"Before the creation of the earth, before the sun and moon drifted loftily in the skies above, a loud cry sprung forth from the farthest corners of the universe, laying waste to all caught within the sonorous lament. Creation felt pity for the being engrossed in grief, and so it answered their call and granted them five Astral Weapons of unfathomable might. With newfound power in hand, the being left their little corner of solitude and set forth into the domain of the Stars. It desired revenge, it desired for all to know its pain, and so it waged a vicious war against the denizens of the galaxies until naught was left but a cosmic sea of annihilation. Once the weapons could gorge on the blood of the divine no further, they disappeared alongside the hollow soul, never to be seen again amongst the swirling space.”

Chapter four of The Nebulas

———

Ascalon

Ascalon raises The Mattatron with his new-found giant form and amasses a coating of lilac tint on the zweihander's edge, shining with a boundless light that bathes the entire sky in a heavenly aurora. With a slash, he unleashes a wave of energy directly at the divine corvid, tearing through the air and leaving behind a trail of fluttering ribbons of sparkles. Every action is slow, cumbersome and unwieldy, but his sword techniques remain the same as they've always been. Simple, elegant, and without a single blemish of wasted movement. There is no quarter for hesitation here; all he must do now is trust in himself.

The Corvid lets out an unearthly shriek to the Stars above and opens its beak into an impossibly wide maw filled with swirling shadows and emptiness. The energy disappears into the void, but Ascalon doesn't wait for it to recover and shakes the earth with a stomp of the giantess's greave, delivering a shockwave that sends the massive creature of divinity tumbling onto the land below.

It screeches a warbled cry of frustration and digs its hooked claw into the dirt, steadying itself back up only to meet the cold edge of The Mattatron's blade slicing straight through its pearl-white shoulder. Pale blood splurts out from the gaping wound, but its feathers combine together into a fleshy strand and recombine the split halves together again, regaining control once more and using the brief lapse of vulnerability to sink its talons directly into the armored giantess's cuirass. It tears away part of the soft, pinkish manifestation, but Ascalon remains unharmed and slams The Corvid's face directly into a sprawling hill and defiling its pure, ivory visage with brown filth and dirt.

The giantess lifts the massive zweihander up and stabs the center of the corvid's chest, locking it to the earth as it wails with a beak stained with mud. It wriggles and squirms, lashing out and decimating the surrounding landscape, but its every attempt at escape is met with furious smite of the gauntlet and a crushing stomp of the leg.

The Corvid falls silent, body still as a calming meadow untouched by the likes of man, but just as Ascalon moves to pull the blade out and deliver a final blow, it raises its beak filled with the light of ruination and aims it directly at the Polus army still enchanted by melody.

"No! I won't allow you!" Ascalon quickly seizes The Mattatron and throws it directly in front of the ray's path. "Mattatron, to you I deliver my authority. Shield the innocent with the light of liberation!"

The blade glows a translucent gleam and redirects the blast far into the distance, but with the weapon gone, The Corvid grasps at the giantess's leg with its claw and pulls Ascalon crashing down onto the earth alongside it. It roars out in fury and digs its claw into the abdomen, jerking the face up with its talons and discharging a scorching-hot beam of energy right at Ascalon's face. The light blinds and pounds at his authority for an incomprehensibly long time until eventually he breaks free from its grasp with a slam of his helm. The Corvid staggers back with dizzied stumbles before being sent flying by a crushing blow aimed straight at its center.

It collides with a slam, and by the time it rises back from the ground, Ascalon retrieves The Mattatron and shifts his body into a wide bulwark protecting the capital. The Corvid lets out a long, warbled groan and points a crooked talon at him.

"Grant me eyes, grant me eyes. Plant thy vision onto every corner of this land, and chain my foes under your ever-watchful gaze."

Hundreds of little eyes begin to manifest all around the city as The Corvid maintains its baleful chant. They float in the air, pupils of porcelain gleam and surrounded by a rim of crystalline white, before locking their narrow slits unto Ascalon's visage. Chains of light spring forth from their irises and wrap around the giantess's body until every surface is entrapped within the radiant luster. Ascalon repels the chains by spreading his authority outwards in a frantic burst, but the moment he does, they circle around his barrier and block every bit of his sight from seeing the outside world.

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Ascalon prepares himself, ready for a sudden attack the moment the chains disappear, but it never comes. No, it doesn't intend to attack him at all. It only wishes to slow him down, to keep him in place. Realization dawns on Ascalon's frenzied mind and he desperately attempts to slice through the endless cage of light and break out.

The Corvid knows it cannot harm him, but it can remove that which powers his authority, even if it means the lost of its own.

