The Grandmaster had proven himself.
He had survived where others had fallen.
Had resisted the whispers of the Hollowed.
Had ignored the illusions of the Forsaken.
Had killed an Ascended in a single strike.
And now, he was coming for Veyrath.
But Veyrath would not allow him to arrive untested.
Would not permit him to stand before him with strength unspent.
The Grandmaster had to be worn down.
Had to be pushed beyond exhaustion.
Had to be made to understand that no matter how powerful he was—
He was still only a man.
And a man could be broken.
The Grandmaster had already killed one of the Ascended.
But that was only a taste.
Now, he would be faced with an army of them.
Veyrath stationed the strongest Ascended warriors along his path.
Not to kill him immediately.
That was not the purpose.
The goal was to force him to fight.
To drain him of energy, of magic, of time.
To make him use every skill, every technique, every ounce of strength he had—
Before he ever reached the final confrontation.
The first Ascended struck without warning.
A shadow moving faster than any mortal eye could follow.
The Grandmaster barely blocked in time—
And realized too late that this was no ordinary foe.
This was a warrior who had transcended humanity.
Who had become something beyond mere flesh.
And this was only the beginning.
The Grandmaster was outnumbered.
Outmatched in raw power.
But he did not retreat.
He did not hesitate.
He fought.
With every strike of his radiant blade,
An Ascended fell.
But for each one that died,
Another took its place.
Each one forcing him to react faster.
To adjust, to struggle, to endure.
There were no words.
No pleas.
No taunts.
Only battle.
Relentless.
Unyielding.
And after hours of clashing, bleeding, and burning through his power—
He stood alone.
Victorious.
But drained.
Exactly as Veyrath had planned.
The Grandmaster had proven his strength.
Had cut through Veyrath's finest warriors.
But strength was not the only weapon in this war.
Now, he would be tested in a different way.
Veyrath unleashed the Forsaken upon him.
Not as warriors.
Not as opponents to be slain.
But as a presence that could not be escaped.
They did not attack him.
They did not fight.
They only moved around him.
Warping his perception.
Unraveling his senses.
The trees shifted.
The ground changed beneath his feet.
The stars above blinked in and out of existence.
And suddenly, the Grandmaster realized—
He no longer knew where he was.
He turned one way—
And the path was gone.
Turned another—
And found himself where he had started.
The Forsaken did not touch him.
They did not whisper to him.
But their presence alone was enough.
The Grandmaster had never been afraid before.
Never doubted his own mind.
But now, he was unsure.
Unsure if his next step would lead him forward—
Or trap him in an endless loop.
Unsure if he was even awake.
Or if he had already been Unmade.
He tightened his grip on his sword.
Gritted his teeth.
And pushed forward.
Even though he no longer knew if forward even existed.
The Grandmaster escaped the labyrinth.
His mind intact—
But his sanity shaken.
He emerged into a silent clearing.
A place of absolute stillness.
And there, they were waiting.
Not warriors.
Not assassins.
But the Hollowed.
Hundreds of them.
Standing motionless.
Eyes empty.
Their voices speaking as one.
"You cannot stop this."
"You cannot stop us."
"You will become one of us."
And for the first time,
The Grandmaster hesitated.
They did not attack.
They did not move.
They only spoke.
And their words wrapped around his mind like chains.
Because he had seen what happened to the others.
To those who fought against Unmaking.
To those who resisted—
And were slowly erased.
And the Hollowed knew it too.
They stepped forward.
One by one.
Not to strike.
Not to fight.
But to touch him.
To welcome him.
To make him understand that resistance was futile.
That no one had ever survived this.
That he would not be the first.
The Grandmaster closed his eyes.
He had lost everything.
His army was gone.
His commanders dead.
His faith tested.
His mind shaken.
But he was still here.
Still standing.
Still breathing.
And as the Hollowed reached for him—
He opened his eyes, and his blade burned brighter than ever before.
He cut through them.
Not out of rage.
Not out of desperation.
But out of sheer defiance.
Because as long as he stood,
As long as he held his sword—
He was not Unmade yet.
The Grandmaster had survived.
He had endured every trial.
He had fought through everything Veyrath had placed in his path.
He was weakened.
Wounded.
Exhausted.
But still alive.
And now, at last—
He stood at the entrance to the place where Veyrath waited.
Where the final battle would begin.
Where this war would end.
One way or another.
The Grandmaster had survived.
He had endured the Ascended.
Had escaped the Forsaken's labyrinth.
Had resisted the Hollowed's whispers.
And now, he stood at the gates of the final battle.
But Veyrath was not done with him yet.
Because there was one last trial.
One last test of his will.
One last chance to push him past his limits.
And when it was over—
He would not be a warrior anymore.
He would be something lesser.
Something hollowed.
Something already half Unmade.
And then, Veyrath would end him.
The Grandmaster entered the chamber of illusions.
A place that had never existed before this moment.
A space shaped by Veyrath's will alone.
Here, there were no enemies.
No warriors.
No monsters.
Only reflections.
And in the first reflection, he saw himself.
Not as he was now.
Not as a warrior.
But as a man who had already lost.
His armor was cracked.
His blade shattered.
His face was drawn, lifeless.
And the reflection spoke.
"You failed."
"You lost before this battle even began."
"You are already dead."
