Burned stone.
Shattered vehicles.
Blood smeared in long streaks.
Hunters lay where they had fallen, too broken or terrified to move.
A.R.E.S. had pulled back outside the perimeter, forming desperate barricades and screaming orders over radios:
“DO NOT APPROACH THE ENTITY!”
“EVACUATE THE SOUTH WING OF THE DISTRICT!”
“We lost contact with the drone—get a visual on Everhart!”
Rina lay behind a half-melted mana cannon, breathing through clenched teeth.
Her leg was twisted wrong.
Her ribs screamed with every breath.
Her rapier was shattered.
Across the plaza, the creature—
that colossal, scarred, half-rotting titan—
staggered in circles, letting out anguished, thunder-filled groans.
Lightning dripped from its wounds like liquid tears.
It wasn’t attacking anymore.
It was lost.
Searching.
Hurting.
Every roar shook the sky.
Rina tried to crawl, but her arm gave out.
Her drone hovered shakily behind her, still recording.
Far behind her, the livestream commentators panicked.
“People, we are cutting the stream—this is no longer safe broadcasting material!”
“Switch to a private channel! NOW!”
The broadcast blinked out.
But the drone’s private recording continued.
The world would not see what happened next.
Only Rina.
Only Azhareth.
Azhareth stood alone near a shattered vending machine.
His right arm shook uncontrollably.
Lightning scars crawled up his skin.
His fingers were pitch-black from burns.
He exhaled once.
The behemoth’s mournful cry washed through the plaza.
Then…
A voice whispered in Azhareth’s mind.
Soft.
Frail.
Almost gone.
“My friend…
End his suffering.”
Azhareth’s breath caught.
He knew that voice.
Flercher—
The 300th life.
The lightning-born demon lord.
The master of elegance and speed.
The only one Gorvath ever obeyed.
Azhareth closed his eyes.
“…I will.”
Pain stabbed through his skull.
Hundreds of lifetimes flooded him in one crushing wave:
- blade dances under moonlight
- lightning-scarred battlefields
- a behemoth kneeling in loyalty
- betrayals
- victories
- throne rooms
- a thousand techniques
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- a million regrets
He staggered, gripping his head.
“Stop—”
And the flood ceased instantly.
Breathing hard, he wiped the blood from his nose.
He now remembered.
Everything.
His body was too weak.
Raine’s bones were too soft.
His nerves are too fragile.
He could not use Flercher’s skill as he was.
So he drew on memory—
The 231st life.
A man who conquered torture itself.
A life dedicated to mastering pain.
Azhareth exhaled.
His heart slowed.
His nerves went cold.
Pain receptors shut down.
Blood flow stabilized.
His body became a numb, sacrificial shell.
Smoke drifted off his skin.
Perfect.
Just enough to move.
Just enough to kill.
Just enough to save a friend.
His vision sharpened.
The world blurred.
Lightning crackled across his spine.
Time slowed.
Azhareth looked around calmly as lightning froze midair like drifting snow.
He rolled his burned fingers, testing mobility.
Cracked.
Bleeding.
Barely usable.
He opened and closed his hand.
Good enough.
Beside a broken vending machine lay a janitor’s broom.
Azhareth picked it up.
The wood was cheap.
Old.
Splintering.
But when he held it—
Lightning wrapped around the shaft, giving it form.
For a moment…
It became a rapier.
Rina watched from the rubble, whispering:
“…what is that idiot doing…?”
But something inside her warned her:
Do not blink.
You might miss everything.
The creature staggered, sniffing the air.
The glowing lightning-tear marks brightened.
It sensed something familiar—
but the aura was weak, buried under human flesh.
It roared in confusion.
Azhareth stepped forward.
“…I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You waited too long.”
This was the technique all heroes feared.
The thrust that ended kingdoms.
The move that only one being in creation ever used perfectly.
Flashpoint Transpierce — Origin Rank.
Azhareth drew a single breath—
and the world shattered into silence.
No sound.
No wind.
No movement.
Rina felt time itself twist.
She looked around wildly—
everyone had vanished into still frames.
A bullet hung frozen in the air near her head.
Lightning from the titan’s body drifted like petals caught in eternal dusk.
And Azhareth—
was gone.
A flash.
A single streak of blue-white light.
Then—
Azhareth stood behind the creature, the broom splintered in half in his hand.
He exhaled softly, a thin line of blood trailing from his lips.
The titan froze.
A thin cut opened across its chest.
Then another.
And another.
Dozens of tiny, perfect lines…
from a thrust a human eye could never follow.
The creature looked down.
Then back at Azhareth.
And finally—
for the first time—
It understood.
Its massive body trembled.
It lowered itself…
slowly…
delicately…
into a kneeling position.
As if bowing.
As if grateful.
As if saying:
“Master… you returned.”
Lightning tears rolled down its scarred face.
Then the titan collapsed with a thunderous, earth-breaking crash.
Dead.
Silent.
At peace.
Azhareth dropped the broken broom.
His arm was ruined—
burned black
trembling violently
muscles torn
nerves screaming even through numbness.
He fell to one knee.
Rina stared at him, eyes wide, breath frozen.
“…who…
who are you…?”
Azhareth didn’t answer.
He whispered to the corpse instead:
“…Sleep well.
Your suffering is over.”
He stood—barely—and walked away as the smoke cleared.
Rina watched him go, shaking, clutching her drone.
The world had no idea what happened here.
But she knew.
And the drone knew.
One man had ended a city-killer…
…with a broom.