“Thank you, Xeros. I really… mean it. It’s been a long run for us, huh? Look how old we’ve become. I’d say we did a pretty good job for a couple of gutter rats, though we lost a lot of friends along the way. I tried to ignore it, how lonely it was after their deaths, but… bit by bit, It built up. It grew and grew until I just couldn’t bear it anymore, and it hurt far too much. But you’ve always been a survivor. You pushed through no matter how bitter life was. So I––I’m glad you’re here. Sorry for being selfish, but do you mind if I ask for one tiny wish?

“Take care of Luxanne, please. I know you’ve always kept your distance, but you and Libevich are all my girl has now. Teach her your ways: to fight, to claw, to struggle against this unfair world. And when you think she’s strong enough, teach her kindness. I know there’s a whole lot of good hiding under that grouchy frown of yours. Don’t let her repeat my mistakes, and one day, I hope she can chase after a dream of her own.

“... Oh my, what’s gotten into you? I think this is the first––the first time I’ve ever seen you cry. Hah, about time you finally… stopped being so stoic…”

- Grand General Luxmi, Former Ruler of Lux Caelum

––––––

Ascalon

The King feels transcendent: his body shudders with such grand sensations. Every one of his movements is slow, cumbersome and unwieldy, yet there is a power in them unlike his previous self. It is as if all the world aids him now, giving breath to his spirit so that he may end this abominable creature here and now.

Ascalon raises the Mattatron with his new-found giant form, and he amasses a swirling sheen of starlight to run along the far-reaching edge. The blade is massive; it shadows the city in its empyrean glow. He merely needs unleash a single swing, and thus the sky is split in two––cleaved by a soaring wave of energy as it surges towards the Corvid.

A shriek escapes from the being, rumbling the distant fields and snowy mountaintops, and it opens its beak unnaturally wide until its maw spans the entire length of its colossal build. Shadows swirl from within, and soon, the energy disappears into the void. But Ascalon waits not for it to recover. He rushes forward with his weighty steps, and he strikes.

The Corvid retracts its toothy mouth, only to meet the cold edge of celestial steel slicing through its shoulder. Pale blood spurts from the gaping wound, but it does not last long. Feathers erupt forth and combine into a quickly growing mass of connecting strands until the gashed halves combine together. It wastes not a moment and digs its talons into Ascalon’s armored cuirass; yet, he towers firm. Unyielding. And slams the Corvid’s face into the filth below them.

He lifts the Mattatron up and skewers the center of its chest, locking it to the earth as it wails and squirms: struggles and writhes, lashing out whilst decimating the landscape. But its every attempt is met with a furious smite of Ascalon’s gauntlet and a crushing stomp of his greave.

He pummels the Corvid again and again in a manner unseemly for his dignified visage, but he cares not for appearances now. Crude the assault may be, it is effective. The creature can do naught before his blows, and eventually, it falls silent.

But just as he moves to deliver the final blow, it raises its beak, gathers the light of ruination, and aims directly at the capital.

“You would truly…” Ascalon moves on instinct and throws the Mattatron in front of the light’s path, redirecting the energy to obliterate a nearby ridge. The people are safe for now, but with naught a weapon to chain it any longer, the Corvid jerks up and claws at his leg––pulling him down along with it.

It roars out in fury, digs its claws deep into his chest, and discharges the ray forthright into his face. Ascalon cannot escape, only endure. The energy shreds at his authority without restraint.

Yet, not even the Corvid is limitless in reserve. The energy wanes in the faintest of moments, but Ascalon seizes the chance and breaks free with a sharp butt of his head. The creature recoils in shock, staggering and tumbling onto its knees.

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When it rises back up, the Corvid warbles a low, rumbling groan and points a crooked talon at him.

“Grant me eyes, grant me eyes. Strip mine foes of their loathful guise.”

Hundreds of tiny eyes manifest all throughout the expanse as the creature maintains its baleful chant. They float in the air, sclera of crystal white and glow, before directing their bottomless slits towards Ascalon. Before he can react, chains spring forth from the pupils and attempt to wrap around his every surface.

He repels them back with his authority, but the shackles only circle around the barrier: blocking his sight of the outside world. Ascalon braces himself for an attack, but… nothing. It never comes.

And then he realizes it: the Corvid’s true objective.

He frantically cuts through the cage and sprints with all his might as a never-ending stream of chains chase him from behind. The Corvid lingers right in front of the city gates, and it raises its talons, preparing to lay waste to thousands with but a single swipe.

With a desperate cry, Ascalon lunges and cleaves through the Corvid’s arms just in time. It screams out in pain, chants replacing with an aching cry as the eyes fade away, and it retreats with its severed limbs before the King can strike further.

He wants to give pursuit, but Ascalon cannot part from his position or else the people will be exposed. The Corvid knows his weakness. It knows he is Caelum’s last remaining shield. He regrets not shouldering this duty, but either willing or nay, it does not change that he has been lured into a cruel war of attrition.

The Corvid stalks from afar, carefully gauging his movements before raising its bloody talon high into the air.

“Grant me talons, grant me talons. Sunder this world until all are reduced to rotting carrions.”

The exposed flesh bubbles, and oozes, and spurts. A long, pulsating clump squelches out, forming countless numbers of barbed talons that shoot up and blot out the sky: growing bigger. Growing deadlier. The bristles surround the city from all sides, and there is nothing Ascalon can do. He cannot move. He cannot even attack from afar, less his energy be once more consumed by the void.

All he can do is brace for the inevitable, but his fate looks grim. The Corvid’s manifestations are endless; it chants with nary a sigh of exhaustion, greedily draining all of Creation in its surrounding. It forces the stray divinity to surrender, to bend under its will, and so do the talons in the sky continue to amass. Not a speck of the sky can be seen now.

Eventually, the Corvid ceases its chant. The time has come; Ascalon stabs his blade into the earth and steadies his breath.

“Prepare yourself, old friend,” he whispers. The blade glows a somber, dark hue, but Ascalon only smiles in response. “It is too early to give up now. For as long as we stand, this heart of mine shall stay resolute.”

The King gathers all the strength that lies within him, and he manifests a barrier to surround his people, the Caelum people, and all who deserve not to perish on this day.

He closes his eyes, and grits his teeth.

“Grant me a heart, grant me a soul. Lead them all onto death’s gentle lull.”

The talons fall.

And so does ruin fall upon the world.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

Ascalon's invulnerability can block the pain no longer. It gnaws at every little speck of his skin, his bones, organs, all that make up his being: gored by a perpetual agony with no escape.

It is then he realizes… ah, this must be what death feels like. The pain reaches to the very depths of his soul, his flesh grinding, recombining, struggling in an eternal cycle of agony.

And yet, he endures. He stands tall, proud. And as the final talon fails to break through his aegis, Ascalon hangs his head and reaches with trembling hands for his blade.

He is alive. There is fight left in him, still.

The Corvid watches on with an apathetic gaze, or is it perhaps annoyance? Ascalon cannot tell. It does not matter. He needs only to withstand whatever comes next, and then again, and then again. For however long he is able, the King shall not fall.

A chant rings through the air, and the Corvid prepares to bring devastation once more… but then, a figure suddenly emerges from behind it.

It is a titan: a steel titan. And they are not alone.

“Ascalon,” a voice transmits––a voice he loves so, so dearly. “Rest for a while, beloved. You need not be alone any longer.”

Ascalon chuckles and allows himself to finally collapse on the ground. “I never am, my dear. I never am.”