The earth quaked with terrifying ferocity, an unrelenting cataclysm that sent the world itself into a state of upheaval. Grimm stood firm, his sabatons rooted against the ruined ashen ground, the tremors reverberating through the soles of his feet like the dying cries of a world being torn asunder. The land convulsed with a force far greater than any of the devastation that had come before it—mountains crumbled as if they were nothing more than brittle stacks of stone, fissures split open with a living hunger, and the abyss yawned wider, devouring all within reach.
The quake was more than a mere aftershock; it was an event of pure annihilation, a tremor so violent it felt as if the very Gods of this realm had cast their wrath upon it.
And yet, for all the destruction it wrought, Grimm did not so much as flinch.
("What kind of freaks are responsible for this nonsense?") Grimm scoffed internally, his patience wearing thin. His crimson hair swayed beneath his helm, though his expression remained unseen behind the shadowed visor. Even so, irritation bled through in his stance, the shift of his gauntleted fingers betraying his growing annoyance. ("Tch. This is quite irksome. At this rate, this planet probably won't last much longer.")
The tremors gradually subsided, the earth heaving one last groan before finally stilling. He turned his attention back to his opponents, a leisure hand resting against his hip, his gauntlets clinking softly against the plated armor that encased his frame.
"M-my, how rude of you to ignore us."
The voice was laced with amusement, dripping with a saccharine playfulness that barely concealed the malice beneath it.
Grimm's attention fully returned to the duo before him. Lilith and Reylthorn. He recalled their names from the moment the contestants had been introduced—siblings bound by the God of Space and Time. Of all the contestants present, they were among the most dangerous, wielding dominion over time and space.
And yet, as he looked at them now, they appeared anything but dangerous.
Lilith stood with a composed smile despite the horrific state of her body. Her entire right arm was missing, severed just below the shoulder, with tattered flesh and bone protruding from the stump. Deep, jagged gashes marred her once-pristine dress, her porcelain skin now streaked with crimson, blood dripping onto the ruined earth below. And yet, her expression was eerily calm, unfazed—as if pain was merely a trivial inconvenience.
Beside her, Reylthorn fared no better. The young boy knelt on the ground, clutching his mangled shoulder, blood soaking through his once-elegant attire. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, sweat clinging to his forehead. Unlike his sister, he did not wear a smile. Instead, his face was twisted in frustration, his blue eyes narrowed as he glared up at the imposing figure of General Grimm.
And then—the air shifted.
Before Grimm's very eyes, something unnatural began to unfold.
Bone rapidly sprouted from Lilith's stump, growing outward in an eerily smooth motion, followed by veins, sinew, and muscle, weaving themselves together in a disgusting display of regeneration. Flesh formed over the limb, pale and unblemished, and in the next instant, even the sleeve of her dress restored itself—as if the injury had never existed. Reylthorn's body followed suit, the wounds closing up with an effortless ease, his torn garments mending themselves in unison.
Grimm's fingers curled slightly, his mind already analyzing the scene. Regeneration tied to time itself, or an absolute reversal of causality? Either way, they were more trouble than they appeared.
Reylthorn exhaled shakily, his voice low with disbelief. "What... what the hell is with this guy?"
Grimm tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze unreadable behind the narrow slit of his visor.
"What? Did you expect I'd hold back simply because I'm facing a brat and a woman?" His voice was sharp, edged with a scorn that dug deep. "I have fought in countless wars, boy. Women, men, children, geezers—none of it matters. If you come at me with the intention to kill, I shall extend you the same courtesy."
Lilith let out a soft chuckle, tilting her head as she regarded him with amusement. "You're quite ruthless, you know? Not very enticing."
Her voice was light, almost teasing, yet beneath it lay something more… something dangerous.
"Must we really be talking about stuff like that when this bastard is trying to kill us?" Reylthorn snapped, exasperated as he stole another wary glance at Grimm. ("I just thought he was some nobody. I never even heard of him—yet we can barely even scratched him.")
