Meanwhile, Ryka and Serenith stood before the eight pillars of light, their bodies trembling under a weight that defied gravity. Ryka’s hand shook as she reached for Serenith’s, and in that brief touch, their souls steadied—just for a moment—like two flickers of flame meeting in a storm.

  Without a word, Serenith charged forward, her katana gleaming like a silver scream in the void. But the eight pillars laughed—an empty, warped sound that twisted reality itself. In an instant, they warped the fabric of time, sending Serenith crashing back to the place she started, as if her courage were nothing but a joke.

  “This is laughable,” the pillars echoed, a chorus of disdain. One pillar surged forward, a blade of light that moved like a strike of inevitability. Serenith barely dodged; the pillar and she clashed, blow for blow, but she was outmatched. Each strike left her doubting herself, each dodge a desperate gasp. Then, with one wild swing, she defied fate for a heartbeat—she sent one pillar back, stumbling. But Ryka stood frozen, watching, fear paralyzing her in place. And just as a pillar appeared behind her, she instinctively raised her hands, but reality warped again, sending the pillar snapping back to its start.

  “RYKA!” serenith screamed, her voice a frayed rope. “NO!” Serenith pushed past the pillar she fought, her body fueled by something beyond reason, but Pillar Three moved faster. It caught her mid-sprint, grabbed her like a predator seizing its prey, and hurled her through the void, her body weightless, tumbling away from Ryka.

  Ryka curled into herself, trembling, her power the only thing holding her in place, but even it faltered. She was running out of stamina, and her vision blurred. Serenith, desperate, reached out, her fingers outstretched toward Ryka, but Ryka turned, their eyes locking—no words, just a plea.

  Then, the pillar that Serenith battled marched toward her, inexorable. Ryka, tears welling in her eyes, cried out, “RUN!!!” But Serenith couldn’t respond fast enough. The pillar caught her, and in a final, brutal strike, it drove her own sword through her chest. She was pinned to the ground, like a helpless insect, her blood seeping into the void. And as her last words trickled out, a faint, broken whisper, “Why was I so weak? Sorry, Ryka… I couldn’t be the…”

  And then silence swallowed them both.

  As Serenith’s body went limp, a final shudder ran through her. Before the darkness claimed her, Ryka’s eyes darkened, and a scream tore from her throat—raw, primal, as energy erupted from her, a shockwave so fierce it scattered the Everlights like dust.

  “Why, why, why, why, why?” Ryka screamed, her voice frayed with every syllable. “It always happens to me—I always lose the people I care about! AHHHHHHHH!”

  A flash tore through her mind, a memory dragging her back to another life—before the war, before the Abyss, back in elementary school. There was a boy—Aoi Sato—his smile like a sunbeam cutting through her isolation. They were in school together, and one day, as a group of girls circled her, taunting and jeering, Aoi stepped forward. His voice rang out, strong and unwavering. “What is the reasoning to bully someone?”

  The group froze, their laughter choking. “Who are you?” they spat. But Aoi stood tall. “I’m Aoi Sato, and I refuse to stand for this unjust treatment.” And for a moment, it was hope. But that moment was stolen. A cut—later, Aoi was found hanging from a tree, and the world collapsed beneath Ryka’s feet. The police came, took her in for questioning—then released her, but the world never looked at her the same. At home, her parents’ faces were masks of disgust. Her father spat venom at her: “We have to get rid of her.”

  Her mother cried, “She’s still your daughter!”

  But her father’s words sliced deeper. “That thing is not my daughter—that’s the devil.”

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  Her mother broke, stormed out, but Ryka stood frozen, a small, shattered figure listening in the silence. “It wasn’t me,” she whispered, so softly that only she could hear. But her father dragged her from the house, through the woods, his hands like iron, his words sharp as steel. “Stop it! Get off me—I didn’t do anything!” she pleaded, but he only snarled, “Shut up, you devil!” And he threw her into the woods, alone, left for days, weeks, maybe months, her body just a weight against the mercy of time. And by some impossible grace, she returned—no one knew how—no one waited, because her house stood abandoned, empty, like a memory that had forgotten to live.

