It began without warning.
No trumpet. No flash.
Just a stillness so deep, even the birds forgot how to fly.
Then, the world cracked.
Not just the sky, or the ground—but everything.
Mountains folded like parchment. Rivers ran backward. Forests dissolved into ash. Cities twisted into impossible shapes, as if memory itself had been rewritten.
Ael stood atop the western cliffs and watched the horizon shatter.
And at the center of it all—walking calmly across the warping fields like a man taking a stroll through a graveyard—was the Hollow King.
He no longer hid behind generals.
He no longer spoke in riddles.
He had descended.
And the world could barely contain him.
—
Lyra fell to her knees, clutching her head. "I can't anchor the ley-lines. He's unraveling the rules. Magic isn't… working the way it should."
Elric slammed his sword into the stone to steady himself. "This isn't war anymore. It's reality falling apart."
Ael didn't move.
He had felt this presence once before—on the day he was first reborn. The moment his eyes opened in the cave of origin. That cold, eternal gaze.
Back then, he had no feelings to name it.
Now, he could.
Dread.
But beneath it…
Clarity.
This was no longer about reclaiming the world.
It was about deciding what kind of world deserved to remain.
—
Across the continent, battles erupted—then collapsed into paradox.
In the north, a city that had never fallen now stood in ruins, as if history itself had bent to the Hollow King's will.
In the east, warriors aged backward mid-fight, turning to confused children holding swords too heavy to lift.
In the west, where the sun used to rise, night reigned—a black dome swallowing time itself.
And yet, across all of it, the Ashen Banner held.
Because they weren't fighting for land.
They weren't fighting for kings.
They were fighting for meaning.
For every child who dreamed.
For every mother who mourned.
For every love that had not yet bloomed.
And they followed one man—not because he promised them survival.
But because he had walked through his own ruin… and kept walking.
—
At the shattered temple of Tharwen's Hollow, Ael raised his voice for the first time in days.
Not to command.
But to remind.
"We face not a tyrant," he said. "Not a demon. Not even a god."
He looked out at soldiers, farmers, thieves, mages—people who should have broken long ago.
"We face the end. The idea that nothing matters. That emotion is weakness. That hope is foolish."
His hand touched his chest.
"The Hollow King was what I once was. What I could have stayed."
He drew his sword.
"And I say this now, to all of you. If this world ends today, let it end with us choosing what it meant."
The sword lit—not with flame, but feeling.
Light flared in seven colors—each shard of Ael's soul burning bright.
Not apart.
But as one.
—
The Hollow King paused in his walk.
He looked up.
And for the first time, he spoke with emotion.
"You would build a world on sorrow. On tears. On loss. On imperfection."
"You are no king. You are a liar."
Ael stepped forward.
"No," he said. "I'm just human."
The Hollow King's cloak unfurled.
His body split into a thousand forms—each one a version of Ael from different timelines. Cold. Efficient. Brilliant.
Each one showing what Ael could have been…
If he had never chosen to feel.
—
The final war would not be fought in trenches or castles.
It would be fought within.
Memory by memory.
Emotion by emotion.
The world itself became a battlefield of thoughts and truths.
And Ael, with the Ashen Banner behind him, stepped into it willingly.
Because sometimes, to save the world…
You have to fight for the right to feel.