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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -
- May 6, 1937 | Continuation -
In the stillness of his thoughts, Aryan stood—body unmoving but mind alive, deep in conversation with the system. The hum of mental calculations and strategic contemplations echoed silently in his head. But that fragile quiet shattered in an instant.
A quake surged through the ground as the battlefield screamed back to life. Dust and debris shot skyward, and a thunderous roar erupted from deep below. Aryan's eyes flicked up—not startled, but focused.
'They did it', he realized, watching with calm intensity as the earth buckled and collapsed into itself.
His shadow clones, relentless and coordinated, had succeeded. The twisted parasitic tree—the one that had anchored the Deviant's growth—had finally crumbled. Explosive strikes had torn through every limb, root, and node. All the corruption it fed upon had turned to ash. A massive crater yawned open where once stood the grotesque monument, plunging deep into the earth's crust like a gaping wound.
And yet... Aryan's expression tightened. It's not over.
At the deepest point of the crater, beneath layers of charred roots and shattered soil, a blinding pulse of light flared—sickly and golden. The Core had somehow survived.
No longer hidden within the tree's cocoon, the Core had sensed the danger and made its move. Aryan felt it—like a sharp pang in his chest. 'It woke up', he thought grimly.
The creature' had broken free in desperation, halting its evolution midway. Its rebirth was incomplete, but enough.
There was a sudden burst of raw, furious energy. Roots that had once shielded it now exploded outward as the being tore itself loose. Dust clouds rose, and from within them, a shadow rose—growing and growing until it stood nearly twenty feet tall.
The Deviant had changed.
Its body still held humanoid features—elongated limbs, a cruelly expressive face, and dark flesh streaked with glowing veins—but it now radiated divine malice. Its eyes, once blank, now burned with focused rage. The interrupted evolution had left it in agony, and the first thing it saw—the first target of its hate—were Aryan's shadow clones.
With a bellow that cracked the air, it released a wave of pressure—pure will turned into force. Several clones near the blast were obliterated instantly, their forms collapsing like broken glass. The survivors retreated quickly, reforming in the sky and on the crater walls, their expressions grim.
And then the counterattack began.
From every direction, they came—dozens of Aryans, each wielding a different form of power. Elements ignited the sky in chaotic beauty. Waves of fire hotter than the sun. Lances of ice that tore through steel. Bolts of lightning that danced with gravity. Some hurled miniature singularities—black holes that bent space. Others wielded Void energy, annihilating everything they touched.
A few turned to the Eternal Flames. The blue-white flame surged like a living dragon. Constructs of light and dark interwove like a tapestry of destruction. Some even used Power Cosmic to manipulate reality itself—blinking between dimensions, warping space, strengthening allies.
It was a full-scale war, a symphony of destruction. Every shadow clone worked in tandem, coordinated and evolving with each strike.
The Deviant didn't take It passively. Even wounded, even half-evolved, it was a Tier 6 threat—mid-tier in the cosmic scale. It parried attacks with thickened armor of bone and energy. It swatted clones from the sky. It roared, sending shockwaves that disrupted coordinated strikes. Sometimes it staggered. Other times, it adapted. The battle raged without pause.
And high above, watching everything, Aryan floated silently.
His gaze never wavered. His senses drank in every detail—the way the Deviant's new body moved, the flickers of instability in its core, the strain in its counterattacks. His analytical mind was already breaking it down.
'Tier 6, mid-range', he analyzed. 'And this is him incomplete. If I had allowed the evolution to finish... he might've touched the edge of Tier 7. Celestial-class'.
A heavy breath. No. That can't happen.
He looked down at the blade in his hand.
The legendary sword—the one from the Nasuverse, now real in his grasp. He had purchased it in sealed state from the system store, some time ago, saving Meta Points for more immediate needs. Even sealed, it had served him well. But he had always known—deep down—what lay within.
The sword of promised victory.
His fingers tightened around the hilt. Golden energy pulsed along the blade, faint for now. Aryan's expression turned thoughtful.
He didn't want to waste Meta Points unless necessary. He had enough to max out his abilities temporarily, to finish the fight in one glorious strike. But...
No. Let me try this first.
He spoke to the Forge silently:
"System. Unseal Excalibur. Unlock its true potential. Deduct the cost."
| Acknowledged. Deducting 500 MPs. Unsealing Excalibur... now. |
The sword in his hand suddenly burned with radiance. Light poured from it—pure, golden, sacred. The runes along the blade ignited like stars, and the air shimmered around him with divine pressure.
The true Excalibur had awakened.
Aryan slowly raised the blade, and the sky itself responded. Clouds parted. Wind surged. Even the clones paused, instinctively sensing what was coming.
The Deviant looked up, eyes narrowing. Even in its rage, it recognized the danger.
Aryan stood suspended in the sky, the true Excalibur now awakened in his hand. The golden light it radiated felt alive, not just energy but purpose. The storm clouds overhead seemed to hesitate, as if even nature waited to see what came next.
He looked down at the blade, and for the first time, truly felt it.
This was no ordinary weapon. Not even just a powerful tool from another world.
This was a Divine Construct.
A sword forged by the Great spirits and the planet itself—by the collective dreams, prayers, and hopes of mankind. A crystallization of humanity's wish to fight back against extinction. He remembered the legends from the Nasuverse, how Excalibur had once torn down Safar the White Titan, a being from beyond Earth's laws.
This enemy—this half-born god—was not so different. A Deviant, mutated and twisted beyond form, shaped by cosmic interference. It had no place in this world. It did not belong here.
It was the kind of threat Excalibur was made to defeat.
But that didn't mean Aryan could use it fully. Not yet. The sword despite being created by his system for him, didn't fully accept him as its owner. He had to change that.
And then, he reached deep.
He summoned every ounce of Conqueror's Haki, letting it erupt from him—not in rage, but in will. A roar in silence, a pressure that distorted air itself. His spirit pushed into the blade, declaring who he was. Not just a warrior. Not just a mage. But someone who would never kneel to fate.
"I am Aryan Rajvanshi," he said quietly, voice steady. "And I will protect this world."
Then, he began to pour his energy into it.
It started slow—his vast reservoirs of internal energy flowing like a stream into the sword. But the Construct drank it hungrily. It wasn't just accepting it. It was testing him.
And Aryan did not flinch.
He fed it more—Energy from his very soul. He let the Energy Dominion ability flow free, syncing with the sword's essence. Energy Absorption and Redistribution allowed him to control the surging feedback, preventing it from consuming him whole. The sword screamed in resonance—its core straining, expanding, adapting.
His aura rippled—gold burning with hints of black.
Then suddenly—a shift.
Like a tumbling lock falling into place.
Aryan's eyes snapped open.
Excalibur responded—not by rejecting his power, but by changing.
The divine light flickered once, then deepened. The blade, once golden and pure, began to shimmer with a dark edge. Shadows wrapped around its form, but did not snuff out the glow—they merged. Black and gold swirled along the metal like living flame. The sword now bore a new hue, a symbol of something newly born.
His Void Human traits had been assimilated with the sword.
Excalibur, once the weapon of stars, had become something more.
Aryan floated there, sword pulsing with dual light—humanity's brightest hope bound with the infinite silence of the void.
This was no longer just the Sword of Promised Victory.
This was Excalibur: Voidborne Hope.
The perfect answer to a god that should never have been born.
Below, the Deviant roared again—its incomplete body tearing reality at the seams, swatting away clones like insects. It raised a hand, gathering power enough to rend mountains.
But Aryan was already in motion.
"Let's see," he murmured, "if your madness can stand against the hope of this world."
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