CHAPTER 216: CHAPTER 217: FUN TIMES

Crack...

Crack...

CRAAAAACK.

The sky didn’t just tremble.

It fractured.

Like reality itself was screaming under the weight of something it was never meant to hold.

Something divine.

No—something beyond divine.

On the Ground, where the aether thinned and the threads of existence wove tighter, a presence beloud—not like a exploding star or a god returning to the world—but like the concept of power itself had taken form.

And spoke.

...Law? Used by a mortal... cute...

The voice wasn’t heard through ears. It was felt in bones, blood, and the silence between heartbeats. Like the first noise after death. Like the whisper that comes before creation.

...Interesting trick, child... but you die the same.

It wasn’t disdain.

It wasn’t even cruelty.

It was apathy.

Apathy so absolute it transcended insult. Like a black hole ignoring a scream.

Ouserous didn’t even turn to Aurora. His gaze remained fixed on some distant point beyond the mortal veil—as if he was only half-present, and even that was an act of supreme indulgence.

Then—

...Later.

He flicked his fingers.

Not a punch. Not a blast.

A gesture.

And hell followed.

Aurora didn’t react.

Her instincts did.

Sixty-nine defensive spells roared to life in less than a blink. Not cast—triggered. Pre-loaded contingencies woven into her mana years ago. Ice that devoured fire. Gravity folds that reversed force. Spatial distortion shields layered like dragonhide. Even a temporal fracture shell that split cause from effect.

Too slow.

Crack.

Crackcrackcrack.

CRACK.

Every defense shattered like they were made of glass. Not broken. Not outplayed.

Erased.

Then—

Impact.

The air vanished.

Aurora ceased to exist in her place. Her body became a blur—a meteor trailing blood and broken pride. She hit stone, then dirt, then the splintered husk of a forest that no longer recognized her. Her ribcage screamed. Her spine writhed. Her vision collapsed.

She vomited.

Blood.

Thick. Metallic. Humiliating.

She was a High Mage, forged in the pits of hell, tempered by loss, crowned by solitude. And yet—

She bled.

Her fingers twitched.

"...Master..."

It wasn’t a plea. It was a curse. A prayer twisted into regret. Not for losing.

For being nothing.

But that pain—that humiliation—didn’t break her.

It resurrected her.

She stood. Shaking. Broken. Yet—upright.

Her eyes burned. Her lungs wept.

She remembered the pebble. The one she whispered to as a child, begging it to float. Her first spell.

Her first failure.

Her first promise.

"...Strand of earth..." she rasped, every word vibrating the ground. "...Listen to my tongue... grant me the force you pull us with..."

Gravity answered.

But not like before.

The wind bent around her. The air screamed. Her body lifted—not gently, not smoothly—but like a planet being ripped from orbit.

She rose, aflame in will.

And from her side, wind spells ignited, snapping open like golden wings. Her barrier sharpened into a spear. Pure force honed to a needlepoint.

Then—

BANG.

She fired herself through the sky like a divine bullet, aimed not at a god—

But at a thorn.

Faraway, Loki cradled the old man in rings of white flame. Calm.

Until the air changed.

Thunder didn’t just roll.

It descended.

It didn’t come from the sky.

It came from above the sky.

Where there should be nothing.

There, thunder answered ..

Not a sound.

Not a storm.

A being.

A being made of sky-rending pressure, of primordial weight, of divine inevitability.

Thunder landed—not gently, not in descent—but in arrival. The air collapsed around him. The clouds above recoiled like a beast caught blinking. The mountain beneath their feet trembled, veins of glowing white fire splitting through the rock like cracks in a mirror.

And there he stood.

Ouserous.

Where once there was space, now there was only presence. He didn’t appear from somewhere. He became here. Instantly. Like thought. Like wrath.

His hand moved with no warning. No tension. No telegraph.

And yet—

He had Loki by the throat.

Effortless. Disrespectful.

The white flame that had licked at Loki’s shoulders twisted and hissed as Ouserous’s fingers clamped down. Not just on the neck.

But on the lineage. The soul. The myth of Loki.

Ouserous tilted his head, expression unchanging—somewhere between bored and curious, as if examining a lesser beast trying to mimic strength.

...Mmm. I smell it.

He leaned in, inhaling like a wolf nosing a dying deer.

...Divinity... ten percent... maybe eleven. A bastard, then. Not born in the high plane. No true throne. Just... borrowed flame. Half-blood. .....

His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t need to.

Every syllable made the sky darker.

...I’ll consider mercy, half-blood. If you respectfully hand over the old man.

A pause. Then, softly, cruelly— ...I pity you fuckers. Always reaching for crowns that don’t belong to you.

The insult didn’t land.

Because Loki didn’t flinch.

He looked at him.

And he spoke.

"...Pity..."

It wasn’t a question.

It was a repetition. Like the word was being weighed. Dissected.

"...Pity me?"

Loki’s hand latched onto his cloak and transformed.

He grew.

Not just taller. Truer.

His flame turned white. Then gold. Then ultraviolet. His body became a silhouette made of solar flares. His voice no longer mortal, but carved from the roar of creation itself.

{{{Pity... me?}}}

The sky dimmed just from the question.

Ouserous blinked once.

...Oh. You... I’ve heard of you. The bastard son of the Vanished Flame. The one they caged.....

He laughed.

...I like bastards..... You try harder.

BANG.

Aurora’s spear connected.

The world lurched.

The sound wasn’t like thunder. It was like a continent screaming.

A thousand tons of compressed magic—enough to tear warships in half—slammed into Ouserous’ side.

He moved.

An inch. Maybe two.

And smiled.

...Mmm. Good. Good effort.

Aurora didn’t fall.

She rose further.

Blood ran from her eyes now. Her arms trembled from spell-burn. But she raised them anyway.

Dozens of rings ignited.

Then hundreds.

Languages long dead. Spells written in the void between stars. Structures so unstable they should have collapsed.

She cast them all at once.

Her body broke.

But her will didn’t.

Ouserous watched. Curious.

Then—

TEN bolts of lightning rained from above.

Not beside him.

On him.

Direct strikes.

Judgment incarnate.

He absorbed them.

Then flicked his fingers.

Redirected them.

Toward Aurora.

Toward Loki.

Like a god conducting his own apocalypse.

And then the sky beloud....

Aurora’s runes fired. Every spell in her arsenal—and then some. Ice that froze light. Flame that devoured sound. Black holes straining against containment.

Loki’s voice rose above it all.

And behind him—

A sun appeared.

Not fire.

A sun.

Glowing. Writhing. Screaming.

Five times his size.

He swung it like a warhammer at him, at his lightning.

BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!