Gradus Ascensionis XIX

Woomilla raced through the wreckage of the battlefield, her heart pounding with a frantic mix of fear and hope. The chaos of the aftermath blurred around her, but all she could focus on was finding Tavo. The thought that he might not be okay spurred her forward, urgency pushing her through the debris. With each step, memories surged—how she'd chosen to stay by his side instead of spending her days carefree with friends, how she had begged their father for a second pirated DRD, just so they could share this world together.

She didn't regret a single moment. It wasn't just the responsibility of being his older sister; it wasn't just familial love. It was something deeper—an unspoken understanding, a shared bond, a devotion she couldn't put into words. She had watched him grow, watched him defy the odds, and witnessed the day he defeated the mighty Ardor. How could she regret any of it?

When she found him, lying battered but not broken, she sank to her knees beside him. The relief that flooded her was almost overwhelming, but it didn't stop the tears from falling as she pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Are you okay?" Her voice cracked, filled with love and concern, a whisper of desperation beneath the surface.

Tavo, exhausted beyond words, managed a faint, exhausted smile. "I'm okay... just tired," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Every inch of him ached, but his spirit—his defiance—was as fierce as ever.

The universe above remained indifferent to the human struggle beneath, but in that small corner of the cosmos, amidst the ruins of their battle, their victory felt somehow significant. Tavo's challenge, his refusal to surrender, had not just been a battle against a virtual enemy but a defiant stand against the limitations life had imposed on him. He had won more than just a fight—he had transcended.

Woomilla held him close, her heart swelling with pride, relief, and something deeper—gratitude. In this moment, they both knew that no matter how bruised or battered they were, they had faced the universe and found victory in a place where it was most needed. Their bond, strengthened through every hardship, shone brighter than any star in the sky.

As Sky's shadow entered the arena, the starry sky above seemed to recoil, the celestial light dimming, as if it, too, feared the presence that now manifested. The sand beneath the arena quivered, a tremor not of the earth, but of something far deeper, an unearthly pulse that echoed in the very bones of the world. An unnatural chill spread across the ground, causing the players in the backlines to scatter, their faces twisted in terror not just from the shadow itself, but from the suffocating dread that surged from it—a dread that seemed to seep into their minds, making them question their own existence.

From the depths of the shadow, a katana materialized, its blade forged from nothingness itself, a dark energy that rippled with unspoken promises of annihilation. The weapon shimmered with an eerie, otherworldly glow, as though the very laws of nature bent around its form, twisting the fabric of reality in its wake. The shadow assumed an iaijutsu stance, poised and deadly—a perfect embodiment of lethal intent, as if the katana were an extension of the void itself.

With deliberate slowness, its right hand reached down, brushing the sand. The granules slipped through its fingers like forgotten moments of time, vanishing into the nothingness that followed in the shadow's wake. The sand, once vibrant with the pulse of life, now felt hollow, as if it, too, was losing its meaning under the shadow's touch. Every grain that fell through the air was a whispered epitaph, a silent omen of doom.

Then, its gaze shifted—a cold, unnerving focus locking onto Woomilla. The weight of its attention was not just physical; it felt as though the shadow could see into her very soul, peeling away her thoughts, her fears, until nothing remained but the trembling core of her being. Its killing intent was not just a sensation, but an ancient, cosmic force that transcended simple mortal comprehension. Woomilla's hand instinctively shot to her neck, as though trying to shield herself from an invisible, suffocating pressure that pressed against her throat. Her breath became shallow, every inhale a battle, as though the very air around her was being twisted by the shadow's will.

Tenza moved forward, her arms outstretched in a futile attempt to block the oncoming terror, her body trembling violently. No words came—only the primal, animal instinct to protect those she loved. Yet, as her legs shook beneath her, she realized that she wasn't standing before an enemy, but a force of nature, an abyss of cosmic horror that existed beyond the boundaries of understanding. Not even the Archknight had made her feel so completely powerless. This—this thing, Sky's shadow—was not a foe to be defeated; it was a manifestation of the unknown, a thing that defied not just the rules of the game, but the very rules of existence itself.

The air hung thick with an oppressive silence, as if the universe itself held its breath. No sounds of struggle, no cries for mercy—only the weight of something ancient and incomprehensible, something that made time itself feel irrelevant. The shadow's presence wasn't just a threat to the body; it was a reminder of a deep, primordial darkness that lingered within all things. It was a being that sought to erase not just the flesh, but the very concept of life, and in its gaze, Woomilla saw not a weapon, but the reflection of an unspeakable void—a void that could swallow everything.