Lilith's smile deepened, a glint of intrigue flickering in her eyes.
"Ah… I recall why your name sounded so familiar now." She spoke with the air of someone remembering a long-forgotten story. "Grimm… A general. A reaper of war." She let the words roll off her tongue, savoring them. "I remember visiting Zephyria once, and oh, how fearful the people were of your name… Even seasoned soldiers quivered at the mere mention of it."
Her smile widened.
"How deliciously fascinating."
Reylthorn shot her a look of pure disbelief. Was she seriously flirting with this maniac right now?
"But," she continued, her voice lilting, "even so, I've also heard whispers of your supposed benevolence toward your troops. That, however, seems rather misplaced, considering you so graciously threw your comrade into an enemy teleportation spell."
Her tone was light, but there was a thinly veiled sharpness behind it.
Then, in an instant, the amusement drained from her face.
"Still," she murmured, her voice dropping into something dark, low, and dangerous, "I do have to get my get-back, you know?"
She took a single step forward, and the air around her warped.
"I don't really care how much you harmed me," she continued, her tone deceptively soft, "but you hurt Reylthorn. And for that, I'll turn you inside-out."
Grimm exhaled through his nose.
Unbothered.
"If you're looking to intimidate me, girl, you're failing miserably," he stated flatly. Then, as if her threat was already dismissed from his mind, he shifted gears entirely.
"Whoever is directing Galadriel is quite clever."
Lilith and Reylthorn frowned in confusion.
"They divided their forces into smaller groups, forcing us into unpredictable encounters. Then, while one team kept their enemies preoccupied, another led their opponents into a battlefield where they would be at a disadvantage. It's a well-structured tactic." His gauntleted fingers flexed slightly at his side. "That is why I threw that fool into the enemy teleportation spell. They will no doubt leave two or three of their people behind to deal with her, and I have faith that she will eliminate them with ease."
Then, with a casual tilt of his head, he declared:
"As I shall do with you."
Lilith merely smiled, her blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"How cocky." Her smile widened as an electric thrill coursed through her. The very air around her vibrated with the anticipation of something immense—an unveiling of power so utterly divine that the very concept of mortality seemed to tremble before it. Her blue eyes flicked to Reylthorn, who, despite his earlier frustration, now shared in her smirk, albeit laced with quiet exhilaration.
Grimm watched in silence. He did not move. He did not react. He merely observed.
Then, the moment shattered.
Lilith and Reylthorn moved in perfect synchronicity, their voices overlapping in a resounding declaration, an invocation that shook the battlefield.
"Arcane Ascendance: Astral Sovereignty!"
The world responded immediately.
A colossal pillar of radiant light erupted from the ground beneath them, a beacon so blindingly pure that it devoured the battlefield's very essence. The ashen ruins, the charred remnants of shattered stone—all of it disappeared. The light was everything. It was the cosmos itself made manifest. It roared with an unfathomable power.
Grimm instinctively planted his feet, his cloak billowing violently behind him as he withstood the overwhelming force emanating from the two figures at the pillar's core.
And then—it happened.
The transformation was not abrupt, nor was it violent—it was a seamless, divine metamorphosis that unfolded with the grace of something otherworldly.
Within the blinding radiance, Lilith's form shifted. Her once-human silhouette became something ethereal—otherworldly. As the light began to wane, she was unveiled like a Goddess stepping forth from a veil.
Her eyes—larger now, luminous and expressive—glowed with an incandescent blue, the color more vivid than the clearest sky, deeper than the most enchanted ocean. A faint, almost pinkish hue adorned her cheeks, as if life itself pulsed through her with newfound vibrancy.
Her hair cascaded like starlight, its silk-like strands reflecting an almost iridescent glow. Resting atop her head was an elaborate headpiece, adorned with golden filigree and inlaid with resplendent light-blue gemstones that shimmered like fragments of a forgotten star. The centerpiece of her adornment pulsed gently, as though it contained the very essence of her majesty.
