The crowd erupted.
The silence shattered into roars of awe, terror, and fanatic devotion.
"YESSSS!" "INVINCIBLE!"
"NOT EVEN THE DARK WAR CAN COMPARE TO THIS!"
The chant rose like a storm.
"ESS!"
"ESS!"
"ESSSSS!"
The name thundered across worlds, echoing through layers of existence—no longer just a victor's cry, but a declaration.
The Watcher stood frozen, disbelief tightening around his chest like iron bands.
'What… what was that power?'
For the first time since he had taken the role of referee, doubt crept into his mind. Not doubt about the match—but about existence itself.
'Who… is Ess?'
Klein's face never changed when Lumina died. No scream. No flinch. No tears.
Only a hollow stillness.
Yet beneath that stillness churned something vile—rage, sharp and poisonous. Not grief. Not sorrow. Hatred. Hatred toward Lumina for failing. For losing the match. For being weak.
Shingen, however, was different.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled.
Lumina had been his subordinate, yes—but also his companion. His comrade. Someone who had walked beside him through THE BLACK RING ACADEMY.
"Lumina!" Shingen screamed, his voice tearing through the arena like a wound.
"No—no—no!"
The crowd fell silent.
"Stop shouting. close that stinky mouth of yours, Bitch, you're disturbing my ears."
The voice was cold. Flat. Absolute.
Esau.
In less than an instant, space folded. One moment Esau stood far away—hundreds of meters removed—
the next, he was directly in front of Shingen, his icy blue eyes boring straight into his soul.
Shingen staggered back a step.
"You dare…" Shingen snarled, grief warping into fury. "I'll kill you."
Esau didn't raise his voice. He didn't sneer.
He simply spoke.
"Then wait for our match," Esau said calmly.
"Because when it comes… your very soul will be tortured."
Before Shingen could respond, Esau vanished—returning to his place as if he had never moved at all.
At that same moment, the air rippled.
Ess stepped out of the distortion and knelt before Raziel and Esau, his posture flawless, his presence serene and terrifying all at once.
"I have done it, Master," Ess said quietly.
Raziel and Esau looked down at him.
Then—slowly—they looked at each other.
A knowing smirk passed between them. Cold. Confident. Certain.
The Watcher appeared at the center of the arena in a flash of authority, his presence forcing silence upon the roaring crowd. Cheers died mid-breath, voices strangled into stillness.
"Enough," the Watcher announced, his voice echoing across the vast expanse.
"The outcome has been decided."
He raised a single hand.
"Now," he continued, eyes sweeping across both sides, lingering just a fraction longer on Raziel's group,
"it is time for the second round."
The arena trembled.
But duel was far from over.
A vast screen unfurled before the eyes of everyone in the arena, stretching across the sky like a second firmament.
"It is time for the second match to begin."
The moment the words appeared, the crowd erupted.
"YESSS!"
"Second match!"
"Show us more!"
The sound rolled like thunder, wave after wave of anticipation crashing through the stands.
The Watcher raised a single hand, and silence descended once more.
"We will allow time," the Watcher announced evenly, "for the participants to reform themselves… and to consider their strategies."
The words sounded fair.
They were not.
This pause was not mercy—it was preparation, and it favored only one side.
Arroz.
Arroz was not merely an ally.
He was a Guardian.
Guardians were beings forged directly by Watchers themselves—constructs of will, authority, and perfection. They existed for a singular purpose: to protect the Watcher.
A Watcher's eyes could see all.
Their ears could hear all.
Their mouths could speak laws into existence.
Yet even Watchers were not invulnerable.
And so they created Guardians.
When a Watcher created a Guardian, there were no flaws.
No imperfections.
No errors.
If a Watcher was weak, their Guardian was weak.
If a Watcher was powerful—
then their Guardian could rival, or even surpass, them.
But no matter how strong the Guardian became, one law was absolute:
Their existence was bound to the Watcher.
Their loyalty could never waver.
The Watcher did not move in the arena.
