[Space]
"Not satisfied yet, hm?"
Mikoto spoke—his voice a sound both loud and distant.
The manifestations of his Tribulations were gone—dismissed, wiped away with a mere thought. The radiance they once exuded had faded, leaving only the abyss of space and the two who remained.
Mikoto stood untouched.
His white-gold armor remained pristine, not a single crack, not a single wound, not even the faintest disruption in his composure.
Selwyn could not say the same.
His jagged black armor was ruined—chipped, shattered, cracked beyond recognition. What had once been a nigh-impervious carapace was now a fractured, bleeding ruin. Great chunks were missing—torn away by the fury of the Tribulation.
His monstrous form heaved with each breath.
Blood—thick, dark, unnatural—poured from the gaps in his armor, spilling into the void in long, twisting streams. Some of it evaporated instantly, forming tendrils of black mist that coiled before vanishing into nothingness.
And yet—Selwyn still stood.
A breath left his lips—ragged, uneven, yet filled with something.
Laughter.
"Haha."
The sound was low, rough and broken.
Not triumphant.
Not defiant.
Something else entirely.
He lifted his head, his eyes still burning with that unfathomable light, that insatiable hunger that refused to dim.
"My hunger has yet to be satiated, my friend." His voice was hoarse, yet carried the same fervor as it always had. "Even should my body cease to function, I shall continue to fight!"
Mikoto did not move.
He did not react with derision, nor did he scoff at the claim.
Instead, he merely watched.
There was no malice in his gaze, no condescension in his posture. Then, after a pause that seemed to stretch into eternity, he finally spoke.
"Fighting is really all you have, huh?"
There was no mockery in his tone.
No venom.
Selwyn's mad, eagerness did not falter, but something in the air shifted. A nearly imperceptible change.
Mikoto slowly folded his arms across his chest. His gauntlets lightly scraped against one another.
But his mind—his mind was elsewhere.
("With how strong he is, he could have assisted his siblings.")
An idle thought. A truth that lingered.
("The Ancestors sure won't. They have their own agenda. Same with those Fate Walkers.")
His arms tensed slightly.
("That leaves the three of his siblings to fend for themselves against others.")
Selwyn had all this power.
All this unfathomable, terrifying strength.
And yet, he chose this.
Not to protect.
Not to build.
Not to change anything.
Only to fight.
Mikoto realized it now—Selwyn's words, spoken so boldly on that desolate planet, had been empty from the very beginning.
They were not the same.
That was an impossibility.
Selwyn was not an obstacle.
Not an adversary.
Not even an enemy.
He was a tragedy.
A man so utterly consumed by battle that he had abandoned everything else—his duty, his family, his purpose beyond bloodshed.
And yet, Selwyn was not ignorant of this.
He had chosen it.
Consciously.
Willingly.
And now, standing before him, gazing upon the ruin of his armor, his body failing yet his madness unwavering—Mikoto knew.
There was nothing more to him.
This was all Selwyn had ever been.
This was all he would ever be.
Then, he let out a slow breath.
A sigh.
Perhaps the first genuine expression of disappointment he had ever shown.
And yet, it was not disappointment in Selwyn.
It was something else.
Something more profound.
Disappointment in the reality of it all.
A moment later, the sigh faded into the void, swallowed by the silence of space. Mikoto lifted his gaze once more, his eyes locking onto Selwyn's still-burning ones.
And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter—softer.
"So this is what you are."
No judgment.
Only the truth.
A truth Selwyn already knew.
But Mikoto knew Selwyn would never acknowledge it.
And so, the only thing left to do—was finish it.
Because for all his strength, for all his power, Selwyn was already lost.
"The cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death, huh?"
A heartbeat of silence after his words.
Then—
They moved.
Mikoto and Selwyn became blurs, the impact came in the next instant—
A catastrophic collision.
The sound—if it could even be called that—was a rupture, an apocalyptic sound that transcended mere noise. Planets in the distant reaches of the galaxy shuddered, their surfaces cracking, oceans vaporizing in an instant, atmospheres stripped away as gravity trembled beneath the force of their collision.
A shockwave exploded outward, obliterating everything unfortunate enough to be within its radius. Nebulae, those grand celestial titans of swirling gas and light, were torn asunder. Their once-majestic colors—brilliant violets blues and golds—were extinguished, reduced to nothing but streaks of dust.
And yet, despite the annihilation, Mikoto and Selwyn had not stopped.
Selwyn lashed out first. His black gauntlet rushed toward Mikoto's head, aiming to crush his helm with a single blow.
