05:00 – The Final Arena, The Void Regent's Throne
The sky had forgotten how to be blue.
A single moon hung like a torn heart,
its light the colour of old bruises.
Below it:
a battlefield carved from the corpse of every arena Jonathan had ever won.
The ground was black glass,
veined with gold fire that pulsed like dying arteries.
Five hundred Winged hovered above it,
wings blazing,
orgasms still dripping from their last climax.
At the centre:
Jonathan Andrew,
crowned in every crown he had ever shattered,
cloak of yesterday's screams,
eyes two black holes wearing Arya's face.
In his right hand:
a leash of frozen sound.
At the end of the leash:
The Tier-8 Chimera.
It had no name.
It needed none.
It was a cathedral of teeth and wings,
a dragon grown from every scream Jonathan had ever collected.
Its hide was mirrors that reflected every death the Winged had ever caused.
Its breath was the exact frequency of Arya's first orgasm—
weaponised,
lethal.
Jonathan smiled—
slow,
sharp,
final.
"Meet my masterpiece," he said.
"It ate your levels.
It ate your hope.
It ate your sky."
He snapped the leash.
The Chimera roared.
The battlefield shattered.
05:03 – The First Wave
The Chimera moved faster than memory.
Its tail—
a whip of black glass—
lashed across the Winged ranks.
Fifty Takers fell,
wings shredded,
orgasms reversed into screams.
Lira's candle-flame wings became flame-throwers.
She fired a lance of pure climax into the Chimera's eye.
The eye absorbed it,
reflected it back as a beam of frozen sound that froze her mid-air.
Calen's storm-blue wings became lightning cannons.
He fired a bolt into the Chimera's heart.
The heart drank it,
grew a second head that breathed lightning back at him.
Ryn's violet wings became storm-blades.
He dove,
sliced the Chimera's wing.
The wing regrew—
bigger,
sharper,
hungry.
The Chimera laughed—
Jonathan's voice layered with every scream it had ever eaten.
05:07 – The Second Wave
Arya flew to the centre.
Her halo of orgasms detonated.
A shockwave of pure pleasure poured through the telepathic chord.
Five hundred Winged came—
simultaneous,
perfect,
desperate.
The Chimera ate the shockwave.
Its hide of mirrors shattered,
revealed a second skin of Arya's face—
every expression she had ever worn,
every climax she had ever detonated.
It opened its mouth.
A single word:
"Mine."
The word stole.
Every Winged felt it:
their orgasms reversed,
their levels drained,
their wings dimming.
Level 900 → 700 → 500.
05:12 – The Third Wave: The Twins
Nyxara and Nyxael—
the twins—
fused into a single four-breasted warrior,
tails braided into a living spear.
They dove.
The spear pierced the Chimera's heart.
The heart closed around it,
crushed it.
The twins screamed.
The Chimera's tail wrapped around Nyxael's throat.
It bit.
Nyxael's head came off in a single, clean arc.
Her body fell,
tails still twitching,
blood spelling SISTER on the black glass.
Nyxara caught the head.
Her scream cracked the moon in half.
The Chimera swallowed the scream,
grew a third head that wore Nyxael's face.
Level 40.
Every Winged dropped.
Except Jonathan.
His Chimera fed.
Jonathan: Level 2,000.
05:15 – The Fourth Wave: Arya's Mortal Wound
Arya flew straight at the Chimera's heart.
Her war-crown shattered.
She drove her fist into the heart—
black fire pouring from the rose branded over her chest.
The Chimera roared.
Its claw—
a cathedral of teeth—
pierced her abdomen,
lifted her like a rag doll.
Blood poured from her mouth,
spelled MINE on the black glass.
The Chimera ate.
Her levels drained—
1,115 → 800 → 500 → 40.
Her halo died.
The telepathic chord snapped.
Five hundred Winged fell,
wings folding into scars,
orgasms reversed into grief.
05:18 – The Fifth Wave: Alexander's Sacrifice
Alexander saw it:
Arya impaled,
eyes dimming,
the Chimera's mouth opening to swallow her whole.
He flew.
His storm runes ignited.
He became a spear of pure lightning—
every orgasm he had ever given Arya,
every kiss,
every vow.
He pierced the Chimera's heart.
The heart exploded.
Black glass rained.
The Chimera shattered.
Its pieces became a constellation of screaming faces—
every soul it had ever eaten.
Jonathan screamed—
a sound that cracked the void.
He vanished,
leash snapping,
crown bleeding.
05:20 – The System Reboots
The battlefield collapsed.
The black glass floor became a single error message:
SYSTEM OVERLOAD: ALPHA CORE CRITICAL.
Arya fell.
Her body hit the glass,
blood pooling into a gold rose.
The system rebooted.
Every Winged felt it:
their levels locked at 40.
Their wings locked into scars.
Their orgasms locked into silence.
Except Jonathan.
His Chimera had stolen Arya's core.
His levels locked at 2,000.
His crown locked into a halo of stolen orgasms.
05:25 – The Coma
They carried Arya on a bier of brass feathers and storm-clouds.
Her chest rose once.
Fell.
Did not rise again.
Cogsworth's brass heart ticked STOP.
Solara's suns dimmed to candle-flame.
Liora and Cassia's ice and fire froze into a single tear.
Morvox's locked heart slammed shut.
Milo and Lena's telekinesis faltered,
letting the bier drift.
Gilgamesh punched the void—
once,
twice,
until his knuckles bled gold.
The Choir children sang a single note—
ARYA,
over and over,
until the moon learned it by heart.
But Arya did not wake.
05:30 – The Aftermath
They woke in the Sky-Forge,
now a mausoleum.
The crucible was cold.
The dragon-bone ribs were cracked.
The bed was a grave.
Five hundred Winged knelt,
wings gone,
levels locked at 40.
Lira's candle-flame hair was ash.
Calen's storm-blue eyes were thunderclouds.
Ryn's violet runes were bruises.
Nyxara knelt beside Nyxael's head,
tails limp,
screaming without sound.
Alexander knelt beside Arya,
lightning runes dark,
hands stained with Chimera blood.
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"Wake up," he whispered.
"Please."
The black rose over her heart bled.
One petal fell.
It spelled HOPE.
But Arya did not wake.
05:40 – The Heavy Tone
The continent watched on a hundred million crystal orbs.
The Gold Rose constellation flickered,
then died.
Dragons fell from the sky,
wings locked into scars.
Children drew black roses on every wall.
Jonathan's voice rolled across the void:
"The sky is mine."
The Winged looked at Arya's coma.
They looked at Nyxael's head.
They looked at their locked levels.
They looked at each other.
And for the first time,
they were afraid.
Lira's voice broke the silence:
"Will she wake?"
No one answered.
The Sky-Forge wept.
The war had a new name:
coma.
And the sky had learned to mourn.