A necklace—no, a divine artifact—rested against her collarbone, its craftsmanship almost unfathomable in its details. Woven from what appeared to be strands of gold, it was adorned with light-blue gemstones identical to those on her headpiece, each one glistening with unfathomable mana. It did not seem to be a mere accessory; it was an extension of her very existence—a conduit of something far beyond magic.
Her attire had been wholly rewritten by the transformation. Where once was a dull dress now flowed a garment of unearthly craftsmanship—a gown seemingly woven from shimmering threads of starlight, threaded with golden accents that wove together like an endless, interlocking sigil.
Lilith's presence alone had become something divine—something that mortals were never meant to gaze upon.
And then, beside her, Reylthorn emerged.
No longer the irritated youth, his form had ascended into something unrecognizable—something transcendent.
His hair, now long and flowing, cascaded in shimmering waves of immaculate white, untouched by the imperfections of mortality. It rippled, as though moved by an unseen current.
His eyes now radiated a breathtaking light-blue glow—not merely reflecting light but emitting it, as if within them lay the essence of the sky itself.
Upon his forehead, a headpiece of unparalleled craftsmanship sat—a structure of gold, adorned with elaborate engravings and an awe-inspiring blue crystal embedded at its center. It pulsed slowly, as though breathing, resonating in perfect harmony with the cosmos that surrounded them.
His attire was nothing short of regal, a flowing, layered robe of light-white and off-white fabric billowed behind him, draped over a form that had been adorned in garments of unmistakable authority. Beneath the robe, an exquisite breastplate-jacket hybrid clung to his form, embellished with golden patterns and sigils.
The layers of fabric that composed his ensemble carried a subtle presence of deep blue, most visible upon the cuffs of his sleeves and the underlayer of the cape-like portions of his robes. Each detail—each stitch—was woven with such unparalleled detail that it became impossible to discern where fabric ended and magic began.
And then—silence.
The battlefield, once alive with tremors, winds, and destruction, had stilled.
There was nothing. No movement. No sound. Only the weight of their transformation.
Grimm remained unmoving.
And then—
Lilith blinked.
Her larger, glowing blue eyes narrowed slightly, her smile returning, but this time—it was different.
"Do you wish to know something interesting?" Lilith spoke, her voice resonating through the battlefield. "It might not be common knowledge for someone of Vel'ryr who doesn't even worship the Gods properly, but the Gods themselves rarely made use of magic. They govern over concepts, concepts they hold power over. They have no need for magic. Barring of course Octavia."
Grimm remained silent.
"For Inheritors, we use magic to imitate the true power of our Gods," she continued, an ethereal smirk playing at her lips. "But among us, there are few who can make use of our Gods' true power."
"!?"
Grimm's body, honed through countless scenes of violence and tempered by an unshakable sense of battle, tensed. His instincts—so sharp they bordered on precognition—flared violently as an alien force bled into the air around him. It was not magic. It was something else. Something vast. Something unrecognizable.
His crimson hair, streaked with flecks of ash, lifted ever so slightly as the battlefield itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of what was coming. It was as though reality itself were recoiling, twisting in unnatural ways around the newly ascended beings before him. Something was building. Something vast. Something formless—yet undeniably potent.
And then—
Lilith moved.
A single, effortless gesture—her delicate, glowing fingers raised ever so slightly—
And the world collapsed upon Grimm.
An invisible force, colossal in its magnitude, slammed into him with the might of a descending world.
The impact was instantaneous. Unrelenting. Monstrous.
A soundless boom tore through the battlefield, not an explosion, but an impossible pressure—a crushing force that did not burn, did not slice, did not pierce—it simply consumed.
The earth beneath Grimm died in an instant.
Not shattered. Not cracked. Not split apart. Erased.
Everything within a mile radius simply ceased to exist, compressed into an invisible singularity of pressure before violently detonating outward.