Mikoto tilted his head ever so slightly.
The punch missed by mere inches—but the sheer force behind it was enough to quake a planet millions of miles behind him.
Without a moment's hesitation, Mikoto retaliated.
A strike to Selwyn's stomach.
His fist drove into Selwyn's armor with such force that space seemed to stutter. The moment the punch connected, the surrounding stars flickered.
Selwyn's body buckled inward. His armor, already fractured and splintered, cracked apart further—jagged lines spreading from the point of impact. A strangled noise lurched from his throat, but Mikoto did not let up.
In the next instant, his second strike came.
A savage, merciless uppercut to the face.
Selwyn's head snapped back—violently, unnaturally. The force sent him hurtling backward at incomprehensible speed, spiraling through space as trails of blood smeared across.
But Mikoto was not done, he extended a hand.
"Fourth Seal: Pale Horse."
The moment the words left his lips—existence shuddered.
Reality withered.
The very concept of "life" itself recoiled.
A terrible, monstrous, deathly pale steed materialized—its body a thing of impossible decay, a disgusting existence. Its form was not merely flesh and bone but something far worse—something that should not be.
Its skinless frame pulsated with veins—black, rotted with some unknowable sickness—bulged beneath its translucent flesh, visible like rivers of agony flowing through a dying world. Its mane—a ghastly, writhing thing—undulated unnaturally, spewing forth a miasma that made the universe grow ill.
Its eyes were hollow.
Its breath was Death.
Its existence was doom.
And then—it moved.
Faster than the Death of light.
It descended upon Selwyn instantly.
Selwyn barely had time to react. His body—though ruined—still roared for action, still twisted with the need to fight, to resist, to overcome.
But this was not something that could be resisted.
This was not something that could be fought.
The moment the Pale Horse touched him—everything changed.
WHOOOOM—
A tidal wave of something foreign, something wrong, something that should not exist, exploded outward in all directions.
A sickness that had no name.
A disease that had no cure.
A malady that infected reality.
Stars dimmed.
Galaxies withered.
The universe groaned.
For the first time—it was not merely destruction.
It was something far worse.
Something deeper.
Corruption.
Selwyn screamed.
It was not a roar of pain.
Not a howl of anger.
But something raw.
Something that had never before been heard from his throat.
His helmet ruptured at the faceplate, blackened blood surging from the exposed fissures. It oozed out in torrents, spilling like a flood of ink, evaporating into a sickly mist before it could even drift far.
His veins bulged, black and grotesque beneath his skin, warping in unnatural patterns, pulsing erratically—his own body rejecting him.
His arms trembled.
His fingers twitched.
His power—his existence itself—was being eroded.
And for the first time—he could feel it.
Tearing at his soul.
Grasping at the very essence of what he was.
But even still, even with death itself riding upon him—Selwyn grinned.
A broken, twisted grin.
"So… this is what it feels like."
His voice was strained.
But the madness—the hunger—was still there.
Even as he bled.
Even as he withered.
Even as he died.
Mikoto watched.
His expression hidden behind the flawless white of his helm.
Selwyn had never feared death.
Because for him—this was never about survival.
Never about winning.
Never about losing.
This—this battle, this bloodshed, this inevitable end—was all he had ever wanted.
Mikoto knew it now.
Selwyn had never truly been alive.
And so, as the Pale Horse trampled over him—bringing forth the sickness of a dying universe, the rot of an existence that had gone on for far too long.
Mikoto snapped his fingers and the Pale Horse faded.
Not with a flash. Not with an explosion. Not even with a whisper.
It simply ceased to be.
As if it had never existed. As if the sickness it had spread across the universe had been but a dream—a nightmare.
But the damage had been done.
The universe had not yet recovered.
Stars still flickered, some refusing to reignite, their light forever stolen. Distant galaxies remained dim, as though they had glimpsed something too dreadful to endure.
The battlefield—if the shattered void around them could even be called that anymore—was now eerily silent. No more eruptions of celestial bodies. No more shockwaves of devastation. No more thunderous clashes.
Just—nothing.
Mikoto floated in place, his white armor eerily radiant. The vast halo behind him illuminating his form further.
Selwyn, on the other hand—
He was ruined.
His armor was now a fractured, tattered husk barely clinging to his form. The gaps in his plating revealed torn flesh, blood oozing in slow, sickly drips into space.
His helmet was barely holding together. Large cracks split across its surface, and from the ruptures, his blood seeped out in rivulets. One of his eyes could be seen through the damage.
He was a wreck.
Yet—he laughed.
