Ionized atmosphere. The smell of physics being forced to apologize.
Master Maximillian's earlier tantrums had carved straight lines of devastation across entire districts. You could trace his path from the sky like a child dragging a stick through sand—except the sand had been skyscrapers, and the stick had been a god with anger issues. Streets no longer knew which way was up. Rivers had been bullied out of their banks and now flowed wherever gravity had last been pointed, cutting new channels through what used to be commerce hubs and residential blocks.
Fires burned where fires shouldn't have survived. Concrete slabs smoldered without fuel. Pockets of flame clung stubbornly to sheer surfaces, fed by energies that had nothing to do with oxygen. Broken physics held them there, glowing and resentful.
The sky itself felt wrong.
Not stormy, not apocalyptic in the theatrical sense. No rolling thunder, no dramatic lightning forks splitting clouds like stage effects. It was subtler than that. Worse. The sky looked *strained*, like fabric pulled too tight over something sharp. Clouds bent and warped around invisible pressure wells, their edges fraying as though reality itself were being stretched thin. Light refracted oddly, colors skewing just enough to make your eyes itch if you stared too long.
Somewhere far below, alarms still wailed.
They came in layers—civil defense sirens, building evacuation warnings, emergency broadcasts looping the same desperate phrases over and over. Automated systems crying for help long after the people they were meant to protect had fled or fallen silent. The sound rose faintly even this high up, a thin, reedy chorus that somehow made everything feel smaller.
I was spinning.
Not the clean, elegant spin heroes practiced in training reels or propaganda clips. This wasn't the kind of rotation that came with dramatic camera angles and triumphant music. This was ugly. A messy, bleeding tumble held together by raw reflex and stubborn refusal to black out. The world cartwheeled around me in nauseating bursts—sky, smoke, ocean, sky again—each rotation dragging fresh pain across my awareness.
I tucked in instinctively, forcing my body into controlled rotations through muscle memory that felt older than thought. Training took over where conscious planning failed. Pain flared everywhere at once, a constellation of sharp, overlapping signals that made it hard to tell where one injury ended and the next began.
My ribs screamed. Not metaphorically—there was a grinding, wet sensation every time my chest flexed, like broken porcelain shifting under pressure. My shoulder felt *wrong*, loose in a way shoulders were not meant to feel, as though it had briefly considered leaving my body altogether and hadn't quite decided against it yet. Warmth crept down my side, soaking into fur, sticky and unmistakable.
Blood.
Then gravity twisted.
It didn't increase. Didn't drop. Didn't do anything so straightforward as pull harder or let go.
It *reoriented*.
One moment, down was down. The next, down was… elsewhere. Sideways. Forward. Inward. The horizon snapped ninety degrees like someone had rotated the entire universe without bothering to warn me. My carefully managed momentum betrayed me instantly, vectors colliding and compounding in ways my inner ear screamed were illegal.
Master Maximillian hadn't even looked strained doing it.
Just a flick of his fingers—lazy, almost bored—and the universe obediently agreed to misbehave. Reality bent like a well-trained servant. Space folded. My trajectory collapsed into a spiraling nosedive aimed directly at the distant glint of the ocean.
Wind howled past my ears, ripping breath from my lungs in great, brutal gulps. The smell of smoke vanished, replaced abruptly by salt and ozone so sharp it burned. I tried to correct, to re-tuck, to fight the pull, but my body lagged half a second behind my thoughts.
Half a second was an eternity at this speed.
Salt spray hit my nostrils moments before impact, cold and stinging.
The water's surface didn't behave like water should.
Under Maximillian's influence, it stiffened, the top layer hardening into something closer to polished stone than liquid. Light skittered across it in rigid patterns, waves frozen mid-crest as though caught in a paused simulation.
My body cratered through it anyway.
The first impact rattled my bones like dice in a cup. The second drove the air from my lungs in a voiceless scream. By the third, sensation blurred into a single, overwhelming jolt as the ocean finally gave up pretending to be solid and swallowed me whole.
Cold closed in instantly.
Sound vanished.
Pressure crushed down from every direction, a suffocating embrace that stole orientation and breath in equal measure. The world turned blue and dark and endless, the surface above already distorting into a distant, shimmering ceiling as I sank.
Bubbles tore free from my muzzle in ragged bursts, silver streams racing upward while I drifted the opposite way. For one terrifying heartbeat, my limbs flailed uselessly, instincts screaming conflicting orders—*breathe, don't breathe, move, don't move*.
Panic clawed at my throat.
I forced it down.
Forced my body to obey.
