(Planet Ixtal, Chaosbringer's POV)

Although Chaosbringer had heard reports that Ixtal had been conquered by the Righteous Faction, just hearing about it and seeing it in person were two different things, as he couldn't believe the extent of destruction that had been wrought upon this once vibrant planet.

Everything had been turned to rubble except for the Lost Forest and the stone castle that stood like a ghost within it, as while he flew over Ixtal's skies, all he could see were charred cities, broken bridges, and empty plains where millions once lived.

The air was thick with silence. Even the wind felt heavier, as though the planet itself was still mourning.

*Whrrr*

His jet descended slowly through the dead air, the engines straining to maintain stability as they struggled against Soron's lingering aura, which still filled Ixtal's atmosphere.

On the plus side, there were no signs of any righteous faction enemies, which he assumed had been dealt with by Soron, while on the worse side, it seemed like not much else remained of Ixtal at all.

*Thrum*

The moment his craft crossed the lost forest's boundary, the landscape changed entirely.

The blackened earth gave way to vibrant green, to trees that pulsed faintly with life, their branches glowing with fruits and flowers.

Soron's castle stood ahead at the center of a wide clearing, its ancient stone walls half overgrown with vines, but radiating a pressure that sent chills down his spine, while around it, at the edge of the clearing, makeshift tents and crude shelters dotted the field, showing signs of survivors.

He counted maybe a few hundred tents at best, though there might have been more hidden deeper in the forest.

'They must be the ones who didn't flee when the invasion started,' he thought, his expression softening. 'Those who stayed and endured everything.'

He thought with a smile, as the jet slowed down and began descending.

*WHOOSH*

The survivors noticing the craft scrambled instantly, weapons drawn, as they stood guard against the unknown entity.

"Identify yourself!" one of them shouted, voice cracking with both fear and defiance as Chaosbringer waited for the ramp to lower before stepping out into the humid air, the hem of his long coat brushing the dirt as his boots hit the soil.

He raised a hand slowly, his tone calm and steady.

"Easy now. I come bearing no harm."

He said, as for a moment, silence hung heavy in the air.

The survivors exchanged wary looks, eyes flicking between his face and the emblem stitched onto his coat which was the old insignia of the Cult Elders.

Then, all at once, recognition struck.

One of the younger men's eyes widened, as he lowered his weapon first, his voice trembling with sudden relief.

"Guys… it's the Seventh Elder! The Elder is here!"

The crowd froze, then broke into scattered murmurs and gasps as the tension melted into hope.

Chaosbringer exhaled quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stepped forward, feeling the familiar joy of being amidst his people once more.

—------------

*Cough*

*Cough*

While Chaosbringer chatted with the survivors, Soron coughed violently within the stone castle, his entire body shuddering as another mouthful of thick, black blood splattered across the floor.

*Splat*

The sound echoed through the hollow chamber, a grotesque rhythm that no god should ever make, and yet it was the only thing keeping him conscious—the sharp reminder that he was still alive, that he hadn't yet collapsed into the silence that beckoned him every passing minute.

*Flick*

The candlelight flickered weakly across his form, revealing the full extent of his decay.

His skin, once bronze and luminous, now hung loose and colorless, stretched thin over a body that looked more bone than flesh.

His cheeks had sunken inward, his jawline sharp as a blade's edge, as his ribs moved visibly with every ragged breath he took.

The veins beneath his skin pulsed sluggishly, carrying blood that no longer looked red, but tar-black and slow, like poison trying to crawl its way out of him.

'Not good…. This time the coughing is taking much longer to subside than usual,'

He thought as he gripped the edge of the table for balance, his knuckles whitening as another wave of coughing racked through him.

*Hrk*

*Splatter*

Blood sprayed across the stone floor, sizzling faintly as traces of corrupted mana burned through it.

He spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared at the thick smear on his palm—dark, glistening, and almost reflective under the candlelight.

His chest heaved, his lungs screaming for air, but all he could manage were shallow, trembling breaths that whistled painfully through half-collapsed airways.

"A few more days…" he whispered to himself, voice rasping like sandpaper dragged across metal.

"I just need to survive for a few more days…. Just until I can have one last fight."

He muttered, as he clutched the block of Origin Metal he had refined into his hands.

Even in the dim light, it pulsed faintly, emitting a low hum that vibrated through the floor, alive in a way that no mere metal should be. Its surface reflected nothing, absorbing light instead, as if it refused to share its secrets.

Soron placed a trembling hand upon it, his touch reverent and desperate all at once. "I need to find the blacksmiths," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. "The ones still loyal to the Cult… the ones capable of shaping this into a blade worthy of vengeance."

He tightened his grip around the metal, his fingers trembling violently, streaks of blood running down his wrist and dripping onto its surface.

"Once I have the blade…" he wheezed, his lips curling into a ghost of a smile, "…I'll finally make them pay."

But even as the words left him, his knees buckled, and he crashed to the floor, his body convulsing from another surge of pain.

*Thud*

He gasped, clutching his chest as blood spilled from his mouth once more, the color darker than before, thicker, more viscous—proof that his lungs were failing faster than his divine healing could keep up.

His vision blurred at the edges, the walls pulsing faintly in and out of focus, and the faint hum of the Origin Metal became the only sound that anchored him to the present.

He lay there for a moment, his breathing shallow, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the flickering candlelight on the wall.

At this moment, he didn't look like a god. He didn't look divine, invincible, or even immortal. He looked like a dying man, a weary, battered shell of what once was, bleeding out slowly in the ruins of his own temple.

His people outside had no idea. To them, he was still the indestructible Lord Soron, the Cult's unyielding deity who brought justice to Ixtal and vengeance to their enemies.

None of them saw the blood-stained rags hidden behind the throne, nor the trembling fingers that struggled to hold a cup steady.

But even as his body betrayed him, even as the pain gnawed at his lungs like fire and his blood turned to poison within him, his will refused to break.

'Death would be mercy,' he thought bitterly, his eyes narrowing. 'But mercy is for the weak.'

He dragged himself up slowly, one trembling hand pressing against the table as he stood. His reflection in the metal surface stared back at him—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, cracked lips, and the faint, stubborn glimmer of rage that refused to die.

"I'll endure," he whispered to the empty room. "Even if it kills me, I'll endure."

And as another cough tore through him, the black blood spilled again, but this time, his smile didn't fade.

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