Instead, reality folded.
Arroz vanished.
And he reappeared within the Watcher's private subspace.
The Watcher's subspace was not a place—it was a condition of existence.
There was no sky, no ground, no horizon. Only endless darkness, so dense it felt solid, as if space itself had been compressed into a single, suffocating layer. Yet within that darkness, awareness thrived.
Eyes floated everywhere.
They opened and closed in silent unison, some vast enough to swallow continents, others no larger than pinpricks of light. Each eye saw a different truth—past, present, future, possibility, inevitability. No movement went unnoticed. No thought passed unobserved.
Between them, ears manifested—countless, overlapping, layered into the void itself. They listened not only to sound, but to intention, fear, lies, and truths never spoken aloud. Even silence was heard here.
And then there were the mouths.
They whispered without sound, forming words that never reached the air. Some smiled. Some screamed eternally. Others mouthed laws that shaped realities far beyond this space. Each mouth was a declaration: nothing escapes judgment.
Clocks hung suspended throughout the subspace—ancient, broken, pristine, reversed, shattered. Their hands ticked at different speeds, some counting forward, others backward, many spinning wildly or frozen mid-second. Each clock represented a timeline, a fate, a moment stolen or preserved.
At the very center stood a throne.
It was carved from layered concepts—observation, authority, LAW—stacked upon one another until form emerged. The throne did not rest on anything; the subspace bent beneath it, holding it aloft.
Seated upon it was the Watcher.
Relaxed. Composed. Absolute.
From this subspace, the Watcher did not rule by force, but by awareness. This was a realm where nothing could hide, nothing could lie, and nothing could act without being seen.
It was a domain where worlds themselves felt watched.
Arroz knelt immediately.
The Watcher's gaze settled upon him.
"You already know why I've called you here," the Watcher said calmly.
Arroz did not answer. He did not need to.
"Your task is simple," the Watcher continued, his smile widening just slightly.
"Win—at all costs."
The words carried weight far beyond the arena.
Why at all costs?
Because the Watcher believed Arroz was facing Raziel.
And to a Watcher, uncertainty was poison.
Variables were dangerous.
Unpredictable beings were unacceptable.
Raziel was a variable.
So the Watcher made a decision.
If Arroz won, the match would be secured.
If Arroz eliminated Raziel—
Then the problem would be erased.
With the command given, the subspace collapsed.
Darkness folded inward.
Eyes closed.
Clocks stilled.
Arroz vanished from the Watcher's realm, returning to the arena—
Unaware that this second match was no longer a duel.
It was an execution attempt.
But Raziel had other plans.
In truth, Arroz was never meant to face Raziel.
He was meant to face Zhaelor.
Esau's voice cut through the air, calm, absolute—carrying the weight of command that no creation bound to him could refuse.
"Zhaelor," Esau said.
The blood-born entity emerged instantly, stepping out of nothingness as if reality itself had parted to let him through. His form rippled—crimson shadows folding into a silhouette that felt alive, watching, waiting.
Esau extended his hand, and a stake formed within it—jagged, ancient, forged not of matter but of intent. It pulsed softly, threads of causality coiling around its length.
"Kill Arroz," Esau commanded.
"And sever the thread that binds him to the Watcher's existence."
Zhaelor knelt, head bowed.
"Yes, my liege."
That single phrase sealed fate.
Everything was set.
The board was arranged.
And the battle was ready to begin.
Arroz appeared beside Klein and Shingen in a distortion of space, his presence heavy enough to bend the air around him.
"Where were you?" Shingen demanded, suspicion sharp in his voice.
Arroz did not even look at him.
"It is none of your concern," he replied coldly. "But rest assured I will guarantee you victory."
Then he turned to Klein and gave a short, respectful nod.
Klein's eyes narrowed. He felt it—the wrongness, the pressure, the weight of something vast standing too close. But after a moment, he said nothing. Victory mattered more than doubt.
Above them, the Watcher manifested once more, descending into visibility as the arena trembled beneath his authority. He raised a single hand, and silence crushed the crowd.