Tenza and Woomilla, their breaths still heavy from the recent chaos, made their way toward the stands. The weight of the battle hung in the air, but it was a momentary relief—there was still the memory of victory. Woomilla gently cradled her brother, Pinchitavo, in her arms, her concern and relief written plainly across her face. Firelez joined them, offering assistance to Woomilla as she settled Tavo, but his eyes were drawn to the arena, the anticipation gleaming in his gaze.

As they found their places, Tavo's weariness was evident. He slumped into his seat, still exhausted but content in knowing he had done his part—preparing the audience for Sky's upcoming duel, even if he had only been the curtain raiser.

"We did good, right?" Tavo murmured, glancing up at his sister, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I might not have been the main act, but..."

"You were the spark," Woomilla replied, brushing his hair back with tender affection. "Without you, this moment wouldn't have been the same."

The weight of the battle still lingered in their hearts, the tension of the duel unvarnished, and yet they found themselves caught in a new, unexpected realization. The hum of the digital connection buzzed through the air—loud, urgent, and unyielding.

"Wait," Tenza said, glancing at her interface. "Argus' stream—it's still live." Her voice carried a hint of disbelief as she leaned forward, squinting at the feed.

The chat was exploding with messages, viewers on the edge of their seats, waiting for the next move, commenting on the intensity of the battle unfolding.

"Why is the stream still active?" Firelez muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Argus hasn't been active for over ten years. Why now?"

Tenza glanced at the screen again, her mind racing. "This... doesn't make sense. Why would he suddenly go live after all this time? His account was inactive for so long... what's changed?"

Firelez shifted uncomfortably. "His intentions are unclear... but something's off." His voice dropped to a whisper, as though the very question of why now? was too dangerous to voice aloud.

Sky's shadow unfurled its wings—a breathtaking tapestry of light and darkness so exquisite that the viewers held their breath. The wings stretched outward, thin membranes of ethereal radiance that seemed to promise divinity, a transcendent beauty that shimmered with the glow of something celestial. For a fleeting moment, they were pure potential—majestic, otherworldly, an image of grace that seemed to capture the very essence of the heavens.

But beauty is fragile, and darkness—always hungrier—crept in. As the wings spread, they began to decay, their once-pristine edges fraying like silk consuming itself. Darkness seeped into their luminous form, an insidious rot that devoured the light from within. What had been a divine masterpiece now withered, crumbling into a grotesque mockery. Each feather twisted, each membrane corrupted, until the wings became a horrific poem of decay—a visual dirge for what had once been. The shadow had woven its beauty, but only to destroy it, revealing the true horror of what it represented.

The shadow's smile was sinister, as though it had stolen something precious from Sky—not just a moment, but the very possibility of redemption. Its gaze bore the triumph of something that understood corruption intimately, that knew how to transform wonder into horror with nothing more than a whisper of intent. It wasn't just a reflection—it was Sky's own worst fear made flesh, a twisted reminder of everything he had tried to bury.

The chat exploded with recognition, disbelief, and speculation. Viewers, caught between awe and confusion, began to understand: this was the same figure that had fought above the Vatican. It wasn't a stunt or a game; the battle they were witnessing was real. This was the same man who had protected humanity from celestial forces—angels and demons—facing down cataclysmic threats.

Tenza, her voice a mix of concern and awe, couldn't contain the question that had been growing in her mind since the moment the shadow had revealed itself. "How can he confront his shadow alone?"

The question reverberated through the chat, the shared disbelief turning into a collective uncertainty. This was no ordinary fight. This was not a battle with mere enemies or forces of nature. It was a war within, a confrontation with his own darkness. And the shadow that stood before Sky had already defeated professional players, beings trained for this very type of combat. How could Sky, who had already fought and defeated unimaginable enemies, hope to overcome something so intimately tied to his own soul?

In the arena, the atmosphere was charged with a heavy, psychological tension. The shadow's wings, now a grotesque parody of their former beauty, were not just a physical threat—they were a manifestation of Sky's deepest fears, the ghosts of his past sins and regrets. This was no longer a simple duel; it was a battle for his very identity. The world watched, captivated by the psychological stakes as much as the physical. Sky stood there, unwavering, facing not just the creature before him but the darkness within himself, a reflection of all he had struggled against and yet could never truly escape.

The viewers felt it—a tension far greater than anything they had witnessed in any game or match. Sky's presence was undeniable, not just as a warrior but as a man who had faced unimaginable odds and survived. His history, his legacy, hung heavy in the air, and now, as he faced this shadow, it was clear: this wasn't just about strength. It was about will, about endurance, about the power to face what he feared most—his own darkness.

