The Overlord's corpse lay still.
But that wrong eye remained open.
Colors that shouldn't exist swirling in the dead socket.
Geometries that hurt to perceive.
Michel's hand tightened on his sword, his usual cheerful demeanor completely gone.
"Everyone back," he said quietly. "Now."
The remaining soldiers didn't need to be told twice.
They retreated, dragging wounded with them.
Elara crawled to Arden, still clutching his severed arm.
Her bloodline exhausted, eyes returned to normal black.
The corpse twitched.
Then sat up.
Moving in ways bodies shouldn't move.
Joints bending at wrong angles.
The Overlord's mouth opened, but the voice that emerged was layered with harmonics that made ears bleed.
"HOW CURIOUS. THE VESSEL HAS FALLEN. THE FLAME-CROWNED CHAMPION, DEAD AFTER THREE CENTURIES OF SERVICE."
The corpse stood, movements jerky and puppet-like.
"AND SLAIN BY A CHILD. A NOBLE ONE WHO REMEMBERS THE SONGS OF OLD. WHO CARRIES THE WEIGHT OF CYCLES LONG PAST."
The wrong eye focused on Arden.
"YOU INTEREST ME, LITTLE USURPER. YOU WHO STEALS FATE ITSELF."
Michel stepped between Arden and the possessed corpse.
His entire demeanor changed.
The playful captain vanished.
Replaced by something else.
Something cold.
Dangerous.
"Outer God," Michel said, his voice flat. "You're far from your domain. And you're using a dead vessel. That limits you significantly."
"AH. THE HIDDEN ONE REVEALS HIMSELF. THE FALSE TEACHER WHO PLAYS AT MORTALITY."
The corpse's head tilted at an impossible angle.
"YOU HIDE YOUR NATURE WELL, TRANSCENDENT. BUT I SEE THROUGH YOUR MASK."
"Good for you," Michel said. "Now leave. The boy earned his victory fairly."
"EARNED? PERHAPS. BUT THE GAME IS NOT FINISHED. THE CRUSADE CONTINUES EVEN WITH THE CHAMPION FALLEN."
The corpse moved closer.
"I AM SERAPH'S CONSUMING FLAME GIVEN CONSCIOUSNESS. THE ABYSSAL SERPENT THAT WAS BORN FROM THE FIRST PURGE. I AM THE FIRE THAT DESPISES MORTAL WEAKNESS. THE DIVINE WRATH MADE MANIFEST."
The Overlord's remaining arm began to change.
Scales growing.
Bones shifting.
Becoming serpentine.
"I WAS SPAWNED WHEN THE OLD GODS CLEANSED THE NORTHERN LANDS. BORN FROM THE FLAMES THAT CONSUMED THE ANCIENT CITIES. GIVEN FORM BY THE SCREAMS OF THOSE WHO BURNED."
The transformation accelerated.
The corpse elongating.
Becoming something else.
Something worse.
"FOR MILLENNIA I HAVE COILED BENEATH THESE HEAVENS, WAITING. BINDING MYSELF TO CHAMPIONS WHO WOULD CARRY MY FLAME. THE OVERLORD SERVED ADEQUATELY. BUT HE WAS MERELY A VESSEL."
The wrong eye focused on Arden again.
"NOW I DESIRE A BETTER CHAMPION. ONE WHO REMEMBERS THE OLD SONGS. WHO CARRIES THE WEIGHT OF FATE."
"YOU, NOBLE ONE. YOU WHO DREAMS OF CYCLES. WHO BEARS THE BURDEN OF FUTURES UNMADE. YOU WOULD BE A SUITABLE VESSEL FOR—"
Michel moved.
Not walking.
Not running.
Just was in front of the transforming corpse.
His sword at its throat.
"No."
The single word carried absolute authority.
"YOU DARE INTERRUPT—"
"I dare everything when it comes to my students," Michel said, his voice still flat. Cold. "And Arden is mine. Not yours. Not any god's. Mine."
He looked back at Arden briefly.
And for the first time since Arden had known him—
Michel's expression suprisingly held genuine regret.
"I'm sorry, Arden. I pushed too far this time. I thought... I thought Voss would hold back more. Would retreat if things got desperate." His voice cracked slightly. "I didn't expect him to actually sacrifice himself. That's on me."
Arden tried to speak.
No sound came—his vocal cords destroyed.
Michel saw the attempt.
Smiled sadly.
"Don't try to talk. Your throat's wrecked. Elara will patch you up once we deal with this... situation."
He turned back to the possessed corpse.
His demeanor shifting again.
Back to cold authority.
"Now then. Where were we? Oh yes. You were leaving."
"I AM AN OUTER GOD. I DO NOT TAKE ORDERS FROM—"
"You're a fragment," Michel interrupted. "A piece of consciousness riding a dead vessel. Your main body is sealed somewhere, locked away by powers greater than either of us."
He pressed his blade harder against the corpse's throat.
