The sky over Valdris did not weep.
It bled.
Rain fell in thick, violent sheets, each drop striking the ground with a force that turned soil into mud and mud into a crimson mire. Blood—human, draconic, and otherwise—ran in thin streams through the shattered battlefield. The wind howled without rest, a hollow, mourning cry that carried the echoes of the dead.
This was no ordinary war.
This was the final collapse of the Great War—the moment where all restraint had been abandoned. Dragons, Angels, Demons, and Humans... the four great races had gathered here not to win—
—but to end everything.
At the heart of the devastation stood two figures who had no right to still be standing.
Ross.
The Dragon Queen, forced into human form, leaned heavily against the fractured remains of a stone wall. Her breathing was uneven, her body trembling from both exhaustion and blood loss. Her right arm hung uselessly at her side, shattered beyond function by relentless magic.
Beside her stood a human.
A warrior clad in torn armor, barely holding himself upright. His right arm mirrored hers—broken, lifeless. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips, disappearing into the mud below.
Yet neither of them fell.
"Ross... go!" the man roared, his voice raw, torn apart by the storm. "Run from here! I'll hold them off—you have to save him!"
Ross tightened her grip.
In her left arm, pressed close against her chest, was a small, carefully wrapped bundle.
Her eyes burned—not with fear, but with something far older. Something draconic.
"No," she said, her voice low but unshakable. "We leave together."
The Mockery of Heaven
The storm shifted.
A golden light pierced through the suffocating clouds above, cutting through darkness like a blade.
An Angel descended.
His wings—pure, untouched—spread wide against the rain, every feather pristine despite the ruin below. He hovered effortlessly, looking down at the broken pair with quiet amusement.
"So," he said, his voice echoing with divine resonance, "this is what remains."
The human spat blood at his feet.
"You bastard...!" His eyes burned with hatred. "What did you do to her?!"
The Angel tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question.
"Nothing of consequence," he replied casually. "I simply clipped her wing while she was airborne."
A faint smirk crossed his lips.
"A Queen falling from the sky... it was almost poetic."
The Knight of the Abyss
Before either of them could react—
the rain stilled.
Not stopped—but slowed, as if the world itself hesitated.
A heavy presence pressed down upon the battlefield.
From the smoke and ruin, something emerged.
Rora.
The Demon Knight.
Each step she took seemed to drag the air downward with it. Her armor was dark, layered, and unnatural—more like a living shell than forged metal.
A low, metallic laugh echoed from within.
"How far you've fallen..." she said, her voice deep and distorted. "The great Dragon Queen... reduced to this."
Ross shifted instantly, placing her body between Rora and the bundle in her arms.
"To me," she said quietly, "this is everything."
Her voice did not waver.
"I would burn the world before I let harm reach him."
The Forbidden Art: Asura Thunder
The human understood.
There would be no escape.
Above them—a celestial executioner.
Before them—a demon of the abyss.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, with his remaining strength, he gripped his sword in his left hand.
"I like that look," the Angel mused. "Even now... you still think you can fight."
The human said nothing.
Instead, he reached inward—past pain, past exhaustion—toward something forbidden.
Something no human was meant to touch.
His life force.
He tore it free and forced it into the chaotic energy saturating the battlefield.
For a moment—
everything went still.
Then—
the sky turned black.
Not dark.
Black.
A violent surge of blue lightning erupted from his body, tearing into the heavens with a deafening roar. The ground fractured beneath him as raw energy exploded outward.
Asura Thunder.
The pressure alone was catastrophic.
The Angel's expression shattered as he was forced down to one knee, his radiant shield cracking under the overwhelming force. Light splintered. Air screamed.
The battlefield trembled.
For a brief, blinding moment—
the human stood at the center of a storm that rivaled the gods.
Then it ended.
The light faded.
The thunder died.
Silence crept back in.
The Angel staggered, gasping, his form unstable. His wings flickered.
Across from him, the human stood barely upright, his sword embedded in the ground to keep him from collapsing.
His body had nothing left to give.
He had burned it all.
Ross stepped forward.
Claws extended. Eyes blazing.
Still standing.
Still protecting.
The Angel raised his hand.
"That," he whispered, voice strained but cold, "was impressive."
Light gathered once more in his palm.
"But meaningless."
The King Who Ended the War
And then—
everything stopped.
Not slowed.
Not weakened.
Stopped.
The pressure vanished.
The wind died.
Even the rain seemed to hesitate mid-fall.
A presence entered the battlefield.
Ancient.
Vast.
Unfathomable.
The Demon King had arrived.
He walked forward slowly, his steps soundless against the broken earth. His gaze passed over the Angel... the human... the Dragon Queen...
And stopped on none of them.
Instead, he looked at the storm itself.
At the chaos.
At the ruin.
As if measuring something far beyond the battlefield.
No words were spoken.
No threats were made.
History does not record a battle that followed.
It records only this:
A flash.
A single, blinding eruption of white light that consumed everything at the center of Valdris.
No one knows what triggered it.
No one knows what the Demon King intended.
All that remains in the records is this—
The Lord of the Abyss vanished.
And the battlefield... ceased to exist.
The Angels fled.
The Dragons retreated to the skies.
The Demons disappeared into shadow.
The Great War did not end.
It simply... stopped.
Aftermath
Hours later.
Miles away, at the edge of the devastation—
a woman stumbled through the mud.
Seren.
A healer. A survivor.
Her hands trembled as she moved, her breath uneven from fear and exhaustion. She had hidden through the chaos—but now...
now there was only silence.
Too much silence.
She reached the edge of a shallow trench—
—and froze.
A body lay there.
Face down. Still.
The human warrior.
Seren fell to her knees, a broken sound catching in her throat.
"No..."
She reached forward—
—and stopped.
Something moved.
No.
Not moved.
Existed.
Beneath a massive, severed fragment of a dragon's wing... shielded from ash, rain, and ruin...
A small bundle lay untouched.
Seren's hands shook as she pulled the wing aside.
Inside—
a baby slept.
Peacefully.
Unharmed.
As if the end of the world had meant nothing at all.