Silence.
It was the kind of silence that didn't belong in a world still alive. The kind that came when time itself forgot to move.
Zero stood in the center of that silence—his breath shallow, his body barely upright. The frost around his feet had stopped spreading. It trembled, flickered, and began to melt. Every heartbeat felt heavier, every blink slower. The air was thick with distortion, light bending at unnatural angles as the world's balance frayed.
His sword hung loosely in his hand, its once-brilliant glow dimmed to a dull shimmer. The connection between his consciousness and body was slipping; his mana flow staggered like a broken pulse. He could feel himself tearing apart—his mind struggling to anchor to his fading vessel.
Across the throne room, Aamon stood tall, unscathed. His aura was no longer violent but eerily calm—a god looking down upon a fading mortal. His wings unfurled behind him, casting long shadows that swallowed the fractured pillars and floor.