"And here, in this moment, in this place? I outrank you."
"IMPOSSIBLE. YOU ARE MERELY FIFTH STAGE. TRANSCENDENT, YES, BUT NOT—"
"I'm at the peak of fifth stage," Michel corrected. "One step from sixth. One step from becoming something that could challenge even sealed gods."
His mana signature changed.
Expanded.
The air itself bending around him.
"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to leave this corpse. Return to whatever hole you're sealed in. And you're going to remember that this boy, this student of mine, is off-limits."
"AND IF I REFUSE?"
"Then I show you why Transcendents are called reality-benders."
Michel's sword began to glow.
Not with fire.
Not with any element.
Just... was.
Like it existed more than the world around it.
"Your choice, Serpent. But choose quickly. My patience has limits."
The possessed corpse stared at him.
The wrong eye calculating.
Measuring.
"...VERY WELL. FOR NOW, I WITHDRAW. BUT KNOW THIS, HIDDEN TRANSCENDENT—"
The eye shifted to Arden again.
"THE NOBLE ONE WHO REMEMBERS WILL BUILD A SUITABLE VESSEL WHETHER HE WILLS IT OR NOT. HIS PATH IS WRITTEN IN CYCLES. IN FATE. IN THE SONGS OF OLD."
"WE WILL MEET AGAIN. WHEN HE IS READY. WHEN THE CRUSADE DEMANDS IT."
The presence faded.
The wrong eye closing.
Leaving only the Overlord's corpse.
Truly dead this time.
Michel let out a breath.
His cold demeanor cracking.
"Well. That was unpleasant."
He turned to Arden, and some of his usual cheer returned.
Though dimmed by obvious guilt.
"So. Let's talk about what you just did, shall we? Because congratulations—you temporarily achieved fifth stage. Became a false Transcendent for about thirty seconds."
He gestured at the black and white remnants of Arden's domain, still flickering weakly.
"This. This incomplete manifestation. You touched something beyond mortality. Grasped at reality-bending. And survived."
Michel walked around the fading domain, studying it professionally.
"Most people who try to break through to fifth stage mid-combat die. The stress is too much. The incomplete manifestation tears them apart." He looked at Arden with something like pride. "You didn't die. You stabilized it just enough. Used it to wound an immortal. That's... impressive doesn't cover it."
He paused.
"But you're not a true Transcendent. Not yet. Know why?"
Arden shook his head, still unable to speak.
"Because you don't know your domain's name. Every true Transcendent's soul realm has a name. A title that defines its nature. Its rules. Its very existence."
Michel gestured at the black and white world.
"You created this instinctively. Canvas and brush, shadows and light, usurping fate through artistic expression. It's unique. Powerful. Terrifying in its implications." He smiled. "But nameless. Incomplete. A sketch rather than a finished painting."
He looked directly at Arden.
"When you learn its name—when you complete it—that's when you'll truly become fifth stage. A real Transcendent. Someone who can bend reality to their will."
Michel's expression grew serious again.
"And if you continue on this path? If you keep pushing? Keep stealing fate?" He nodded slowly. "You'll build a suitable vessel. Not for that Serpent. For yourself. For something beyond even normal Transcendents."
Arden wanted to ask questions.
Wanted to know what Michel meant.
But his destroyed throat made speech impossible.
Michel saw the frustration.
"Don't worry. Elara will fix you. She's got your arm on ice, your eye preserved. We'll get you patched up." He smiled—softer now. "You've earned rest, student. You've exceeded every expectation I had."
He looked at the Serpent-possessed corpse.
At the fading wrongness.
"But first... let me show you what a true Transcendent looks like. What you're working toward. Consider it a lesson."
The possessed corpse twitched again.
The Serpent's presence returning.
Stronger this time.
More focused.
"YOU THINK I TRULY LEFT? FOOLISH MORTAL. I MERELY WAITED FOR THE RIGHT MOMENT—"
"I know," Michel interrupted calmly. "I could sense you lurking. Which is why I prepared."
He drew his left hand along his sword's edge.
And the blade liquified.
Thick, viscous liquid that resembled blood but wasn't.
Dark crimson substance that dripped from the blade like syrup.
Then more liquid began pouring from above.
From nowhere.
From everywhere.
Falling in massive amounts.
Covering the battlefield in seconds.
"Soul Realm Manifestation: Extinction Of All Things," Michel said, his voice carrying absolute authority.
And the world changed.
The blood-like liquid formed a pool.
Spreading outward in waves.
Fifty feet.
One hundred feet.
Two hundred feet.
Covering the entire crater and beyond.
The liquid was ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then waist-deep.
But somehow everyone could still breathe.
Still stand.
The liquid defying physics.
Defying reality.
And above—
The sky changed.
Crimson stars appeared.
Thousands of them.
Hanging in an impossible void.
Each star pulsing with heartbeat rhythm.