A weak, throaty chuckle at first—then a breathless, grating, rasping laugh that carried through the empty space.
"Heh… Haha… Aghaha… Ahh…"
Mikoto didn't speak.
He simply watched, his head slightly tilted.
Selwyn slowed his laughter, exhaling sharply. A sound that was almost like relief, almost like amusement. His cracked lips curved into a faint, worn smile.
"That was something, wasn't it?" he rasped, his voice torn and ragged. "I haven't felt something like that in a while. Ah—" he wiped his mouth, smearing the blood further, "—no, never, actually."
Mikoto's expression remained hidden.
"I won't lie," he admitted. "I enjoyed that."
Selwyn's broken smile widened. "I knew it."
"But only," Mikoto continued, "because it's you."
Selwyn's grin froze. His single visible eye narrowed ever so slightly.
"You—"
"—are something that shouldn't exist," Mikoto interrupted. His tone was not cruel. Not mocking. It was simply a statement of fact.
Selwyn's fingers twitched.
Mikoto folded his arms, his white gauntlets faintly scraping against one another.
"I didn't take pleasure in this because I enjoy combat or anything like that," he said. "I didn't take pleasure in this because I like hurting others."
His eyes pierced through Selwyn's fractured visor.
"I enjoyed it because you represent everything pointless about battle."
Silence.
For a brief moment, even Selwyn was quiet.
Then, his smile slowly returned.
"Pointless?" he repeated, voice hoarse. "That's where you're wrong, my friend. There is nothing more meaningful than this. Nothing more true."
Mikoto said nothing.
Selwyn chuckled, his broken body shifting slightly as he leaned forward, his shattered armor groaning in protest.
"Battle," he murmured, "is the only constant in this wretched existence."
He lifted his hand—it trembled, blood dripping from his fingertips as he gestured toward the space around them.
"Look around you. The universe itself is a battlefield. Stars are born, only to collapse. Planets form, only to be destroyed. Life begins, only to kill or be killed. Everything fights for survival, struggles for dominance. The strong devour the weak, and the weak are erased. It is the only truth that holds."
He exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in slow, ragged motions.
"And you," he said, his single burning eye locking onto Mikoto's, "you are no different."
Mikoto's gaze did not waver.
"You fight. You kill. You bring ruin." Selwyn's lips curled into something resembling amusement. "You talk of 'pointlessness,' yet you are here, standing before me, indulging in the same chaos you claim to condemn."
Mikoto finally moved.
His arms unfolded, his fingers flexing slightly before clenching into fists. His head tilted downward ever so slightly, as though he were contemplating Selwyn's words.
Then he spoke.
"Battle," he said quietly, "isn't purpose. It's just a dumbass cycle."
Selwyn raised an eyebrow.
"A cycle that goes on, and on, and on—until there's nothing left."
His voice, though steady, held something deep beneath it.
Something like—disgust.
"Nothing is gained from it. The strong kill the weak. The weak die. And then what, huh? The strong grow old, they fade, and they are replaced by more who do the same thing. It never ends. You're just an animal following the only instincts you know how to."
He scoffed.
"And for what?" His voice was low. "For power? For the thrill of the fight? For 'purpose'? Ridiculous."
Selwyn's smile wavered.
"You—" Mikoto's voice was quiet, yet piercing "—fight for nothing."
Selwyn's fingers twitched again.
"There's no cause behind it. No reason. You exist to fight, and that is all. And in the end, you'll fade away, just like all the others. Forgotten. Worthless. A corpse lost in the void."
A sharp crack.
Selwyn's teeth clenched together—so hard that the remaining fragments of his visor fractured further.
He grinned, but it was tight, strained.
"And what, then, do you fight for?" His voice was low.
Mikoto was silent for a moment.
Then, he spoke.
"I fight," he said, "because I have to. But I hate it."
Selwyn's smile vanished.
"I despise it," Mikoto continued. "I despise everything about it. The slaughter. The bloodshed. The destruction, the grief, the suffering. It's a sport for filthy animals like you."
His fists clenched at his sides.
"If I could cast it aside, I would. If I could walk away, I would. If I could live without this cycle of violence, I would."
He shook his head.
"But you," he said, his voice laced with something colder, "you crave it. You embrace it. You revel in it."
His eyes locked onto Selwyn's single burning ember of a gaze.
"And that," he whispered, "is why I will never be like you."
For the first time in eternity—Selwyn had no response.
"And so, Selwyn, this will be my tribute to you," Mikoto spoke, his gauntleted hands rising as he cupped them together. "Sixth seal: Cosmic Disturbance."