(Execution Livestream Continuation, Aegon Veyr’s POV)
Veyr watched everything unfolding around him with bated breath, his awareness stretched thin as he was forced to witness too many things at once.
The clash between Soron and Helmuth raged close enough for him to feel every violent ripple of power, the two Gods going at each other at speeds his mortal eyes could not even comprehend, while at the same time, he could also see the Cult Army advance toward him inch by inch, their formations tightening, thinning, reforming as they paid for every meter with blood.
’This... this is not good....’
The realization settled heavily in his chest as the battle dragged on, as the screams began to blur together and the number of fallen grew faster than his mind wanted to process.
’So many are dying for me....’
The thought did not come with pride.
It came with guilt.
With each passing minute, the weight of those losses pressed harder against his consciousness, until the Cult finally reached the third circle and their advance ground to a halt, Transcendent pressure slamming into them like an unyielding wall.
Veyr’s jaw clenched as he watched Cult soldiers fall by the thousands every passing second, their bodies torn apart under violent techniques meant to slay beasts and not humans.
’What are you doing, you stupid idiots?’
His hands trembled slightly.
’You don’t need to sacrifice this many lives just to save one man.’
The thought burned.
’Turn away.
Leave.
Leave while you still can.’
He swallowed hard.
’It’s enough for me to know that you came.’
The words echoed inside him as his gaze finally wavered, unable to endure the sight any longer, as he turned away from the battlefield with a sharp breath, his chest tight with helpless frustration and shame.
And then—
Something shifted.
The pressure changed.
The air itself felt different.
As the sound of the battlefield altered its rhythm.
*Murmurs*
*Scattered chatter*
The deafening sound of clashing steel and detonating techniques began to fade, not because the war had ended, but because something far heavier had entered it, replacing chaos with a suffocating stillness that spread unnaturally fast.
Confused, Veyr turned back.
His eyes widened.
There, descending from the sky like an inevitable force, was a figure he knew better than anyone else.
’...Leo?’
The name surfaced instinctively, barely formed, as his breath hitched.
From this distance, he could only see his brother’s silhouette, the way he stood unmoving at the center of the battlefield, the way tens of thousands bent before him without resistance, yet even from afar, the sight was unmistakable.
Aegon Veyr felt something inside his chest crack.
A dam he had been holding back for far too long.
His vision blurred slightly as a tear threatened to escape, his throat tightening as emotions he had buried beneath resolve and endurance surged forward all at once.
Relief.
Fear.
Guilt.
And above all—
Hope.
’You had warned me a million times to not roam the wider universe alone.
You had begged me to join you inside the Time Stilled World.
And yet, me being the fool that I am, never heeded your advice.....
It’s my fault that thousands are dying here each second, and still, even after everything I did wrong....
You still came, Cuz.’
Veyr thought gratefully, as at this moment he could even begin to convey the feeling of gratitude that he felt towards Leo.
As although he was an orphan who had no family, at this moment he realized what true blood bonds were supposed to be like.
—-------------
(Meanwhile Mauriss)
Veyr was not the only one keeping a close watch on the developments unfolding both within and beyond the heart of the Chakravyuh, as the Deceiver observed them just as intently.
Tracking the Cult Army’s movements with meticulous focus, the Deceiver let out an unrestrained yelp of surprise and delight the moment Leo entered the fray.
*Shine*
*Gold Threads*
In that instant, a dozen luminous golden threads burst forth from Leo’s body, stretching outward across the battlefield as they connected him to Mauriss, Kaelith, Helmuth, and Soron alike.
It was as though fate itself had tightened its grip, placing a mere mortal at the center of converging destinies, where the outcome of a single battle could decide the fates of cosmic beings.
"Interesting.... How very, very interesting...."
Mauriss mused, as by now Leo Skyshard had carved a permanent impression into his mind, one that quietly elevated the mortal’s status from a disposable variable to something far more valuable, far more dangerous, as the Deceiver’s pupils dilated with naked fascination while he leaned forward slightly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch the unfolding moment himself.
*Lick*
Slowly, indulgently, Mauriss raised one hand and ran his tongue along his fingers, savoring the sensation as if the taste of destiny itself lingered there, his grin widening into something unhinged and unapologetic as laughter bubbled just beneath the surface of his breath.
"A mortal who bends the flow of destiny without realizing it," he murmured, voice low with delight. "A blade sharp enough to cut into fate, yet unaware of whose throats it’s brushing against."
His gaze flicked toward the golden threads linking Leo to beings who had shaped ages with their whims, and the sight made his shoulders shake faintly with restrained mirth, as though the universe had just offered him a rare joke meant only for his eyes.
"How long has it been," Mauriss continued softly, "since a single soul carried the potential to tip the scales so cleanly?"
He licked his fingers again, slower this time, savoring the anticipation rather than the act, as his thoughts spiraled outward, racing through branching possibilities that split and rejoined like fractured mirrors, each one reflecting a future soaked in either ruin or triumph.
"Chaos," he whispered, tasting the word. "Glorious, inconvenient chaos."
Would Leo shatter the battlefield and drag the Gods into an outcome none of them had prepared for, or would he unknowingly open a door that allowed fortune to flow toward those clever enough to seize it first?
Mauriss wondered, as his smile sharpened at the thought that either result would be exquisite in its own way.
"Doom or fortune," he hummed, eyes gleaming. "It hardly matters."
Because for the first time in a very long while, the Deceiver was not watching a rehearsed tragedy unfold.
He was watching improvisation.
And that, more than anything else, made him delighted to see what was to come next.