Grimm's frame was launched like a meteor, a streak of black and crimson ripping across the landscape at impossible speeds.
The sheer force of his ejection caused the very air to scream—a sonic boom of such immense ferocity that entire mountainous formations in the far distance buckled under the pressure, their structures sheared clean in half as though sliced by an unseen hand.
Grimm's flight was not graceful.
His body became a bludgeoning weapon against the land itself, careening through vast expanses of terrain—
The impact struck an unfathomably large plateau, a natural fortress of stone.
It did not stand anymore.
The moment Grimm's body touched its surface, a shockwave erupted outward, turning the massive structure into a cascading avalanche of debris, dust, and stone. The once-proud plateau ceased to exist, its remains scattered as mere dust in the wind.
But Grimm did not stop.
His momentum carried him further—miles upon miles, his body carving a ruinous scar through the world itself.
Until—
Impact.
Grimm finally met the earth, his body carving an abyssal trench that stretched for leagues, a wound in the world that bled molten fire and blackened smoke.
And yet—
He was unharmed.
Grimm exhaled slowly, lying at the bottom of his newly carved ruin, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.
Silence.
Dust billowed into the sky, a thick, suffocating fog of destruction that stretched far beyond the horizon. The air crackled with residual energy, torn asunder by forces beyond comprehension.
And yet—
Grimm simply laid there.
One hand resting against his chest, the other draped lazily over his armored stomach. His legs were casually crossed, a posture that betrayed nothing of the devastation he had just endured.
A long, exasperated sigh escaped his lips.
"Well…" He drawled, his voice carrying unwavering nonchalance, as though he had merely been tossed onto a particularly inconvenient bed of stones. "My hairs all dirty now. What a pain."
Then—
A flash.
Not light. Not heat.
A shift.
High above—Reylthorn.
He had not arrived—he had always been there. A correction of perception rather than movement. A mere acknowledgment of his existence from one moment to the next.
He loomed high in the sky, his radiant form a beacon, his light-blue eyes piercing through the ruin below. His robes billowed without wind.
The world trembled.
Grimm felt it this time.
A weight.
A pressure.
One that did not crush, did not burn, did not wound. It simply demanded his presence elsewhere.
Another force slammed into him.
There was no impact. No forceful collision of matter.
He was simply removed from where he lay.
The earth beneath him shattered violently, imploding under the unfathomable pressure of the unseen force.
A new shockwave ripped through the already devastated land, turning the ruined trench into an ocean of molten rock and splintered debris. The very atmosphere trembled, skyward winds spiraling uncontrollably as reality bent under the sheer magnitude of the force unleashed.
And Grimm?
He was once again hurled across miles of land, a streak of crimson and steel streaking across the heavens like a cursed comet.
This time, he crashed into the remains of a mountain range, his body carving a path of destruction that sent entire peaks crumbling into nothingness.
For a moment, all was still.
The landscape was left unrecognizable.
Geological formations that had stood the test of millennia had been reduced to mere ruins in mere seconds.
But then—
Amidst the devastation—
Grimm stood.
Not slowly. Not cautiously.
Casually.
He rose to his feet with the same unbothered ease as a man stretching after an afternoon nap.
The dust settled. The silence returned.
He let out another long exhale, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an inconvenience rather than the full-force assault of divine beings.
"Alright," he muttered, finally tilting his head upward.
His gaze locked onto Reylthorn, still floating in the heavens.
Grimm raised a single hand—flexed his fingers.
"You done playing catch with me?"
The words carried.
They cut through the air like a blade through silk, reaching Reylthorn with the clarity of a whisper spoken into his ear.
Reylthorn's expression changed.
Ever so slightly.
His radiant, blue eyes narrowed—just a fraction.
And Lilith, still hovering above, let out a soft, mirthful laugh.
It was melodic and unmistakably condescending.
"My, my," she mused, tilting her head. "You're quite the stubborn little thing, aren't you?"