Training surfaced with startling clarity, unburdened by fear or pain or the sheer absurdity of fighting a god underwater. I spread my limbs, adjusted my angle, fought the disorienting pull of altered gravity that still hadn't quite decided which way was down.
Even battered. Even sinking. Even half-drowned.
I could still see him.
A dark purple blur tore through the surface above me, punching into the water with obscene speed. The ocean warped around his descent, light bending into grotesque streaks that followed him like afterimages burned into reality itself. Water didn't slow him. It didn't resist. It parted.
He was smiling.
I couldn't hear it—but I *felt* it. The expression pressed against my skull like a physical force, smugness radiating outward in waves that made my fur prickle.
I could hear the smile on his face.
*Is this it?*
The thought slipped in uninvited, sharp and quiet.
*Is this how my second life ends?*
Five years old.
That was all I'd had. Five years to understand a borrowed body, borrowed history, borrowed expectations. Five years to learn how this world worked, how heroes were supposed to act, how villains were supposed to lose.
Not enough time to fix what I'd already broken. Not enough time to earn the things people assumed about me on sight. Just a knockoff Super Form and a monster who thought himself a god.
No.
No, this could not be it.
Not like this.
I refused.
My lungs burned, a deep, aching fire that spread outward until it felt like my entire chest was lit from the inside. But I knew how to swim. The knowledge was there, solid and unquestionable, tucked somewhere deeper than fear.
I twisted my body, coiling into a tight spin even as my ribs protested violently. Fur plastered to my skin. Blood clouded the water in faint, drifting ribbons that spiraled away behind me.
Momentum still mattered.
The Spin Dash ignited underwater—not as a clean, elegant burst, but as a desperate corkscrew of motion. The ocean resisted immediately, thick and suffocating, pressure clawing at my limbs like hands trying to hold me in place. Every rotation felt like grinding through wet cement.
But momentum *bit* anyway.
It always did.
The spin carved a spiraling tunnel through the dark, bubbles shredding away in violent streams as I forced my way upward. Muscles screamed. Vision tunneled. The surface rushed closer in warped, shimmering fragments.
Above me, Maximillian's silhouette distorted the light, swelling and warping as he descended. Purple fur rippled like poisoned ink in the currents. Those black sclera, those silver-lit red irises, bored down with unwavering focus.
He wasn't rushing.
He didn't need to.
I pushed harder.
Pain flared white-hot, blooming across my awareness like a supernova. I welcomed it. Pain meant sensation. Sensation meant consciousness. Consciousness meant I wasn't done yet.
Then the water exploded.
I tore out of the ocean in a spray of shattered waves, not in some heroic arc but in a violent, uncontrolled burst that barely qualified as flight. The surface ruptured beneath me like wet paper, physics clinging by its fingernails as my Spin Dash hurled me skyward.
Saltwater stung my eyes. My fur slicked back under the force. Momentum carried me higher than intended—higher than smart—straight toward Master Maximillian's descending form.
He didn't dodge.
Didn't flinch.
His grin widened, black sclera swallowing what little light remained in the bruised sky. Purple fur rippled with raw, unrestrained power. He cocked his fist back, Anarchy Beryl energy crackling along his knuckles in jagged violet arcs that made the air *scream*.
I twisted midair anyway.
Not because I thought it would work.
Because instinct demanded *something*.
My spines cut a crescent through displaced water as I pivoted, trying to redirect, trying to lessen the blow.
It did nothing.
In fact, it hurt me instead.
His fist collided with my ribs like a falling skyscraper.
The impact was all-encompassing—soundless and deafening at the same time. Bones screamed. Cartilage shattered. My body folded around the blow, the force ripping the breath from my lungs as blood sprayed from my mouth in a crimson arc that glittered briefly in the light.
I tumbled backward through the air, spinning end over end as the world fragmented into flashes of purple, blue, and black. His laughter followed me, low and grinding, like tectonic plates shifting beneath the planet's crust.
"Fucking… Super Form… knockoff…" I sputtered, the words barely forming as blood dripped from my muzzle. The metallic tang mixed with lingering salt, sharp enough to make my eyes water.
My vision swam.
Master Maximillian hovered against the sky, but he wasn't sharp anymore. Just a violet smear with glowing eyes, his outline bleeding into the clouds behind him. Even blurred, his gaze felt *heavy*, pressing down on me, measuring.
Then the thought came back.
*Knockoff.*
If this "Master" state was really just a twisted imitation of a Super Form—if it borrowed the same underlying principles—then it had the same flaw.
Super Forms weren't invincible.
They burned.