"This match shall be—Raziel versus Arroz—"
"No," Raziel interrupted.
The word fell like a blade.
Confusion rippled through the stands. Murmurs spread like wildfire.
Raziel stepped forward, expression calm, almost amused.
"This match is not mine," he said evenly. "I was not selected. The combatants are Zhaelor and Arroz."
The Watcher's eyes flared.
"Lies!" he snapped. "How dare you—"
"If you doubt me," Raziel cut in smoothly, "check the records."
For the first time, hesitation crossed the Watcher's face.
He turned inward, scanning the absolute logs—records that could not be altered, erased, or deceived.
And there it was.
ZHAELOR vs ARROZ
The truth.
The crowd heard everything.
Silence—then outrage.
"You bastard! You're rigging the match!"
"Fraud!"
"Coward!"
These were not weak voices.
They belonged to planetary rulers, Transcenders beyond Floor Ten, beings whose words alone could fracture worlds. Their voices boomed across the sky, shaking the arena so violently the platform itself groaned.
The Watcher stiffened.
"My… apologies," he said at last, forcing calm into his tone, though humiliation burned beneath every word. "The match will proceed… as recorded."
The crowd erupted again—cheering, jeering, laughing—already half-forgetting the near-scandal.
Raziel turned away, walking back to his place with a wide, unrestrained smirk.
The Watcher watched him go, eyes narrowed, disdain etched into his gaze.
Then he raised his hand once more.
"Let the match begin."
A massive system screen ignited above the arena, its letters burning into the sky like carved fate itself.
[MATCH: ZHAELOR vs ARROZ]
Two beings.
One bound by threads.
The other born to sever them.
And as the arena held its breath, one truth lingered unspoken:
This was not a duel.
It was a hunt.
In an instant, the two figures emerged onto the arena.
Arroz appeared first.
His form was striking beyond reason—tall, perfectly proportioned, every movement precise as if sculpted by a higher will. His features were sharp and refined, eyes calm and confident, carrying the quiet arrogance of someone who had never known defeat. Light bent subtly around him, highlighting his presence, and with every step he took, admiration rippled through the crowd.
Gasps followed.
Whispers spread.
Even among beings who had ruled worlds and erased civilizations, many—especially the women—found their attention unwillingly drawn to him. It was not merely beauty; it was charisma enforced by existence itself, an aura that compelled fascination and desire without effort.
Then there was Zhaelor.
Where Arroz was defined, Zhaelor was absence.
He had no face.
No eyes.
No mouth.
And yet—he was watching.
His body was not truly a body, but a form shaped from blood itself, endlessly shifting, folding in on itself like a living concept. The colour was not red alone, but every shade blood could ever take—dark, ancient crimson layered with void-black undertones, pulsing as if remembering every life it had ever belonged to.
There were no expressions to read.
No emotions to sense.
Only presence.
A suffocating, oppressive weight that pressed against the arena, making the air feel thicker, heavier. Where Arroz drew attention and awe, Zhaelor inspired instinctive fear. The crowd grew quieter without realizing why. Conversations died mid-word and Smiles faded.
Zhaelor stood utterly still.
Formless.
Silent.
Patient.
He did not radiate hostility.
He did not need to.
Because everyone watching could feel it—deep in their marrow, in the oldest parts of their souls:
Zhaelor was not here to fight.
He was here to endArroz.
They took their stations, one hundred meters apart, yet the arena itself stretched far wider—a thousand meters of Aetherium Shard-forged stone, suspended between realities like a battlefield carved for gods rather than men. The ground hummed faintly, etched with ancient inscriptions meant to withstand forces that could tear worlds apart.
Above them, the Watcher raised his hand.
Time seemed to hesitate.
With a simple flick of his wrist, he brought it down.
"Begin."
The word did not echo—it commanded. Reality obeyed, and the duel commenced.
Unlike Lumina, Arroz did not rush.
