The silence atop the Frost Sanctum was heavier than the crushing gravity of the Avatar's presence had ever been. The storm had broken. The violet clouds that had choked the sky for days were dissolving into wisps of harmless grey vapor, revealing a pale, indifferent sun.
Alvian sat amidst the wreckage of the dais, his chest heaving as he stared at the spot where the Avatar of Engels had shattered. The god was gone, reduced to a lingering, shimmering mist of high-density mana that tasted of ozone and ancient ice.
But so was Professor Rogge.
There was no body. No dramatic final words. Just a pile of grey ash drifting across the black ice, swirling in the wind before being scattered into the void. The man who had treated the apocalypse like a science experiment, who had turned himself into a sun to melt a god, had been erased from existence.
