Without a word, Sylvathar vanished.
The very fabric of air where he once hovered trembled, then ruptured with a concussive burst as the demon lord blitzed toward Galen like a living projectile. His body shimmered with layered emerald earthen plating, jagged like obsidian-coated armor, pulsing with internal veins of molten gold. With a flick of his fingers, massive stone spires burst from the ground below—towering pillars spiraling upward, chasing Galen like teeth from the world itself.
But Galen had already shifted.
He vanished in a whisper of red light, appearing midair with one leg extended, spinning into a brutal ax kick aimed at Sylvathar's shoulder. The strike landed—but Sylvathar crossed his arms in an X-guard, the impact splitting the sound barrier with a crack that shattered nearby floating stones into powder.
Galen somersaulted backward in midair, planting his feet on one of the ascending spires. His red eyes glowed brighter now.
Sylvathar grinned darkly.
"You are quite adaptable. Let's see how well you can handle this?"
With a snarl, he opened both palms, and the entire mountain range beneath them rumbled violently. Thick roots of ancient stone erupted from the ground like serpents—some slamming toward Galen from behind, others curving midair like bladed whips of earth.
Galen ducked and weaved through the chaos, his body moving like flowing smoke. He leapt from spire to spire, tapping his heels with perfect balance, each step calculated down to the inch. One stone whip grazed his cheek, slicing it open with a faint hiss—but Galen twisted his body, caught another whip with his hand mid-swing, and spun around it like a gymnast on a pole, launching himself toward Sylvathar.
Midair, Galen's fists ignited with a crimson pulse of myst.
He collided with Sylvathar in a flurry—punches, elbows, knees delivered at breakneck speed. Each strike echoed like thunder, each block from Sylvathar sending seismic ripples through the air. But Sylvathar had changed—his body was now covered in a dense layer of hardened earth, and each of Galen's blows cracked it only slightly. The demon king retaliated with monstrous swings of his stone-clad fists, each one large enough to crush boulders.
One caught Galen across the chest—but only enough to stagger him midair. Galen recovered instantly, twisting into a counter-spinning roundhouse kick. It landed against Sylvathar's temple, sending him reeling sideways into the sky. Yet even as he flew, Sylvathar summoned stone platforms beneath his feet, bouncing off them in sharp angles like a pinball of destruction.
Galen's eyes widened slightly. "Tch."
Sylvathar surged forward and slammed both fists downward. A colossal arm of stone exploded from the heavens above—descending like a meteor. Galen raised one palm, and a red barrier flared to life, absorbing the brunt of the arm's weight. The sky screamed as the impact scattered clouds like ink in water.
Galen shattered the arm with a punch and blitzed forward, reappearing just above Sylvathar, fists drawn back—
But then it happened.
Sylvathar gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into his own chest. Instantly, the emerald veins across his body pulsed like magma, and a rune—ancient and jagged—glowed on his spine. From the center of his back, a ring of stone shards spun into orbit like a halo, all humming with force.
He whipped his body forward.
One of the orbiting stone shards launched toward Galen, moving like a bolt of light and trailing seismic energy. Galen barely had time to react—it collided with his left shoulder and exploded in a sphere of gravitational force.
A shockwave burst outward in a violent dome, flattening entire mountains below and kicking up a wall of dust that swallowed the landscape. Galen's body flew like a missile, tearing through a dozen spires and carving a deep ravine into the earth before finally crashing into a distant cliff, buried beneath rubble and silence.
The battlefield stood still for a moment.
Sylvathar hovered, panting slightly, his aura still flaring like a storm of earthbound chaos. He watched patiently.
Then the rubble moved.
Galen rose from the crater, slowly, brushing powdered rock from his shoulder. His coat—torn and dirtied—fluttered slightly as he peeled it off and tossed it aside. His crimson gaze remained locked on Sylvathar, expression unreadable.
With a slow breath, he rolled up his sleeves in a methodical motion until they rested just beneath his elbows.
Then he flexed his fingers, and cracked his index finger with his thumb.
"…You shouldn't have done that," Galen muttered. His voice was calm—but beneath it, a low fury trembled like coiled thunder.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
"I'm gonna kill you."
The moment Galen spoke those words, the very air bent around him.
A low hum built at his feet—subtle at first, like a rising tide—then erupted into a violent red vortex of myst that spiraled upward with a banshee's scream. The sky darkened as if recoiling from the sheer pressure emanating off him. Even Sylvathar, floating high above, narrowed his eyes—not in fear, but in wariness. Something had shifted.
This wasn't the same human.
This was something else.
Galen stepped forward—and vanished.
A sonic boom cracked the world below as he reappeared inches in front of Sylvathar, fist cocked back, glowing like a miniature star. Before the demon lord could react, the punch connected with his gut. The blow was deafening. It didn't just send Sylvathar flying—it folded him. His body bent around the impact like a ragdoll slammed into a steel wall. In the next heartbeat, he was hurled backward, ripping through several floating stone platforms, each one shattering into dust and shards as his form crashed through them like a meteor.
But Galen wasn't done.
Before Sylvathar could regain control, Galen appeared above him, both palms open, myst coiling like twin serpents around his arms. He thrust them forward—and a beam of condensed crimson energy exploded from his hands, slamming Sylvathar downward like a wrathful god casting judgment. The beam tore through the sky and slammed into the ground below, punching a hole miles wide into the earth, swallowing entire cliffs in a blinding red inferno.
The impact rattled the atmosphere. The light alone was enough to burn silhouettes into stone.
A smoking crater stretched far across the battlefield, still glowing with residual heat. The ground had been glassed. Entire mountain ridges had been leveled, reduced to ash and rubble. And at the center of it all, Sylvathar lay half-buried—his obsidian armor cracked, molten veins flickering erratically, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Then laughed—low and raspy.
"You're… stronger than I imagined," he coughed, dragging himself to one knee. "But… I'm not finished."
He slammed his hand to the ground.
The tremor was immediate.
From the deepest layer of bedrock, ancient symbols began to glow—huge runes etched into the land long before civilization. They awakened now, feeding him, answering his call. A pillar of emerald light erupted beneath him, bathing his body in raw myst. His shattered armor knit itself back together with living stone. His molten veins reignited like a forge brought to life.
From his back, massive wings of crystalline earth burst forth—razor-edged and glowing with power. His eyes burned like twin suns now. The air distorted around him, and gravity itself twisted, pulling stones and debris into orbit around his aura.
"I command the earth beneath heaven, the roots beneath the gods," Sylvathar growled. "You will kneel, mortal."
Instead, Galen simply clenched his right fist.
A deep, fiery pulse surged from his core—his myst flaring brighter than it had the entire battle. Crimson light burst from his forearm, spiraling upward in arcs of liquid fire. It swirled, gathered, then ignited into a weapon. From his clenched hand, a flameblade erupted into existence, born of pure myst and flames.
Galen raised the living weapon, flames crackling along his arm, and pointed it straight at Sylvathar.
"…Let's stop talking," he said.
And then they both vanished.