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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -
- May 6, 1937 | Continuation -
The battlefield had turned into a storm of chaos and light.
As Aryan's Void Servants surged forward, a ripple of war erupted between the two sides. The Deviants—twisted, snarling, forty-nine strong behind their general—met the charge with all their mutated fury. But they were not prepared for what awaited them.
Karna moved like a living sunbeam, bending light around his body, creating blinding flashes and searing lances that pierced through Deviant hides. His photokinetic strikes disoriented, dazzled, and then destroyed. Every sweep of his arm left afterimages glowing in the snow—afterimages that burned.
Near him, Nalini danced through vines and roots she summoned with every step. She didn't command plants—she spoke to them. Even in the frozen wasteland, life obeyed. Thorned tendrils erupted from the ground, coiling around Deviants' limbs, dragging them down. She moved like the earth's own will, punishing invaders who had no right to exist.
Shakti hovered above the ground, radiant. Her skin shimmered with cosmic light, her eyes twin stars. With every gesture, it was like galaxies bent at her fingertips. She tore through the air, vaporizing Deviants with bolts of pure cosmic force. The very laws of physics bowed to her as she fought—a goddess of fury, light, and purpose.
Kingo moved beside her, Eternal tech glowing from bracers, chest, and boots. He fired precision blasts with practiced ease, centuries of experience evident in every shot. His movements were fluid, his confidence unshaken. He fought like a seasoned tactician, timing every strike to complement the chaos around him.
Aryan's Void Servants did the rest. Beasts of nightmare—shaped by conquest, refined by command—shredded through enemy ranks with terrifying coordination. The skeletal Vampire Queen cleaved through Deviants with eerie elegance. The wyrm uncoiled, swallowing foes whole. The horned juggernaut trampled everything in its path. Every strike, every growl, every howl shifted the battle further in Aryan's favor.
The Deviants fought with desperation. But one by one, they fell.
And above it all, two figures clashed at the edge of the storm—where silence lingered like held breath.
It was an execution in slow motion.
Varak, the first-born of the Core, towered with muscle and menace. Though his modifications were stripped, his strength hadn't faded completely. At the peak of Tier 5, he still carried monstrous power. But Aryan—mid Tier 5 and rising—was something else entirely.
Varak launched energy blasts in desperation, but Aryan's body shimmered faintly. The projectiles vanished on contact—absorbed into his skin—and a heartbeat later, he redirected them with ruthless precision. Blue flares twisted mid-air, guided by his will, striking back with amplified force.
In close quarters, Varak lunged. But Aryan was already gone.
Void Step—silent, sharp—cut space like glass. Aryan silently reappeared behind him, his movements effortless. One swing of his arm, and Excalibur appeared in his hands—a blade of legend, burning with dignity and doom. Its golden edge glinted with Armament Haki, honed through countless battles.
A thunderous crack filled the air as Varak's shoulder split open, black ichor spilling.
Varak roared, retaliated, but his attacks were read like an open book. Aryan's Observation Haki traced every twitch, every breath. He moved before Varak did, parried before the blow came.
When Varak did connect—a rare moment—he found himself striking solid defense. Aryan's Armament Haki had hardened his skin like armor, and Ultra High-Speed Regeneration healed cracks before they spread.
He moved with terrifying speed, mind accelerated beyond mortal comprehension. Each step, each decision calculated in microseconds. Thought Acceleration turned the battle into a game of chess he'd already won.
He didn't just fight—he broke Varak down.
And all the while, a deeper pressure pulsed in the air—Conqueror's Haki.
It wasn't just raw intimidation. It was domination of the soul. It pressed against Varak's spirit like gravity, smothering defiance, unraveling pride. The mighty general's mind staggered under its weight. His strikes lost clarity. His defenses faltered.
Aryan advanced, calm and relentless.
Slash—across the ribs.
Crack—across the jaw.
Stab—through the leg.
Every movement of Excalibur was final.
Varak tried to regenerate. Tried to roar. Tried to rise above it.
But Aryan gave him no space. No breath. No mercy.
"You could've been more," Aryan said coldly, his voice cutting sharper than his blade. "But you chose to serve something hollow."
He struck again—Excalibur coated with pure Will, Haki blazing, power unyielding.
Varak fell to one knee.
Blood steaming in the cold.
For the first time, the general knew defeat.
And Aryan stood before him, not as a mortal...
The snow around them was stained with shadows and blood. The battlefield had quieted, only faint echoes of distant clashes still ringing through the frozen air.
But here, in this stillness, one fight had reached its end.
Varak knelt in the snow, breath ragged, body trembling. His once-proud form now broken—scorched, sliced, and crushed. Black ichor dripped from his wounds, staining the white beneath him. His muscles twitched, as if his will hadn't quite caught up with his failure.
Aryan stood before him—calm, collected, eyes unreadable.
A moment passed. Silent. Heavy.
"Don't...you...dare...under...estimate...me....m...mortal." Varak gritted his teeth, one foot dragging back as he tried to rise again.
His body wouldn't obey. His limbs were lead. His thoughts slow.
Aryan's Conqueror's Haki pulsed again—sharp and absolute. It pressed down on Varak's spirit like the weight of mountains, shattering what little resistance remained. Varak's arms buckled. His head dropped.
He had no strength left.
Only pride—and even that was flickering out.
Aryan looked down at him. Not with hatred.
Only a quiet, resolute finality.
"You've lost," he said softly, his voice like the wind—firm, but not cruel. "And I'll show you the only mercy you've earned."
Varak blinked, barely hearing.
Aryan stepped closer. His aura flickered darkly—void energy simmering just beneath his skin. Shadows curled around him, not wild, but obedient. They didn't twist—they awaited a command.
"I won't let you crawl back," Aryan continued. "I won't give you a chance to rise again and hurt others."
Black tendrils rose around him—not like smoke, not like flame. They were cold. Silent. Absolute. They shimmered with the eerie calm of death—unnatural and pure.
This was no ordinary skill.
This was Void Arcane—a command over the primal silence between existence. Not to destroy. But to unmake.
Aryan's fingers closed slowly into a fist.
The word he spoke was not a shout.
Void energy surged forward—silent, soundless, immediate. It didn't strike Varak. It devoured him. In an instant, his body was consumed—not torn, not burned—erased. No scream. No echo. No trace. The snow beneath him melted to nothing, the air around him rippled... and then stilled.
No soul remained to be judged. No remnant to be feared. He had been unwritten—from flesh to spirit.
Aryan lowered his hand, letting the last wisps of void fade back into stillness.
A heavy breath escaped his lips. Not from exhaustion.
He looked at the empty patch of snow where his enemy once knelt.
Then he turned away—quietly, slowly.
Because it wasn't triumph he felt.
The tree was watching, and he could feel it was very angry and unpredictable. He had to disrupt it's awakening and fast, or the world could be in very dangerous position.
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