  Back in the present, something in Ryka broke. The timid girl was gone; the frightened child was no more. In her place, a lunatic rose—a force of raw, shattered power. Ryka, her voice strangely sweet, almost innocent, whispered, “Please die now.” And as if the words themselves were a blade, the eight pillars collapsed—squished beneath her wrath. But they reformed—flickers of light, refusing to die.

  And so, the cycle began again. Inazuma descended from the sky, a golden ichor staining the golden hall, like a river of Everlight blood. His voice rang out, mocking: “It seems you light freaks need some assistance.” Without hesitation, Ryka turned, desperate, unleashing her power on him. But he was ready—“Reflect,” he commanded, and her ability ricocheted, a cruel distortion snapping back at her.

  Inazuma laughed, his voice a razor slicing through the air. “Yes!!! A real fight at last!” Inazuma roared, and he rushed forward, a flurry of golden slashes, each one a reality-warping blade. Ryka dodged, twisting through the air, but still, some slashes cut deep, tearing skin, leaving her backing away, desperate. She reached for him, aiming to grab his arm, but when she lunged, her arm was gone—just gone, like a broken thread unraveling in a nightmare.

  Ryka said nothing, just glared at Inazuma, her eyes now cold, a storm behind them. Inazuma laughed, a cruel spark in his voice. “DON’T GLARE AT ME LIKE YOU’RE SOMETHING!” he bellowed, each word a lash, as the hall spun around them, reality threatening to fracture once more.

  A slash of light came rushing toward Ryka’s head, so fast it should have ended her in an instant—but it was deflected. Serenith stood tall, a shining figure in the chaos, her scythe gripped in both hands, gleaming like a silver promise. “I now know my purpose,” she declared, her voice like a blade cutting through the storm.

  Then the scene fractured—time folded inside itself, and a flashback consumed the air. Serenith was younger—trapped in a cycle of training so relentless it blurred the line between exhaustion and grief. Day after day, she observed—friends falling, one by one, their lives snuffed out by the very magic that bound them. With every death, with every scream she couldn’t prevent, the pain magnified. And in that isolation—she was left alone, a vessel for grief that only grew heavier.

  Back in the present, the fight roared on. Ryka, breathless, wide-eyed, cried out, “Serenith—you're alive!” And with that, she rushed into her arms, clinging as if that brief touch could anchor her in reality. “Now isn’t the time, Ryka,” Serenith whispered, her voice strained, pulling herself back from the comfort. “We have a greater threat—” But before she could finish, Ryka’s lips met hers in a sudden, impulsive kiss. Serenith froze, her cheeks flushing in bewilderment. “What the hell—” she started, but the world spun, and as Ryka collapsed from exhaustion, Serenith knelt beside her, checking her breathing, her fingers gentle but firm. “Good,” Serenith murmured. “I’ll scold you later, but for now—rest.”

  Inazuma sneered from the void, his boredom palpable as he watched. “Are y’all done now? I’m bored.” Serenith lifted her head, her voice like a blade sliding across steel. “This will be your final resting place. I will be the one who guides your soul to hell.” Inazuma’s laugh cut the air like a blade. “Try me, you bitch.”

  They rushed at each other—each swing, each clash, shook the very realm. The pillars, their masters, tried to cry out, “Inazuma, stop! You’ll destroy the realm!” But he did not listen. Their battle escalated—each clash an explosion of light and gravity. Serenith stumbled back, but she gripped her scythe tighter, a lifeline in a storm. “Soul Departure,” she cried, and the air froze. Inazuma and the pillars—all of them—paused, suspended as if reality held its breath.

  Inazuma’s voice cracked, desperation lacing his words. “What did you do to me, you bitch?” But Serenith, calm now, turned her back. “May your soul find its way to hell,” she whispered, and with that final word, the eight pillars shattered. The realm began to crumble, the golden void collapsing inward, and Serenith fell beside Ryka. They plunged from the sky, the ground rushing to meet them, and as they crashed, the world fell silent—except for the weight of loss that hung in the air like a final, mournful note.