Grimm exhaled through his nose.
"Brat," he muttered, his deep, gravelly voice devoid of amusement, "you could hurl me across the world a hundred more times, and I'd still be standing right here."
He rolled his neck, the audible crack of bones shifting echoing through the vast silence.
Then—he stepped forward.
And the ground beneath him split apart.
A simple movement.
And yet—the air itself buckled.
Grimm's next words came low, almost conversational.
"But that means it's my turn now."
Grimm exhaled slowly, his broad chest rising and falling with a steady, measured rhythm. His cloak, billowed in the wind. It still loosely hung from his shoulders. Then, in a single motion—he ripped it off.
The heavy fabric tore free, catching the wind like a dying banner before being cast aside, where it disintegrated into a cloud of fine dust—as though the very presence of his power had unmade it from existence.
Beneath it, his full form was laid bare.
His armor, a construct of sheer brutality, was an obsidian masterpiece laced with silver etchings and dark iron plating, each piece molded not for ornamentation, but for survival.
But it was his right hand that drew attention.
For there—an eerie, hollow resonance thrummed.
It was not magic.
It was something much more foreign.
Something entirely different.
Then—a spark.
It began small. A glimmer of dull light at his palm.
Then—it expanded.
A blade was forged in an instant, forming from nothing—not through fire, not through steel, but through will alone.
A sword.
One that did not shine—but devoured light.
It was a light grayish-white, its metal faintly luminescent but tainted by a darker, shifting hue that twisted along its surface, writhing like living shadows.
The hilt bore a floral pattern—but not one of grace.
It was entangled—a twisted wreath of thorns and curling barbs, forged not in beauty, but in twisted violence.
Near the guard, engraved lines formed a labyrinth of inscriptions, etchings that pulsed with an odd presence, neither glowing nor shifting.
Then—
He vanished.
The moment was so instantaneous, so violent, that even sound itself seemed delayed.
One moment, Grimm stood upon the shattered ruin of the battlefield.
The next—
He was before Reylthorn.
In the air.
There was no transition. No motion to track.
Only the absence of presence—and then its sudden return.
Reylthorn's blue eyes widened. His instincts screamed—too late.
Grimm's sword sang.
A single, brutal slash.
It connected.
The blade sliced through Reylthorn's chest, carving deep into his radiant form.
There was no spray of blood.
No mortal wound.
But something far worse.
His very essence was torn open.
A jagged gash of void split across his torso, and from it bled light itself—sputtering, fracturing, as though the wound had severed not just flesh, but something more fundamental.
And then—
Lilith screamed.
"REYLTHORN!"
Her voice was piercing, the sheer anguish in it like a blade of its own.
Her hands, glowing with divine radiance, rose—
And the sky collapsed.
From the palm of her hand, space itself warped inward, twisting, folding—
A miniature black hole was born.
It did not burn.
It did not explode.
It simply devoured.
The battlefield buckled violently, the very air distorted as a spiraling vortex of absolute gravity formed in an instant. Rubble, debris—even light itself—was drawn inward, vanishing into the consuming abyss.
And Grimm—
—was caught within it.
For the first time—his body shifted.
Not by his own will.
But by hers.
Lilith's face was a mask of pure, cold fury, her glowing blue eyes widened in vehement rage.
Her power was absolute.
Her will was law.
Grimm was being pulled in.
But then—
He snapped his fingers.
And the black hole ceased to exist.
Not destroyed.
Not sealed.
Not countered.
It simply was not.
One moment, it was a ravenous singularity, a force beyond even magic itself.
And the next—
Nothing.
Lilith's breath caught.
The battlefield fell silent.
Reylthorn's feet touched the ground, his form still burning with fractured light, his wound reversing, healing before the eyes of all who bore witness.
And Grimm?
He stood.
He exhaled.
A long, slow breath—one filled not with exertion, not with fatigue, but with something infinitely more infuriating.
Amusement.
