Led destruction finally finds its opponent.
Not from the sky.
Not from miracles that force nature to submit.
It comes from the ranks of humans who still believe that justice is worth fighting for, even though the world has passed the point of being worthy of salvation.
They call him Ha-Mahdi.
Not because he claims the name.
But because in the midst of a world ruled by orderly destruction, he stands with laws that still recognize limits.
The Musalmi forces move like light that does not blind. There are no shouts of victory. No promises of heaven. Only clear commands, guarded intentions, and steps that do not retreat.
When they meet Gog and Magog, the world once again becomes a number.
And that number is too large.
Every small victory is immediately swallowed by the next wave. Every line of defense becomes a memory. The earth blackens under endless footsteps. The sky closes itself, as if unwilling to witness statistics of death that no longer carry meaning.
Ha-Mahdi does not retreat.
He is given an advantage, not to defeat Dagel, but to restrain his miracles. When the ground is forced into obedience by false will, Ha-Mahdi restores the law of the ground itself. When Dagel's light tries to become divine, he returns it to mere illumination.
Enough to contend.
Not enough to win.
And Dagel smiles.
He creates a void.
Not emptiness, but a space sanctified from all witnesses. The sea withdraws. Mountains step back. The sky spreads without clouds. In a single act of will, the world is moved, and only two remain.
Ha-Mahdi and Dagel stand facing each other on land never touched by sin or prayer.
Dagel grips his sword.
The sword does not reflect light; it commands it. Every swing changes the direction of the wind. Every strike regulates the pulse of the earth. His miracles do not ask permission; they announce ownership.
Ha-Mahdi raises his hand.
His miracle is quieter. Heavier. It does not create, but restricts. It restrains what should not exceed its bounds. It seals gaps that lies seek to swallow.
The battle is not a contest of strength.
It is a comparison.
And that comparison is cruel.
Every time Ha-Mahdi restrains one law, Dagel opens ten new breaches. Every time justice is upheld, false will finds another path. Dagel's sword dances with a certainty that never doubts. Blood falls without needing to be summoned.
Dagel laughs.
Not a laugh of anger.
Not a laugh of madness.
The laughter of someone who enjoys a game he knows he will win.
"Look," he says, his voice echoing without echo,
"your justice works.
And the world remains destroyed."
Ha-Mahdi does not answer. He endures. He restrains. He ensures that the battle remains just, even though he knows justice is not the same as victory.
In the distance, the Musalmi forces collapse under numbers. Not by lies, but by the arithmetic of destruction. Gog and Magog need no strategy. They only need to exist.
Artor Conan Davil watches from a distance he cannot choose.
He sees justice upheld perfectly, and still fails to save the world. He sees law run straight, and humans still die. He sees a legitimate leader, and destruction still prevails.
For the first time, he understands something he had never allowed before.
That truth does not always come to save.
That justice owes salvation to no one.
That the world can be destroyed without violating a single law.
When Dagel swings his sword once more, the empty land trembles. Not because of power, but because time itself is being forced to hasten.
And far above a world that has run out of arguments, something moves.
Not with cheers.
Not with excessive light.
Only with the certainty that the role of justice has ended.
And that what remains is no longer the concern of humanity.