He raised his hand high, blood streaming from open wounds, staining the air itself.
He chanted.
"Thou shall fall, crushed beneath the weight of justice."
The world was swallowed in white.
Not light—no, something greater. A pillar of divinity, no—a cross. To call it massive would be an insult to its sheer scale. It did not simply tower over existence; it pierced through every layer of reality. A weapon of absolute judgment.
The usurper was erased.
No body, no bones—nothing. His form did not scatter, nor did it burn. He was unmade. His presence, his will, his very existence—gone.
Silence.
And then—
A sound.
Not a scream. Not a voice.
A crack.
Not in the air, nor in the ground. Not even in time itself.
A crack in his erasure.
Through the blinding radiance, something was pushing back—not reborn, not returned, but defying the very act of being erased. The laws of judgment, the very concept of divine punishment, twisted and frayed.
A hand emerged.
Bony fingers shot through the light, wrapping around God's throat. The cross dimmed, its brilliance faltering, shrinking, as if recoiling in uncertainty. As if afraid.
A face followed—twisted, grinning, untouched.
God gasped. His breath stolen as those fingers tightened around his neck.
The usurper's voice was triumphant, dripping with madness.
"Hah! I win."
His grip tightened, his grin widening.
"I've died thousands of times by your hands."
The world cracked beneath their feet.
"But it only takes one victory to flush the rest down the drain."
The usurper's triumph shattered in an instant.
A jagged, moss-covered wooden sword had pierced his chest. His everlasting grin faded. He could not feel it—his regeneration was not working.
His breath hitched.
"N-no… how can this be? A mere wooden sword?"
Panic set in. His mind clawed for reason, for anything that made sense.
"This meaningless object… is going to be the means of my downfall?"
He gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.
"survived the Lights of Judgment, for crying out loud—why must this be what causes me to… lose?"
His neck twisted, eyes darting to the figure behind him.
There—standing firm, unwavering—was the Knight of the Dying Sun.
Recognition struck like a thunderclap.
"You… I know you…"
A flicker of something deeper—dread.
"B-but you should not even exist now… how?"
His fingers loosened.
God slipped from his grasp, plummeting to the earth below.
The knight did not flinch. Did not gloat. His voice was calm. Absolute.
"This is your end. The shackle will finally be lifted."
The usurper thrashed. His mind spiraled, his voice thick with denial.
"No. No. No. No. NO!"
His body convulsed, refusing to accept the inevitable.
"I was so close! Why? How?!"
Blood gurgled in his throat, his words drowning in crimson.
His body finally fell limp.
My vision wavered, as if I were the one dying—yet there was no pain. Only a strange, suffocating weight pressing down on my consciousness.
The world around me blurred, shapes and colors smearing together.
One last look… as everything faded to black.