Each drop of blood from his temple drifted slowly into the wind, as if time itself had slowed.
His remaining eye trembled, staring at the spinning sky of death.
"Run…?" he thought weakly. "Should I… run? My left arm… I can't move it anymore. My right leg is numb. My right eye… it's gone dark. If I run now… I'll lose Lyra… I'll fail… again…"
Memories of his past—of fear and failure—flashed through him like lightning tearing through fog.
He gasped. His breath froze in the air. His heart hammered like a war drum, irregular and painful.
"No… no… I can't just stand still! I have to endure! I have to fight! I… I HAVE TO FIGHT!!"
Suddenly, from the darkened sky in the distance, a small missile cut through the snowy mist—yet no explosion followed. Instead, a spinning object burst forward, reflecting flashes of lightning. It was a thick metallic ring, as wide as an arm, flying straight toward Kaivan.
His remaining eye widened. A faint hope stirred within his half-conscious mind. Driven by instinct and desperation, he stretched out his trembling arm—caught between awareness and madness. His fingers reached out… and—
"CLICK."
The world fell silent for a split second, just before the real storm began.
Dozens of micro-needles pierced his wrist, stabbing through skin, tearing muscle, and burrowing deep into his bones.
"CHHK—CHHK—CHHK—CHHK—!!"
The pain went beyond human logic. Waves of chemical compounds—synthetic stimulants, pure adrenaline, and the latest generation of military-grade pain suppressors—flooded his bloodstream. His blood boiled. His vision burned.
"HAAAAHHHH!!!!"
Kaivan's roar tore through the fog, shaking the mountains. Snow exploded into the air. The ground trembled. His skin darkened, veins rising like glowing red rivers. His body convulsed, heating up like a war machine coming to life.
He crashed onto the frozen ground, groaning and growling. Clots of blood froze around his lips. Yet his hand still clawed at the snow, pressing the icy surface against his shattered leg, trying to stop the bleeding. His other arm—already severed—was pressed into the snow as well, as if hoping for a miracle.
Across the devastated battlefield, a familiar voice called out to him.
"KAIVAN!!!"
It was Lyra.
He could no longer see clearly, but her sensors still caught his shape and voice. Lyra lay broken—her chest and shoulders still functioning, but her lower body had been destroyed. Cables and pipes protruded from her waist, surrounded by hissing Ya'juj-Ma'juj like metal demons.
"KAIVAN! PLEASE! DON'T… DIE!!"
Lyra's green eyes flickered unstably—a sign of severe core damage. Behind those cold lenses, there was now pain. There was loss that no algorithm could translate. She cried without tears.
Kaivan did not answer. Instead, without realizing it, he began to murmur:
"We… who rise from collapse. We are worldly artifacts, stealing all knowledge of dominion from every relic. We laugh at wisdom, yet tremble before tomorrow.
I will become the Omniruler— the ruler of all knowledge in this world. I will sink you into a perfect grave."
He drew in a deep breath. His torn lungs screamed, yet his body no longer recognized the limits of pain. Only one leg remained intact. His posture was twisted and broken—the silhouette of a demon born from war.
But his aura… had changed.
He was no longer Kaivan, the awkward, timid boy. The figure standing amid snow and fire was now pure will itself—born from ruin and an unbreakable resolve.
The Ya'juj and Ma'juj who had surrounded Lyra slowly turned their heads. Their instincts sensed a greater threat. With metallic growls, they moved at once—not out of bloodlust, but out of fear.
Kaivan raised his right hand. The large bracelet on his wrist glowed in bluish-violet light, pulsing like an artificial heart. A mechanical sound echoed.
"CHHT!"
Dozens of small spheres, each the size of a marble, emerged and floated perfectly around his body.
"You… will be erased," he whispered.
It was not a shout.
It was a verdict.
In the next instant, the spheres shot forward like arrows from hell. Their sound was not an explosion, but a sharp whistle—the cry of freed spirits.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"