Every transformation had limits. Energy consumption. Time constraints. Psychological strain. Even legends ran out of fuel.
I forced my eyes to focus.
Maximillian's silhouette pulsed with unstable violet energy, veins of Anarchy Beryl power throbbing beneath his fur like parasitic roots. The air around him warped, light bending into jagged halos that shimmered beautifully if you ignored how profoundly *wrong* they felt.
His breathing was even.
Too even.
No exertion. No fatigue.
That shouldn't have been possible.
Unless he wasn't sustaining it himself.
Unless the Beryls were doing the work *for* him.
I hit ground hard.
Cracked concrete exploded beneath my paws as I landed on what used to be part of a harbor. A shockwave rippled outward, rattling twisted cranes and sending loose debris skittering across the ruined docks. Pain flared up my leg, sharp and immediate, but I stayed upright through sheer spite.
Waves behind me froze mid-crash, water locked in place like sculpted glass as his power rippled outward again.
He floated closer.
Slowly.
Confidently.
But something was off.
His left hand trembled.
Just once.
A tiny, almost imperceptible spasm—but I saw it. The violet energy around his forearm spiked erratically, lightning snapping like a living thing fighting restraint.
That was it.
The realization hit all at once, slotting into place with sickening clarity.
Master Maximillian wasn't just transformed.
He was *occupied*.
The Anarchy Beryls weren't fueling him—they were *feeding on him*. Consuming flesh, nerve, and will to sustain this grotesque ascension. His movements were too smooth, too precise, like a marionette pulled by something hungrier than ambition.
The pulsing veins beneath his fur weren't veins at all.
They were conduits.
Parasites.
And parasites could be starved.
I exhaled sharply, blood speckling the fractured concrete at my feet. "Hey, *Maxxie*," I croaked, forcing a grin through split lips. "Bet those pretty rocks itch like hell."
The reaction was instant.
A micro-twitch in his eyelid. The faintest hitch in his breathing. Violet energy flickered around his fists like faulty neon.
Bingo.
The Beryls embedded in his chest flared brighter, their glow shifting toward an unhealthy magenta where they'd fused with bone. Parasites hated being noticed. Hated when prey realized what they were.
His grin stretched wider as he closed the distance, eyes burning. "Clever little hedgehog," he purred, voice slithering between teeth that looked just a bit too sharp. He flexed his right hand, and the air screamed—pressure slamming down on my spine like an invisible boot.
"You're counting on me burning out," I wheezed, ribs grinding. "But you're the one on borrowed time."
The ocean behind us roared as frozen waves finally collapsed, water crashing down in thunderous sheets. I shifted my stance, weight settling onto my less-bruised leg. Every movement sent fresh pain through me, but I welcomed it.
Pain meant time.
Time meant opportunity.
"Thing about parasites," I spat, blood flecking his pristine purple fur, "is they starve real quick when you stop feeding them."
His fist came down again.
This time, I didn't dodge.
The impact sent me skidding across the ruined harbor, sparks flying where my body scraped against twisted metal and shattered stone. Pain bloomed hot and bright, stars bursting behind my eyes—
—and I laughed.
It came out wet and broken, teeth stained red, chest heaving.
Worth it.
Every second he wasted enjoying himself was another second the Beryls chewed deeper into him.
And me?
I could bleed all day if I had to.
I just had to make damn sure he couldn't.
I had to goad him.
I just fucking had to.
It wasn't bravado. It wasn't even strategy in the clean, elegant sense. It was survival instinct sharpened into something cruel and deliberate. Master Maximillian was too powerful to meet head-on, too warped by the Anarchy Beryls to outfight in any honest way. If I wanted to live—if I wanted even the *chance* of turning this nightmare sideways—I needed him angry, sloppy, emotional.
So I watched him.
Every twitch of his fingers. Every ripple in the air when his power surged a fraction too late or too hard. I cataloged it all like precious intel burned straight into my skull. The way his left eyelid spasmed when I dodged a blow he'd already decided would land. The half-second hitch before his purple fists crushed my ribs again, like the universe itself needed an extra beat to obey him.
Small tells.
Tiny fractures.
Proof.
Master Maximillian wasn't invincible. He was a dying king wrapped in stolen divinity, wearing godhood the way a corpse wears a crown—propped up, hollow, and rotting underneath. His purple fur pulsed with irregular violet surges, no longer smooth or rhythmic. The embedded Anarchy Beryls throbbed beneath his chestplate like exposed organs, each one glowing with a hunger that had nothing to do with loyalty.
I let him throw me.
Again.
And again.