He stood still, composed, his presence calm yet razor-sharp. His task was simple: win at all costs. It did not matter that his opponent was not Raziel. Victory was not situational—it was absolute. His eyes traced Zhaelor's form, dissecting, analysing, searching for flaws, rhythms, weaknesses.
He found none.
Zhaelor stood like a verdict already passed.
Then—
In an instant, Arroz vanished.
The sound came after—the arena cracking beneath the force of his acceleration. He surged forward at a speed that made light itself seem slow, space folding inward as he crossed the distance. Reality screamed in protest.
Two long swords manifested in his hands.
The first was elegant, sharp yet soft in presence, its edge refined to a near-merciful perfection—a blade that cut without resistance. It was covered in ancient runes that burned dimly, its tip so impossibly sharp it was almost invisible, as if existence itself refused to acknowledge it.
And in his other grasp—something stranger still.
A sword that was not formless, but unfixed.
A weapon that could become anything its wielder desired—curve, weight, length, function—responding directly to will.
Arroz reappeared behind Zhaelor, movement flawless, silent, lethal.
A single strike—meant not to kill, but to incapacitate before awareness could even form.
But Zhaelor was not there.
The blade passed through a bleeding afterimage, a smear of crimson light stretched across the spectrum. Before Arroz could react, the world inverted.
Zhaelor stood before him.
A blood-colored hand closed around Arroz's neck.
The grip was not tight—yet it crushed. Space warped around Zhaelor's fingers as if Arroz's throat were an anchor point for reality itself. The arena trembled.
"Wow," Zhaelor said, voice calm, detached, almost disappointed.
"You're a Guardian… and you're this weak?"
Arroz's eyes widened—not in fear, but shock.
"H–How did you know I'm a Guardian?" he forced out, disbelief slicing through his composure. "That's impossible. No one should—unless…"
His thoughts snapped into place.
Raziel.
Rage ignited.
"DAMN IT ALL," Arroz growled out loud, a promise sharpened into certainty.
His power surged.
With a violent twist of will, Arroz ruptured the grip, tearing himself free as space cracked like glass. He propelled backward, separating instantly, landing with precision as shockwaves rolled outward from where he had been held.
The arena groaned.
His hands tensed.
The two swords resonated, humming in response to his intent. Runes flared and Forms blurred.
["Fuse."]
The command was absolute.
The blades collapsed inward, their concepts intertwining—sharpness, adaptability, runic authority, infinite form—compressing into a single, singular weapon. Light bent around it. The air screamed as the sword stabilised, its presence alone carving fractures into the ground.
Now there was only one sword.
Not a weapon—but a law.
Arroz raised it, aura exploding outward, pressure flooding the arena like a rising tide. His calm was gone, replaced by focused, divine wrath.
Across from him, Zhaelor did not move.
No stance.
No preparation.
Only that endless, blood-colored stillness.
The space between them distorted, trembling under the promise of what was about to unfold.
This was no duel anymore.
This was the opening clash of Gods.
["SPLITTING HEAVENS!"]
Arroz's roar detonated across existence.
The arena trembled, then expanded, layers of space unfolding outward like torn pages of reality. The crowd was hurled impossibly far away—so distant that light itself could no longer reach them—yet they still saw everything, their vision forcefully anchored to the battlefield by the Watcher's authority. Distance was denied. Perception was absolute.
The sky split open.
Not cracked—not shattered—cleaved.
A colossal arc of annihilation tore through the firmament, a divine cut so vast it seemed to divide the heavens themselves. Space folded along the blade's path, dimensions screaming as the strike descended toward Zhaelor, intent on severing him cleanly in half, existence and all.
It struck.
—or rather—
It passed through him.
The attack flowed through Zhaelor's form like a blade through water. No resistance. No disruption. Not even distortion. His blood-colored body rippled once, calmly, and then returned to stillness.
No damage.
No regeneration required.
Because nothing had happened.
Arroz froze.
His confidence—once absolute—fractured.
Again.
["SPLITTING HEAVENS!"]
