The Strongest Transcendent In History Is The Strongest
Chapter 39: The Blade at the End of Time
-Back to Zettai-
From the depths of the smoking crater—a jagged remnant of destruction that still trembles with the echoes of chaos—a single, deliberate foot emerges. It takes its time, each movement marked by an ominous weight that cracks the charred earth beneath its tread. Ash and glowing embers dance in the air, swirling around him and casting eerie, flickering shadows that weave in and out of the disintegrating fog of calamity, a ghostly ballet of devastation.
Suddenly, from the oppressive silence enveloping the scene, a voice breaks through, shaky and uncertain.
"T-That can't be… Zettai..?" The speaker, a girl named Kenshi, recoils instinctively, her eyes widening in disbelief as the dreadful reality sinks in. "That attack… should've erased you from existence."
Yet, there stands Zettai. He remains upright, a living embodiment of defiance against the ravages of battle. His body is battered, grim evidence of the violent conflict he has endured. Half his combat coat hangs in tatters, the fabric incinerated to a charred black, while deep, angry scars mar his skin—a tapestry of pain. A crimson line of blood trickles from a gash on his forehead, marking him as a survivor, not merely of the physical realm, but of a graver encounter with death itself. One of his gauntlets hangs in a state of disrepair, fractured and splintered along the knuckles, and wisps of smoke still curl from his back, remnants of the explosion that should have claimed him. And yet… amidst the ruin, he smiles. This is not a smile brimming with arrogance but rather one imbued with a profound sense of endurance—a testament to his unwavering spirit.
"Unless…" Kenshi's voice falters as the grim realization washes over her. "You cast a barrier… at the very last second, didn't you?"
Zettai nods, his demeanor calm but resolute. "Correct," he affirms, all while lifting his arm. The gauntlet, despite its damage, glitters with faint sparks—a hint of the latent magic still contained within it. "Just enough magic… layered between me and death," he explains with a composed breath. But it's not merely the remnants of ancient magic that stir unease within Kenshi. It is his eyes—those fierce, unmistakably human eyes, radiating a light vibrant with ferocity, burning with an intensity that surpasses raw power and delves deeper into the realms of conviction. And perhaps, something else entirely… something that feels ancient—older than the curses they wield and even the Void itself. Zettai steps forward, shadows seem to cling to him like reluctant chains, remnants of lingering death magic, refusing to release their grip. Yet, beneath this shroud of darkness, golden veins of light pulse rhythmically beneath his skin, pushing back against the consuming blackness—a visible rejection of corruption, a testament to the purity of his spirit. He exhales slowly, taking deliberate aim with one outstretched hand toward her. "Since you were kind enough to reveal your trump card to me," he states, his voice infused with a chilling calmness, almost as if discussing the weather, "it's only fair that I return the favor." "This next technique… cannot be evaded either. Just like yours," he adds, his aura shifting as though the very fabric of the battlefield acknowledges the impending storm.
The ground trembles—not under the weight of the impending conflict—but from the weight of time itself. The magic Zettai begins to channel is not merely an expression of power; it is something primordial, ancient as the stones beneath their feet. "This isn't just a spell," he declares, his voice deepening, infused with a weightiness that resonates through the air. "It is a judgment—a reckoning."
Kenshi stumbles backward, her breath hitching in her throat. The skies above her flicker and shimmer as if even the very void is beginning to resist the monumental force coalescing before her.
"No… that magic… it's impossible. That's not human. What are you?!" she gasps, the reality of the situation crashing down around her.
Zettai tightens his fist, deliberately letting the power surge within him, an inferno of indomitable strength. His aura ignites with brilliance—an explosion of golden light that surges forward, pushing back the encroaching darkness like the dawn piercing the shroud of night. "I'm the man," he proclaims, stepping forward steadily, "who trained the boy you were foolish enough to challenge." "And I have no intention of losing," he adds, the conviction in his voice a promise as much as a threat. As he draws his hand back, the very world around him ripples—a tangible response to the unfathomable power unfurling at his command. Symbols, ancient and cryptic—older than the tongues of men—ignite across the ground, swirling upward like shards of time breaking free from the confines of reality.
The wind stills, caught in the tension of the moment.
"This is my art," Zettai professes calmly, "crafted not from the teachings of others, but born from the crucible of my own experiences—shaped by regret and fueled by raging determination." "Its name—" With a powerful thrust of his hand, he declares, "—is Final Edict: Heavenbreaker!" In an instant, the air around him ruptures, giving birth to a golden sphere of compressed magic that expands outward, enveloping the battlefield in a surreal, slow-motion collapse. The magic is not chaotic; it is precise, surgical—every particle obediently bending to his will. The explosion does not erupt wildly, but rather, it consumes everything in its path, erasing the very essence of existence. Kenshi finds herself caught mid-step, her eyes wide with horror as the light engulfs her, swiftly eradicating hope.
The deafening BOOM reverberates—not as a mere sound but as an event horizon—an immovable force. It is neither fire nor lightning but something infinitely purer. Older. A colossal column of golden destruction erupts skyward, piercing through the heavens and obliterating the realm's fragments of floating earth. Space itself fractures, fissures of light branching through the void like lightning streaking across a glass surface, while the shockwave annihilates the battlefield, twisting it into nothingness. And then, as suddenly as it began, it compresses.
Zettai's hand closes into a determined fist, and the entire storm of golden magic recedes, collapsing around Kenshi like a prison forged from condensed fate. And with a final, almost casual flick of his wrist— It detonates inward with a cataclysmic finality. The explosion collapses in on itself, vanishing into a brilliant singularity and leaving behind a silence so profound it chokes the air. Zettai lowers his hand, panting heavily as blood trickles down his jawline, evidence of the immense toll this battle has taken on him.
As the smoke begins to clear from the crater, a sight meets his gaze: Kenshi lies crumpled on the ground, her body littered with a multitude of deep, jagged scratches that mar her once-imposing figure. The evidence of her fierce battle is etched across her skin, each mark telling a story of struggle and resilience. Unconscious and vulnerable, she appears to be a shadow of the formidable opponent she once was, now reduced to a fragile husk. Her breathing is shallow, and a sense of stillness envelops her as she lays there, seemingly unaware of the chaos that surrounds her. The vibrant energy that once radiated from her has dissipated, leaving only a haunting reminder of the strength and prowess she possessed in her prime. This stark contrast between her current state and her previous might serves as a poignant reminder of both the physical and mental toll of combat.
Zettai does not speak. He does not need to.
The silence that blankets the battlefield screams loudly enough, echoing the weight of their encounter, a testament to the unyielding will of the man who stands amidst the ruins, victorious yet weary.
To be continued...