Through another crumbling tower, stone and steel detonating around my body as I smashed straight through load-bearing supports that had once held up entire floors of history. My back screamed. My vision blurred. Blood filled my mouth, coppery and thick. I swallowed it down and laughed anyway, because I felt it—victory, sharp and bitter, threaded through the pain.
His breathing hitched.
Just once.
Barely perceptible.
But it happened.
And he shouldn't have needed to breathe at all.
That alone was worth the broken bones.
I hit the ground hard this time, spines scraping across shattered marble as I rolled and skidded to a stop. The impact rattled what teeth I had left. My cough was wet and ugly, crimson splattering onto what used to be Castle Acorn's throne room floor. Once-polished stone was now a mosaic of cracks, scorch marks, and embedded debris—symbols of authority ground into rubble by a tyrant who'd outlived his own myth.
Above me, Master Maximillian descended slowly.
His silhouette blotted out the sun, a massive, looming shape wrapped in a twisted halo of Anarchy energy that bent light into jagged, nauseating angles. Shadows crawled across my battered body, stretching and snapping unnaturally as his power warped the space between us. His grin was all teeth now—too many teeth. Elongated canines punched through his lower lip, polished obsidian points slick with saliva and blood.
The stench hit me next.
Ozone, sharp and electrical, mixed with something far worse—rotting meat, sweet and sour at the same time. It poured off him in waves, thick enough to taste. The seven embedded Beryls beneath his chest fur pulsed erratically, glowing like infected wounds that refused to heal.
"Pathetic," he purred.
The word didn't just reach my ears—it vibrated through my skull, layered with harmonics that made my eardrums scream in protest. Pain lanced through my head, white-hot and disorienting. His right hand flexed casually, fingers curling as though grasping invisible strings.
Reality groaned.
Gravity inverted.
My body slammed upward into the ceiling hard enough to crack stone, the impact driving the air from my lungs in a soundless scream. Ribs screamed in chorus. My vision whited out, stars bursting behind my eyes. Before I could even register the pain, gravity snapped back again.
The floor rushed up to meet me.
"You inherited chaos and anarchy, little hedgehog," he continued, voice smooth and venomous. "I *manufactured* it."
I hit the ground a second time, harder than the first. Something in my chest gave with a sickening crunch.
"You… you call me pathetic, Maxxie?" I wheezed.
The words barely made it out. My lungs burned as I dragged air in shallow, ragged pulls. Somewhere along the line, a molar had come loose. I spat it out, the tooth clinking wetly against the stone before skittering away. The taste of iron flooded my mouth as I forced myself upright, claws digging into a half-melted chunk of what might once have been a ceremonial pillar.
I looked up at him and grinned through the blood.
"Now that's just hilarious."
His left eye twitched.
Just a little.
The Beryls pulsed angrily in his chest, their violet glow flickering toward ultraviolet—too bright, too sharp. A telltale sign. They were leaching more from him than he could afford to give, drawing deeper, chewing faster.
I pushed harder.
"Look at you," I rasped, voice echoing off the ruined throne room walls. "Gasping like a Mobian drowning in their own hubris. Having to use rocks just to lay a hand on me." I gestured weakly at the warped air, the fractured stone, the broken ceiling. "And those same pretty rocks? They're eating you alive Maxxie."
His claws flexed involuntarily.
The Beryls under his fur pulsed violently now, not smooth anymore, but jerky—like a starving beast yanking at its leash. Tendrils of Anarchy energy lashed outward, cracking the air like whips, gouging fresh scars into the walls.
My ribs screamed as I forced a laugh, sharp and jagged, the sound tearing out of me like broken glass. It echoed through the hollowed throne room, bouncing off collapse and ruin and centuries of dead authority.
"Face it, Maxxie," I spat, blood flecking the stone between us. "You're not a god. You're just a little rat gnawing on the devil's carcass."
The effect was immediate.
His violet fur rippled violently, power surging in chaotic waves. The Anarchy energy lashed out again—but there was a delay now. A noticeable one. The strikes came a heartbeat slower, the pressure uneven, like a failing engine misfiring under load.
He was starting to run out of energy.
And time.
But he was too angry to realize it anymore.
The Beryls flared brighter, draining him faster in response to his rage, feeding on his desperation as eagerly as they fed on his flesh and will. His breathing grew heavier. His control frayed at the edges.
Now he didn't care about domination.
Or spectacle.
Or proving anything.
Now he just wanted to slowly beat me to death.
I smiled wider, even as pain screamed through every nerve ending I had left.
Good.
Because that was exactly where I needed him.