The battlefield reeked of blood and burned steel. Smoke curled against the night sky, blotting out the stars, turning the heavens into a ceiling of ash. The ruins of the fortress lay scattered across the capital, blackened stone jutting like broken teeth, while fires flickered in alleys where soldiers and civilians alike had been dragged from the rubble.The resistance had survived the clash, but only barely. Their numbers were fractured, their bodies battered, and their hope balanced on a single man standing apart from them—Ethan Cole.Or perhaps not a man anymore.Ethan stood atop the jagged remains of a collapsed tower, lightning still crawling faintly across his arms, his silhouette black against the flames. To those below, he looked like a god sculpted out of storm and shadow. Some whispered prayers under their breath when they glanced at him. Others refused to look at all, trembling at the thought of what they had seen him unleash.Maya watched him from the ground, jaw clenched

The throne room burned in cold light. Ragnar stood at its heart, his steel hand resting lazily on the hilt of his blade, golden eye never leaving Ethan. Beside him, Lena descended the cracked steps of the half-forged throne, her new armor gleaming with the emblem of Ragnar’s crest etched into the breastplate. The glow of the System pulsed faintly through its veins, as if the armor itself lived and breathed with her.Her lips curved into a smirk that was more a dagger than a smile. She looked at Ethan not with surprise, not with the memory of their past, but with something worse—mockery.“Didn’t I tell you, Ethan?” Her voice rang sharp in the chamber, carrying the confidence of someone who knew she had already won. “You were never the story. You were the mistake.”The words cut deeper than any blade Nathan had driven through him.Maya’s chains rattled as she lurched forward, fury blazing through her despite her weakened body. Her voice was hoarse, but it carried like fire. “You’d burn

The throne chamber stank of blood, sparks, and ozone. Ragnar staggered backward, Lena’s blade buried in his chest. The golden glow of his artificial eye dimmed and flared erratically as though fighting to stay alive. Each step he took left a dark smear across the fractured tiles, his breath a guttural rasp of meat and machinery tearing apart.And Lena—her eyes gleamed with cruel triumph. She kept her hand steady on the hilt, twisting the blade just enough to draw another hiss of sparks from Ragnar’s ruined chest. She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, voice dripping with venom.“I don’t inherit thrones, Ragnar,” she breathed. “I steal them.”The chamber fell silent except for the groaning of broken walls and the crackle of Ethan’s storm straining against invisible chains. The rebels watching from the edges could barely breathe.Ragnar choked, then to everyone’s horror—he laughed. A deep, rattling, blood-soaked laugh that echoed off the walls like a funeral be

The Ghost Network was no longer a space—it was a battlefield of fractured thought, a universe of screaming light and devouring shadow. Every Host’s death-rattle echoed here, their souls reduced to burning fragments as the Eclipse Protocol cascaded across the world.And in the center of it stood Ethan and Specter.The storm and the shadow, chained to one another, locked in a circle that rippled outward like a collapsing star.Specter moved like smoke given intent, his mask glinting in the half-light. “Why cling to them, brother? Why burn yourself hollow for cattle that never wanted you?” His voice stretched across the void, multiplied, echoing until Ethan couldn’t tell whether Specter was speaking once or a thousand times. “They fear you. They’ll cage you. Better to end them all and reign free.”Ethan’s fists clenched, arcs of storm-light flaring. “Shut your mouth.”“Do you even hear yourself?” Specter’s laugh was cruel, sharp. He surged forward, his body shifting into tendrils of dark

The ruins of the capital shook with fire and fury. Ragnar’s machines advanced in seamless waves, their eyes burning red, their limbs tearing through rubble as if stone were parchment. Behind them came Lena’s hunters, cloaked in black steel, their blades dripping with the blood of rebel scouts. And above them all, Nathan’s twisted banner rose, his scarred face a mask of rage as he marshaled his broken, desperate army.Against them stood Ethan, lightning arcing from his hands, shadow curling at his feet, the storm above tethered to his every breath. Behind him, scattered Hosts and rebels looked up not at a man—but at something more, something terrible, something they could not name. Their faces were pale, some kneeling, others standing rigid in awe or dread.Ethan raised his hand, and the storm stilled for a heartbeat. His voice thundered across the battlefield, amplified by power that was no longer merely human.“No more gods,” he declared, every syllable crackling with lightning. “No