Then—he spoke.
"You know…" His voice was unhurried, yet the power beneath it was undeniable. "I have to say—I expected better."
Lilith's hands clenched into fists. "Women won't find you enticing with that kind of talk, you know?"
Reylthorn remained silent, his radiant form still mending, the pain of Grimm's earlier strike evident in his narrowed, glowing blue eyes.
Grimm tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"That little trick of yours… the black hole…" He let the words linger, his tone edged with something almost casual. "Do you even understand what you just did?"
Lilith's frown hardened. "I don't need to understand. It was meant to erase you."
Grimm let out a low chuckle. "Oh? Erase me?"
Then, before they could react, he raised his right hand.
A sharp, electric crack filled the air—not magic, not energy, but something far worse.
The space above his palm distorted, folding inward, spiraling into itself with an eerie, silent reverence.
A black void emerged.
A true black hole.
Not one made of magic.
Not one conjured by divine will.
A real one.
A singularity—a mass so dense, so compact, that its gravitational pull twisted everything around it.
The battlefield screamed.
The very air was drawn inward, pulled toward the abyss he had summoned.
The loose debris, shattered stone, broken remnants of battle—all of it lifted into the air, pulled toward the consuming vortex. Even the very light bent inward, twisting, writhing, distorting around the edges of the singularity.
Reylthorn and Lilith, instinctively, planted their feet firmly, summoning their immense power to root themselves in place—the sheer force of the black hole threatening to pull them in.
Lilith's eyes widened in horrified realization.
This wasn't just some ordinary power.
This was something far beyond that.
"You seem confused," Grimm mused. "Allow me to educate you."
Lilith's hands trembled, her breathing shallow. Even Reylthorn, despite his demeanor, bore an edge of wariness in his gaze.
"A black hole," Grimm began, "is a region of space where the gravitational pull is so intense that nothing—not even light—can escape it."
His voice was steady, almost as if he were lecturing them in a classroom rather than on a battlefield.
"It is not a spell. It is not an illusion. It is not some vague construct of energy."
He turned his gaze toward Lilith.
"It is science."
Reylthorn gritted his teeth. "What are you playing at?!"
Grimm ignored his frustration.
"To form a black hole, you need an object of immense mass, compressed into an infinitely small space. This creates an event horizon—the boundary beyond which nothing can return."
The space around his summoned black hole continued to collapse inward, the sky above now twisting, bending unnaturally, the clouds contorting as their very structure was pulled apart at the atomic level.
Lilith's voice was calm, but firm. "You formed this… without magic?"
"Magic?" he echoed, his tone almost offended.
Then, he slowly raised his left hand—and with it, the black hole ceased to exist.
Not dissipated.
Not countered.
Not sealed.
It simply ceased.
A silence heavier than any sound followed.
Lilith and Reylthorn could only stare.
Then—Grimm spoke again.
"My power is not magic. It is not divine. It is not bound by mortal limitations."
He slowly turned his gaze toward them, "It is my Draconic Resonance."
Their expressions twisted into confusion.
Grimm continued, his voice low, absolute, immutable.
"My Draconic Resonance is the ability to harmonize with the fundamental forces of the universe itself."
He lifted his hand once more—and the battlefield responded.
The winds howled—not summoned, not conjured, but called.
The earth trembled—not manipulated, but obeying his very presence.
The air itself charged, as though recognizing him as its master.
"I do not wield simple fire, nor ice, nor mere winds." His fingers curled, and instantly, the very atmosphere around them shifted—the pressure intensified, the temperature plummeted and then skyrocketed in the same instant.
"I command all elements. Not just those just us mortals recognize—not just fire, water, wind, and stone. But the elements that shape reality itself."
Reylthorn and Lilith braced themselves, their power flaring violently, their feet digging into the shattered ground.
"And do you want to know how?"
His voice was calm, but his words weighed heavier than the forces he controlled.
"By commanding the very fabric of the universe."