Ascalon condenses his authority into a thick shell and barrels through the cage with sheer force, quickly rushing forward as a never-ending stream of chains pursue him closely from behind. The Corvid towers directly in front of the Polus divisions, raising its long, jagged talons and preparing to lay claim to tens of thousands of lives with a single swipe, but Ascalon manages to reach it just in time and cleaves through its bony arms. It screams out in pain, chant replaced by discordant cries as the eyes fade back into nothingness, and retreats back into the distance before The Mattatron can sunder its flesh once more.

Ascalon's instincts scream at him to chase after it, wounded and weakened from the sudden bisection, but he cannot part from his knights in fear of them suffering from another attack. The Corvid knows his weakness. It knows he must serve as their ever-vigilant shield. He would have shouldered this duty even if his power required him not, but either willing or nay, it doesn't change that he's been ensnared in a cruel war of attrition.

The Corvid stalks from afar, carefully gauging his every movement before raising its severed arm into the air.

"Grant me talons, grant me talons. Plague this world in an endless rain of thorns, and deliver unto thee a maelstrom of never-ending misery."

The exposed flesh bubbles and oozes until a long, pulsating clump squelches out of the bloody orifice and forms hundreds of barbed talons sprouting out of the writhing mass. With a spiteful shriek, the talons erupt upwards and gather into giant, concentrated spikes, growing in size and blotting out the sky in an endless array of bristles. Ascalon cannot stop it. Sending waves of aura at The Corvid will only result in them being swallowed into the void, and for every thorn he removes in the sky, another quickly gathers in its place.

He's helpless. All he can now is prepare for the inevitable onslaught, but what of after? The Corvid's aura appears endless, chanting its invocation with nary a sign of exhaustion nor dwindling of aura. It greedily drains all of Creation in its surrounding, forcefully commanding it to surrender their authority to him despite the damage it will wrought upon the land, and even if Ascalon manages to defend against the coming torrent of destruction, the giantess's form will not last for much longer. To forcefully defile Creation's generosity with one's own avarice is the greatest sin you can commit in this world, and though Xeros may be content with enduring the world's lament, Ascalon will never resort to desecrating Cosmos's legacy.

To abandon thy resolve is to abandon thy self. Ascalon will not stray from his ideals, for it is his belief in them that bolsters his will.

The talons stop gathering. The Corvid ceases its chant. Now, only that remains of the sky is the faint trickling of moonlight shining down through the endless expanse of thorns. Ascalon stabs his blade into the earth and steadies his breath.

"I apologize, Mattatron, but please endure this assault once more," he whispers. The blade glows a somber, dark hue of lavender, but Ascalon only smiles in response. "It's too early to give up now, my friend. For as long as we yet stand, we must do all that we are able. I do not intend to die here, so pray forgive me for exhausting your strength."

Ascalon gathers what little aura remains within and manifests the barrier once more. He closes his eyes and prepares for the impact.

"Grant me a heart, grant me a soul. For it is only through life does despair allow to fester. To thrive. To give purpose."

They fall.

First come the thorns, pestering at the lilac aegis like a swarm of ravenous vermin. They do naught but leave an inescapable sensation of prickling discomfort. It is easily repelled; a little discomfort is nothing compared to the trials he must endure.

Second come the stakes, larger and burlier than the talons. They smash into the barrier with a thud, splintering into pieces and pelting Ascalon's body with little jabs of sudden ache. His invulnerability is waning. The barrier remains sturdy, but the pain can no longer be blocked.

Third come the talons, for which there is only agony. It feels as if every corner of his body is being stabbed by a ceaseless, unrelenting army. His body is impaled, skewered and gored by invisible hands, but he grits his teeth and continues to persist.

And finally come the spires, raising high into the firmament with pointed tips and barbed rims. They fall, and they pierce, and it is then that Ascalon experiences what the cold grasp of death must feel like, for the pain reaches down to the very core of his soul. His flesh is ground and recombined in an eternal cycle of agony, mind consumed by constant pleas for eternal slumber.

But he still endures. He still stands tall. And as the final spire fails to break through Ascalon's barrier, he hangs his head and grabs his blade with trembling hands once more.

He is still alive. He can still fight.

The Corvid watches on with an apathetic gaze. Or perhaps annoyance? Ascalon can't really tell, although he supposes it doesn't matter. He just needs to withstand whatever comes next, again and again. For however so long he is able. He must continue to endure.

The Corvid raises its arm once again, but before it can let out a chant, a figure suddenly manifests from behind and cleaves it in twain with a slash of their axe.

It is a titan. A steel titan. And he's not alone.

"Ascalon," a voice transmits to him. A voice he loves so, so dearly. "Rest for a spell, my beloved. You need not be alone any longer."

Ascalon chuckles to himself and collapses onto the ground. "I never am, Lorelai. I never am."