The world burned at the edges of the horizon. Towers of steel and bone lay broken in every direction. Cracked earth and shattered skies bore witness to the final day.
There were no bystanders left—no armies, no allies, no spectators. Only the Black King and the Calamity of the End stood within a dying land.
They faced each other on a field of molten slag, where rivers of ash flowed slow and thick. Overhead, the sun had dimmed to a deep red disk. The air reeked of sulfur and old blood.
No wind stirred. All Creation seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the outcome.
The Black King stood tall. His armor, once polished black steel, was now scarred and dented. His cloak, torn and charred, fluttered behind him in weak gusts of heat.
Every inch of him bore signs of struggle—an age of war carved into flesh and metal. Yet his stance did not waver. He held a blade as long as a man was tall, chipped at the edges but still lethal.
Sparks danced along its surface, faint embers of stored power.
Opposite him, the Calamity of the End shuddered into focus. It had no true face, just shifting layers of bone and smoke. Countless limbs stretched and curled, each etched with runes that none dared to read.
When it moved, reality itself buckled. Its voice was a chorus of cracked whispers and distant screams. This thing had devoured gods, shattered continents, and made entire cultures kneel in despair.
The Black King breathed out, slow and steady. He recalled the years spent climbing through countless trials: slaying immortal beasts, outsmarting rival warlords, crushing demonic invasions. All of that had led here.
He was the last champion, the final wall between annihilation and hope. This battle would be his legacy.
The creature stirred. Fractured shadows lengthened around them, and molten ground began to hiss.
Without warning, the Calamity struck. Tendrils lashed out, warping space as they whipped toward the King.
He met them head-on, swinging his blade in a wide arc. The impact tore through four limbs in an instant. Black ichor sprayed from the wounds and sizzled on the ground.
The beast shrieked and reformed, sprouting new limbs and twisted heads. Each head spat a different element—fire, ice, poison, and lightning.
The King raised his free hand, conjuring a barrier of crackling energy. The assaults collided with a thunderous crash, the resulting shockwave flattening distant hills.
He would not falter. He lunged forward, closing the gap in a heartbeat. His blade hummed with hidden strength as he channeled the last scraps of his power.
A downward strike cleaved through the creature's main torso, carving a canyon of steaming flesh. Still, it did not die. Instead, it split apart into three smaller monstrosities.
Each formed a ring around him, chanting in a language that stung the mind.
The ground split, exposing the molten core beneath. Pillars of flame shot skyward, and the King's boots ground into the slag.
He gritted his teeth and roared back, voice raw. He unleashed a wave of force from his body, scattering the three forms like leaves in a storm.
Broken fragments of the Calamity tumbled across the field. But the monster would not yield. Those fragments crawled back together, weaving into a shape far more grotesque.
The King's heart thumped harder. He knew he was nearing his limit. He could feel the fractures in his armor, the bruises under his skin, the blood in his lungs.
Yet surrender was never an option. He had come too far. The world had no other hero left.
With a grim smirk, the Black King gathered his final technique. Sparks and arcs of light crackled around him. The battered sword in his hand began to glow, its chipped edges turning white-hot.
The Calamity screeched and rushed him again, no subtlety, no cunning. It wanted to end this now.
They met in the center of the field. He swung once, twice—each blow forging shockwaves that tore open the ground and blotted out the sickly red sun.
His third strike gathered all he had. The air twisted into a lance of raw power that slammed into the abomination's core. An explosion of colorless flame washed over everything.
When the light faded, the Calamity's form sagged. Pieces of it fell away, dissolving into ash. It shuddered and tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle emerged.
In disbelief, it reached out for him, but the King stepped back, blade raised. One last thrust into its heart, and the enemy came undone in a storm of dust.
He had won. He stood victorious at the end of all things. Yet, as he turned, he saw the world still crumbling.
This victory came too late. The soil remained dead. The sun remained dim. There was no future left.
The King knelt and sighed, pressing a hand to his wounded side. Pain flared. He could barely stand.
A low rumble echoed through the empty plains. Something stirred beyond mortal ken.
Was it regret? A final trick of fate? The Black King felt a tug at the edge of his consciousness. He had done all he could.
If he could try again—if only he could warn his younger self. Perhaps there would be another path.
As his vision blurred and darkness closed in, the Black King let go of the present. He thought of the past, of what he might do differently.
If he ever got the chance, he would not fail them again.
The world vanished in silence.