The second strike was stronger.
Then a third.
A fourth.
Each invocation stacked upon the last, power compounding exponentially. By the tenth, the arena itself was breaking apart, fragments of reality peeling away like burning parchment.
Yet every single strike passed through Zhaelor, harmless, meaningless—divine force reduced to empty spectacle.
Silence followed.
Then—
Zhaelor sighed.
The sound was soft, almost human.
And suddenly, he was gone.
In the same instant, he was there—standing directly before Arroz. No movement. No transition. He simply existed in front of him, closer than thought, closer than reaction.
Arroz didn't even have time to raise his sword.
"I shall give you a chance," Zhaelor said, voice flat, uninterested.
"Use your trump card."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Because… I'm getting bored."
He wasn't taunting.
He wasn't threatening.
He was pleading for battle.
The realization struck Arroz harder than any blow.
Still—he straightened.
A smile, strained but proud, curved across his face.
"Sure," Arroz said. "I will."
He lifted his hand, power coiling tightly within him.
"Have you ever heard of Void?" he asked, voice regaining confidence. "It's an element so rare that—"
"You mean this?"
Zhaelor cut him off.
From Zhaelor's hand, something rose.
Not black.
Not darkness.
But colorless absence—a void so absolute it devoured light, meaning, and perception. It bent nothing, reflected nothing, acknowledged nothing. Even the Watcher's eyes flickered for a fraction of a moment.
Zhaelor rolled the Void casually between his fingers, playing with it like a child with a toy.
"This," he said calmly, "is Void."
Arroz's breath caught.
"How do you have that element?!" he shouted, disbelief breaking through. "It's impossible—Void is beyond rarity!"
"I was born with it," Zhaelor replied, indifferent.
Then he looked at Arroz again.
Cold. Empty. Bored.
"Is this your trump card?" he asked.
The arena stood frozen.
Not in fear.
But in the quiet certainty that this battle was never equal—
—and never had been.
Arroz did not reply. Instead, he laughed, a sound that reverberated across the arena like rolling thunder, a sound both arrogant and desperate, challenging the very fabric of reality. He moved with an effortless grace, and in that moment, he released his seal.
The Watcher's face hardened instantly, eyes narrowing into slits. He had given Arroz explicit instructions: win at all costs. The seal was a last resort, a contingency he had never intended to see used. And yet, Arroz ignored caution and let it go, trusting himself—and the element that had acknowledged him.
[SEAL OF THE VOID — BROKEN]
In an instant, darkness swallowed the arena. Not merely a shadow, but a void so absolute that it erased sight, sound, and even the perception of time itself. The cheers of thousands faded to nothing, as if reality itself had swallowed every vibration. The crowd gasped, their consciousness stretching to comprehend the impossible, only to find nothing.
Then, light returned—but warped, fractured, alien. The arena no longer obeyed natural laws; gravity bent in impossible angles, and the very floor seemed to breathe.
["LAW OF THE VOID!"] Arroz shouted as he unleashed his divine gift, his voice resonating as a divine decree rather than sound. The term "gift" was too small, too weak. These were not mere abilities—they were primordial edicts, acknowledged by the element itself. And that element had acknowledged Arroz.
["ETERNAL LAW: MY FOE MUST DIE!"]
With those words, Death manifested. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Death itself erupted into existence.
The arena filled with thousands of voids, each a yawning black wound that swallowed stars, shattered worlds, and turned reality into a storm of collapsing dimensions. Calamities poured down from the heavens, fiery shards of existence colliding with each other, creating supernovas of pure entropy. Entire planets flickered in and out of existence like sparks in a bonfire.
The crowd could barely comprehend the scale. The very air vibrated, reality itself shuddering under the weight of such authority. And yet, Death did not strike Zhaelor.
He was untouched. Not because he evaded it, but because Death had no power over him. Zhaelor was not alive, nor dead—he existed beyond life, beyond soul, beyond concept itself. The very law of mortality recoiled at his presence.
