The morning air over Isola Krein was calm in that deceptive way only powerful lands ever managed.
No wind.
No birds.
Just silence heavy enough to press against the skin.
Azelar sat on the low stone veranda of his home, tea steaming gently between his fingers. The liquid shimmered faintly, not with mana, not with gravity—but with age. Time clung to the man like a second shadow.
Nyk stood several meters away, rolling his shoulders loose, grin lazy but eyes sharp. Christine leaned against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, gun already manifested in her hand—not aimed, just present. Watching. Measuring.
Azelar took the final sip.
"…Ah," he said, setting the cup down. "That hits the soul."
He stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then, without ceremony, he pulled his top over his head and tossed it aside. His body was lean, honed—not bulky, but every muscle carried purpose. Old scars traced lines across his torso like memories that refused to fade.
He stretched his neck once.
"Let's get this training started."
Nyk's grin widened.
He dropped into stance instantly—feet grounded, knees bent, shoulders loose. Ruin hummed beneath his skin, subtle but eager, like a blade impatient in its sheath.
Christine's lips curled faintly.
She sat down on the steps, crossing one leg over the other.
Patient.
Watching.
Azelar looked at Nyk.
"Come at me," he said calmly. "I'll start with you."
Nyk cracked his knuckles.
"Aiite, old man," he said, laughter in his voice. "Don't get mad if I scuff the ground."
Azelar smiled.
"Try."
The world snapped.
Nyk vanished.
The ground exploded beneath his feet as he accelerated past sound, past shockwaves, past conventional perception. Ruin coiled around his limbs, amplifying his movement until space itself screamed in protest.
His fist came in from Azelar's blind spot—wrapped in conceptual destruction, the idea of impact itself sharpened to erase.
Azelar stepped forward.
Not back.
Forward.
He caught Nyk's wrist.
Just—caught it.
No technique.
No gravity.
No distortion.
Pure, transcendent strength.
The shockwave tore outward anyway, splitting the courtyard stone in half, flattening the trees behind them. Christine's hair fluttered once—then settled.
Nyk's eyes widened.
"—What the—"
Azelar twisted.
Nyk flew.
Not hurled—redirected. His body spun through the air, slammed into the earth, skidded, flipped, and crashed through a boulder before stopping.
He was already regenerating as he rose, laughing breathlessly.
"Okay," Nyk said, wiping blood from his mouth. "You different."
Azelar rolled his shoulders.
"Thirty percent," he said mildly.
Nyk's grin sharpened.
"Bet."
He moved again.
This time he didn't aim for Azelar's body.
He aimed for meaning.
Ruin surged, conceptual destruction expanding outward—not targeting flesh, but existence. The idea of Azelar being there twisted, threatened to collapse.
Christine leaned forward slightly.
Azelar exhaled.
And the world anchored.
The ground beneath his feet deepened, reality reinforcing itself around him like a spine snapping straight.
"The Axis of Creation," Azelar said quietly.
He didn't activate it fully.
He didn't need to.
Even partial alignment with the world's gravity was enough.
Nyk felt it instantly.
The pressure wasn't downward.
It was absolute.
Every direction became heavy.
His knees bent involuntarily as the planet itself acknowledged Azelar as its center.
"Rayon learned this," Azelar continued, stepping forward as Nyk strained. "Partially. By choice. He didn't want mastery."
He stopped in front of Nyk.
"But you," he said, tapping Nyk's chest with two fingers, "need discipline."
He flicked.
The air detonated.
Nyk was launched straight up, piercing the clouds, his body burning as he broke atmospheric resistance. He flipped mid-air, stabilized, and came crashing back down—fist first.
Azelar met him.
Their fists collided.
The impact erased the idea of the space between them.
The shockwave raced across Isola Krein's plains, flattening mountains miles away.
Christine smiled.
Nyk skidded back, boots carving trenches into the stone, chest heaving, eyes blazing.
"Damn," he muttered. "I ain't even land one clean hit."
Azelar nodded.
"You won't," he said simply. "Not today."
They clashed again.
And again.
Nyk adapted fast—using ruin not recklessly, but precisely. He erased fragments of force, removed the concept of resistance from his movements, slipped through blows that should have crushed him.
Still, Azelar dominated.
Every strike carried centuries of refinement. Martial arts from dead civilizations. Techniques forged in eras where primordials ruled openly. Close-quarter mastery so complete it felt unfair.
At one point, Nyk managed it.
A cut.
Just a shallow line across Azelar's shoulder.
Blood welled.
Christine's eyes sharpened.
Nyk froze, shocked.
"I—"
Azelar laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
The wound closed instantly.
"But don't mistake that for progress," Azelar added, stepping forward again. "You're powerful. Dangerous. Strong enough to erase gods."
His gaze hardened.
"But power without control gets you killed."
He struck Nyk square in the chest.
Not hard enough to kill.
Hard enough to teach.
Nyk crashed into the courtyard wall and slid down, laughing despite the blood dripping from his mouth.
"Guess I'm your disciple now, huh?"
Azelar extended a hand.
"Officially," he said. "My first."
Nyk took it.
The moment their hands clasped, something clicked. Techniques, principles, foundations compatible with Ruin flowed into Nyk's understanding—not forced, not gifted, but shown.
Control.
Discipline.
Purpose.
Christine exhaled softly.
She rose to her feet.
"Looks like it's my turn soon," she said calmly.
Azelar turned toward her.
Eyes sharp.
"Patience," he said. "Your path is different."
Christine smiled faintly.
She waited.
Above them, unseen—
Darkness watched.
And somewhere far deeper than Isola Krein, the Abyss stirred.
Because the world was moving again.
And the end was no longer unopposed.