And for the first time, the Grandmaster had no answer.
Then, the voices came.
Not from the Hollowed.
Not from the Forsaken.
But from those he had led.
The soldiers who had vanished.
The commanders who had been erased.
Their faces were empty.
Their names gone.
But they still spoke.
"Why did you let us die?"
"Why did you not save us?"
"Why do you still fight when there is nothing left to fight for?"
And the Grandmaster, for the first time in his long life,
Could not remember their names.
Then, the final illusion.
The one that Veyrath had prepared most carefully.
The gods themselves spoke.
Not in anger.
Not in condemnation.
But in disappointment.
A voice that was not a voice.
That came from all around him, yet from nowhere.
"You have failed, child."
"You were never strong enough."
"Your faith was never enough."
"You were always meant to fall."
And the Grandmaster, who had never doubted his gods—
Felt the first crack in his soul.
Then, the voice of Veyrath himself.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
But calm.
Certain.
"You have seen the truth."
"You have already lost."
"Now, lay down your blade and let it end."
And for a single moment—
The Grandmaster considered it.
He had no army.
No hope.
No gods.
No past.
Nothing.
What was left to fight for?
But then, he moved.
Not out of rage.
Not out of faith.
But out of sheer defiance.
His sword, which had been so heavy, so broken, so meaningless—
Became light in his grip once more.
He took a step forward.
And the illusions shattered.
He was not done yet.
Because if this war was lost,
Then he would make sure Veyrath bled for it.
The time for deception was over.
The time for trials had passed.
The Grandmaster had endured everything.
He had survived where others had fallen.
Had resisted where others had broken.
He had been beaten, weakened, brought to the edge of his will—
And yet, he stood.
And Veyrath, who had watched gods and men crumble before him,
Who had erased cities, kingdoms, entire legacies—
Now, for the first time, stepped forward himself.
Because there was no more need for whispers.
No more need for hollow victories.
This would be settled by strength alone.
And when it was over,
Only one of them would remain.
The world had grown silent.
The land itself held its breath.
There was no audience for this battle.
No armies to witness what came next.
The Crusade was broken.
The world was already lost.
Only the two of them remained.
And in this moment, they were not legends, not myths, not symbols.
They were only warriors.
One who had spent his life protecting the world.
And one who had spent his life breaking it.
And now, their paths would collide.
The Grandmaster moved first.
Even exhausted, his speed was undeniable.
His blade—a weapon of pure radiance—
Burned like a star cutting through darkness.
He lunged, aiming for Veyrath's throat.
Fast. Precise. Lethal.
But Veyrath was faster.
A step to the side—a motion so fluid it barely seemed real—
And the strike missed by a hair's breadth.
The ground where he had stood
Exploded into molten dust from the force of the blade.
But Veyrath did not counter.
Not yet.
He wanted to see it first.
To understand the limits of this man.
To feel the weight of his power.
And so, he let the Grandmaster attack again.
It was not a battle of brute force.
It was a war of precision.
Each step was measured.
Each strike was calculated.
The Grandmaster's blade was relentless—
A storm of divine energy, cutting through the air like a promise of judgment.
And Veyrath, who had stood against monsters and horrors,
Who had rewritten the rules of existence itself—
Now faced a force he could not simply erase.
Because this man was not just strong.
He was absolute.
And for the first time in countless battles,
Veyrath felt something almost like struggle.
Almost like effort.
Almost like… resistance.
A single misstep.
Not a mistake—but a moment.
A fraction of a second where Veyrath allowed an opening.
And the Grandmaster took it.
His blade bit into Veyrath's side—
Cutting deeper than any blade had before.
A gash of searing light.
A wound that would have incinerated any other being.
But Veyrath did not cry out.
Did not stumble.
He only looked down, watching the wound with curiosity.
And then, he smiled.
Because now, he had seen enough.
Now, he understood.
And now, this battle was over.
The moment the Grandmaster drew back for another strike—
Veyrath moved.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
Just pure, perfect destruction.
His hand lashed forward—
Not with a spell.
Not with a weapon.
With Unmaking itself.
The Grandmaster barely reacted in time.
His blade came up in defense—
But Unmaking was not something that could be blocked.
It was not force.
It was absence.
And when Veyrath's strike connected—
The Grandmaster felt a part of himself disappear.
Not his body.
Not his armor.
Something deeper.
Something that had no name.
And for the first time in his life—
He felt true terror.
He staggered back.
His breathing was ragged.
His sword trembled in his grip.
But he was not finished.
He had come too far.
Had given up too much.
He would not surrender now.
So he attacked again.
And again.
And again.
Even as he felt himself unraveling.
Even as he knew he was losing.
Because if this was his final stand,
Then he would make it worthy of legend.
The final moment came too fast to see.
One last exchange.
One last collision of wills.
And then—
The Grandmaster collapsed to his knees.
His blade slipped from his grasp.
His breath shallow.
His strength gone.
And Veyrath, standing over him, looked down.
There was no cruelty in his eyes.
No hatred.
Only certainty.
And the Grandmaster, barely able to speak, looked up at him.
His voice was hoarse.
His words barely above a whisper.
"Is this truly what you wanted?"
"To unmake everything?"
And Veyrath, who had never answered a dying man before, spoke a single truth.
"Not everything."
And then, with one final motion—
He erased him.