Zhaelor raised his hands, and the heavens themselves shattered. The sky fractured, splintering into a thousand shards of reality, each fragment raining down as droplets—each a universe in miniature, each filled with void, darkness, and blood.
The droplets twisted and transformed midair. Blood coalesced into swords, jagged and alive, their edges gleaming with the memories of a thousand slain worlds. Spears erupted from the void, sharp enough to pierce the very fabric of existence. Structures of impossible geometry formed from fragments of shattered realms, their surfaces writhing with shadows and echoes of pain. Entire worlds condensed into weaponized constructs, orbiting each droplet like satellites of annihilation.
From the void itself, beings emerged—not creatures of flesh, but of anti-existence, warped and horrifying, their forms bending logic and natural law. They were darkness made tangible, entities that reflected the weight of eternal torment, screaming silently as if the act of being was torture itself. Mirrors of everlasting agony appeared across the battlefield, reflecting every soul that had ever suffered, amplifying their screams across the omniverse.
Death itself—the omnipresent force of mortality—vanished, and yet bowed, not in submission, but in acknowledgement. Zhaelor had become the mantle of Death, becoming its humanoid incarnation, beyond death itself: omnipotent, eternal, unstoppable. Its essence radiated from him, bending the laws of life and unlife alike.
Arroz, standing before this cataclysm, trembled. Every law he commanded, every rule he had relied upon, collapsed under the weight of Zhaelor's supreme presence. His trump cards, his void, even the Seal of the Watcher—all meaningless. He realized, in a flash of terror, that he was witnessing the pure embodiment of omniversal supremacy.
With a mere flick of Zhaelor's hand, the droplets, swords, spears, constructs, stars, and blood-born worlds plummeted toward the arena below. Hell itself descended: landscapes of fire and shadow, skies of fractured blackness, voids shaped like yawning black holes, and gravitational anomalies twisting the battlefield into impossible dimensions.
The mirrors of torment screamed with indescribable sound, a chorus of eternal agony, reflecting every death, every betrayal, every soul consumed by hatred or despair. And yet, they were not independent—they bowed to their origin. Zhaelor himself was the origin. Each manifestation, each horror, each collapsing star was not separate—they were extensions of his will, instruments of his omniversal dominance.
The blood-formed weapons shattered reality with every swing. Spears tore through dimensions as if they were paper. The entities of anti-existence lunged with infinite speed, consuming everything in their path, an anchor of impossibility in a storm of cosmic devastation.
The void, the darkness, the blood, the mirrors, the anti-beings—all screamed, not in pain, but in the perverse ecstasy of serving their origin, of enacting the will of the supreme being. Reality itself bent, folded, and shattered as if it were clay in the hands of a God.
With another subtle gesture, Zhaelor released the entirety of the falling constructs simultaneously. The sky and arena could no longer contain the destruction. Collapsing stars collided midair, creating supernovae that outshone the combined light of countless universes. Entire landscapes, civilizations, and constructs were obliterated in a single blink, yet Zhaelor stood impervious, calm, regal, and untouchable.
Even time itself struggled against him. Past, present, and future trembled at his will. The very notion of consequence folded under his supremacy. Arroz's heart pounded; his mind fractured. His elemental void, his mastery of death, nothing could touch Zhaelor. He realised, in that instant, that he faced not a warrior, not a champion, but a cosmic inevitability—a being for whom all laws of existence were merely playthings.
The battlefield had transformed into a canvas of divine annihilation, yet Zhaelor's figure remained pristine, unshaken—a silhouette of absolute authority, death incarnate, perfected void, eternal blood. And as the droplets, weapons, constructs, and anti-beings descended like a tide of cosmic judgment, the air itself seemed to scream, bending under the weight of supreme, godlike, omniversal power.
The entire arena, the sky, and the distant stars trembled as the omnipotent will of Zhaelor reshaped reality, and even the Watcher stood frozen in disbelief.