The entire domain thrummed with power.
With inevitability.
With ending.
Michel stood at the center.
And suddenly—
He was the center.
Not just physically.
Conceptually.
Reality bent toward him.
Gravity warped.
Time itself seemed to flow differently around him.
This was a Transcendent.
Someone who had fully manifested their soul realm.
Someone who had imposed their internal world onto external reality.
Someone who had become the axis upon which existence turned.
"This," Michel said calmly, "is what fifth stage truly means. Complete manifestation. Total control. Absolute authority within your domain."
The possessed corpse tried to move.
Found itself unable.
"WHAT—WHAT IS THIS—"
"Precognition," Michel said simply. "Within my domain, I see all possible futures. All probable movements. Every action you might take, I've already countered."
He raised his sword.
The blood-like liquid coating it, dripping in thick streams.
"You can't surprise me. Can't outmaneuver me. Can't escape."
He swung.
A wave of crimson liquid erupted from the blade.
Slashing toward the possessed corpse with impossible speed.
The corpse tried to dodge—
Michel's sword was already there.
Cutting from a different angle.
Because he'd seen the dodge before it happened.
The liquid blade carved through the corpse.
Through the serpentine transformation.
Through the Outer God's manifestation.
Cutting not just flesh but presence.
"IMPOSSIBLE! I AM ETERNAL! I WAS BORN FROM THE FIRST PURGE! I AM—"
"Annoying," Michel finished. "And I'm bored of this conversation."
He swung his sword rapidly in all directions.
The blood-like liquid responding.
Forming a sphere of countless small blades around him.
Each blade moving independently.
Each one targeting the possessed corpse from a different angle.
The corpse couldn't dodge them all.
Couldn't block them all.
Because Michel saw every movement before it happened.
The liquid blades struck from dozens of angles simultaneously.
Shredding the serpentine transformation.
Carving away the Outer God's presence.
Forcing it out of the corpse piece by piece.
"YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME! I AM SERAPH'S FLAME! I AM THE ABYSSAL SERPENT! I AM—"
"Leaving," Michel interrupted. "Now."
He thrust his sword forward.
And the blood-like liquid surged.
Forming a massive wave that crashed over the possessed corpse.
Drowning it.
Consuming it.
The liquid working like surgery.
Precisely separating the Outer God's consciousness from the dead vessel.
Extracting it.
Forcing it out.
"THIS IS NOT OVER! THE NOBLE ONE WILL BUILD A SUITABLE VESSEL! THE CRUSADE WILL—"
"Continue boring someone else," Michel said. "Goodbye."
The liquid compressed.
Squeezed.
And ejected the Outer God's presence.
A shriek echoed across dimensions.
The wrong colors fading.
The impossible geometries collapsing.
The Serpent's consciousness forced back to wherever it came from.
The Overlord's corpse collapsed.
Just a corpse now.
No possession.
No divine presence.
Just dead flesh.
Michel's domain lingered for a moment longer.
Then faded.
The blood-like liquid evaporating into nothing.
The crimson stars disappearing.
Reality returning to normal.
Michel stood there, breathing normally.
Not even tired.
That's what true fifth stage meant.
Complete control.
No strain.
Just absolute mastery within one's domain.
He turned to Arden with a smile—his usual cheer returning fully now.
"See? That's what you're working toward. Complete manifestation. Total authority. The ability to impose your will on reality itself."
He walked over, helping Arden to his feet.
"Your incomplete domain was impressive. Wounding an immortal, touching reality-bending, surviving the strain. But this—" he gestured at where his domain had been "—this is the goal. This is what it means to truly transcend mortal limits."
Michel's expression grew thoughtful.
"The Serpent was right about one thing, though. You're building toward something. Your path,\, this determination to rewrite fate—it's constructing a vessel. Not for any god. For you. For whatever you're becoming."
He met Arden's eyes.
"And I'm curious to see what that vessel looks like when it's complete."
Elara appeared, limping but alive.
Still clutching Arden's severed arm.
"Can we please go home now?" she asked weakly. "Before any more gods show up?"
Michel laughed—genuine and warm.
"Excellent idea. Let's collect our wounded and get out of here before reality decides to throw anything else at us."
He looked at the Overlord's corpse.
At the crater where Roy had died.
At the battlefield littered with bodies.
"We won. At terrible cost. But we won."
Then to Arden specifically: "Roy would be proud, you know. You finished what he started. Killed the unkillable. Changed fate itself."
Michel's smile was sad but genuine.
"Rest now, student. Heal. Recover your voice. Reattach that arm and eye. Because your story isn't over. The Serpent's attention means bigger things are coming."
He helped Arden toward where the other soldiers were gathering.
"But for now? For now we celebrate survival. Mourn our dead. And remember what we fought for."
Behind them, the Flame-Crowned Overlord's corpse lay still.
Truly dead at last.
The three-hundred-year reign of terror—
Finally ended.