Zhaelor did not strike, yet the universe quaked in response. He did not breathe, yet existence felt suffocated by his presence. He did not move—but every droplet, every sword, every mirror of torture, every void-entity acted perfectly in accordance with his thought. He was omnipotence given form, and the cosmos itself bent, shattered, and obeyed.
The heavens were his, the void was his, and all creation had been reminded: nothing, not even Arroz or the Watcher, could oppose him.
The Watcher tried to intervene. Commands were shouted. Hands gestured, trying to unmake Arroz, but it was futile.
"Terms of the agreement: you may not interfere!" Esau's voice thundered from beyond the battlefield, carrying authority that bent the rules themselves.
One second. The arena shuddered, then collapsed in on itself. Stone, metal, and air twisted as if reality itself had betrayed its own rules. Light fractured and bent; the very notion of space crumpled like paper under the weight of Zhaelor's will. The crowd could barely comprehend it, their senses overloaded, hearts pounding as the world they knew folded into oblivion.
Ten seconds. The lowest-ranked beings in the crowd, mere mortals and fledgling transcenders alike, were erased completely. Not a scream, not a trace—simply obliteration. Their essences were wiped from existence, as if they had never been born, leaving nothing but the echo of impossibility. Even the air seemed to mourn the loss of what had been, only to realize it was too late.
One hundred seconds. The arena expanded. No longer confined, it now spanned a world billions of kilometers away. Arroz's presence, once commanding, flickered like a candle in a hurricane; was nowhere in existence.
One thousand seconds. And then… everything vanished. Every construct, every star, every droplet of blood or shard of void dissolved into nothingness, rewritten by Zhaelor's omniversal authority. Space, time, and matter themselves bowed, then submitted to the one true sovereign. The battlefield reformed—not as it had been, but as Zhaelor willed it, perfect and eternal, a monument to absolute dominance.
And there, in the heart of the remade universe, stood Zhaelor—silent, unshaken, a monolith of power beyond comprehension. The ashes of stars swirled at his feet, the echoes of erased beings whispered through the void, and even the gods and watchers who dared witness this were left trembling before the living embodiment of omniversal inevitability.
Nothing moved without his command. Nothing lived outside his approval. And from the ashes of all that had been, the one truth resounded across the cosmos:
Zhaelor was absolute.
When the dust settled, when the remnants of stars, void, and blood had reformed into nothing, only Zhaelor remained. Standing perfectly still. Calm. Dominant. Arroz had been negated, he was dead, erased, completely rewritten, he was beyond dead
Zhaelor inclined his head slightly. A simple gesture. But in it was omnipotent judgment. A statement: the battle had ended, and he had not even broken a sweat.
The crowd erupted once more, their cheers thunderous, echoing across the shattered expanse of the arena. Waves of sound rolled like a storm, carrying the names of the victor in a chorus that shook the heavens themselves.
"Zhaelor! Zhaelor! Zhaelor!" they roared, voices uniting across worlds, servers, and dimensions. Even the highest-ranked beings—the planetary rulers, transcenders of infinite floors, and omniversal spectators—could not suppress their awe. The air itself trembled, charged with the raw, incomprehensible power that had just been unleashed.
The system interface shimmered before the audience, clear and unyielding:
[MATCH 2: ZHAELOR VS ARROZ][WINNER: ZHAELOR]
The arena, still reverberating from the omniversal devastation, now seemed almost serene—if serenity could exist in a place forged by omnipotent blood, void, and darkness. Zhaelor stood at the center, posture perfect, faceless and incomprehensible, an entity that had bent reality itself. Even after unfathomable destruction, he remained untouched, eternal, absolute.
"YESSSS! Incredible!" shouted a spectator, their voice cracking under the weight of sheer exhilaration. Others joined, their cheers forming a tidal wave of admiration, fear, and worship. Every eye, every gaze, every soul present could feel the omnipotent presence of the being that had just rewritten the laws of existence.
-End of chapter
(AN: Aetherium Shard: A crystalline substance that bends reality slightly; used in forging artefacts that manipulate space.)