Sky's resolve was the only thing standing between the light and the consuming void. The battle had begun, but it wasn't a physical struggle at first. It was a war of will, a confrontation with the essence of what it meant to be human—flawed, scarred, yet determined to fight.

Sky stood resolute, facing his shadow with a stillness that spoke of tempests contained. His wings unfurled—not as pristine artifacts of celestial perfection, but as living chronicles of survival. They emerged pearlescent and radiant, yet etched with the cartography of battle—each scar a verse, each bloodstain a stanza in an epic of resilience.

These wings were no untouched canvas of divine potential, but a manuscript written in pain, defeat, and triumph. Silvered membranes caught the light like beaten metal, their surface a topography of wounds that whispered of battles fought in realms between shadow and light. Bloodstains bloomed like dark roses against their luminescent surface, each crimson mark a defiant brushstroke declaring: I have been broken, I have known defeat, but I have rebuilt myself.

The arena trembled in silence, caught between the breath of anticipation and the weight of legend. Sky's wings were more than appendages—they were a manifesto. Where modern warriors might have fractured, Sky stood unbroken, his very existence a rebellion against the darkness that sought to consume him. These battle-scarred wings were not just a physical attribute, but a living poem of resistance—each feather a line of defiance, each scar a protest song of a toughened will.

They were a revelation: beauty is not pristine but forged. Strength is not the absence of wounds, but the courage to bear them. His wings declared to the watching world that survival is an art, that resilience is its own form of grace.

The spectators watched, transfixed, as Sky stood—not just a warrior, but a living metaphor. His wings spread wide, each movement a declaration: Here I am. Wounded, broken but still standing.

Tenza, her heart racing as she took in the full weight of the moment, turned to Firelez, her voice full of awe and concern. "How can he face this alone? His shadow, this reflection of himself... how is he not afraid?"

Firelez's gaze never wavered from the arena, his eyes reflecting the same fire that burned in Sky's heart. "He is afraid, Tenza. But he's taking responsibility. He won't back down, because he believes in the heroes that shaped him. The ones who made him who he is today. And above all, it was his mother who taught him never to surrender—not even when she was about to die."

Tenza's breath caught. There was a depth to his words that resonated deeply within her. "His mother?"

"Yes," Firelez nodded slowly. "She was the first hero he ever knew. She gave him the strength to keep going, even in the face of death itself. Her teachings are a part of him—woven into every fiber of his being. It's not just his power that drives him. It's the legacy of those who fought before him, and especially, the one who raised him to never give up."

The battle between Sky and his shadow transcended the realm of physical combat—it became a war of the mind, a landscape of internal warfare where every strike, every dodge, was an echo of repressed memories and fractured identities. His shadow wasn't merely an opponent; it was a mirror, reflecting the darkest recesses of Sky's psyche, manifesting the unresolved traumas, the suppressed fears, the broken parts of his soul.

Each movement became a thought made flesh. When the shadow lunged, it embodied Sky's deepest self-doubts—those dark whispers of inadequacy. When Sky parried, he wasn't simply blocking an attack, but fighting against the weight of his own internalized fears and failures. The wings—once a symbol of divine grace—had transformed into living metaphors of psychological states, each wound a buried memory, each scar crystallized into a defense mechanism.

The arena itself warped, shifting between reality and the mind's eye. The boundary between self and other dissolved as the shadow morphed and shifted: at times, it was Sky himself, at other times, his greatest fears, and still others, the versions of himself he had tried to forget. The air crackled with tension as the viewers at home were left to wonder: Was Sky fighting an external entity, or was this a confrontation with the fragmented parts of his own consciousness?

Memories bled into the fight. Each blow released suppressed emotions, each block a desperate defense against psychological invasion. The shadow knew Sky's deepest vulnerabilities—knew how to weaponize them. Childhood traumas, moments of weakness, the silent failures that had never seen the light of day. The shadow drew its strength from these memories, using them as tools of destruction.

This wasn't a battle to be won through strength alone—it was a battle for self-acceptance. Sky had to integrate the shadow, to understand its origin, and to recognize the pain that had given birth to it. Victory would not come through physical triumph, but through psychological reconciliation.

The shadow's voice slithered like poison, each word a blade more precise than any strike. "Your mother," it hissed, "died because of your weakness. You were nothing but a child when the darkness took her—powerless, trembling, watching her life drain away while your nascent powers slumbered like a useless dream."

Sky's wings twitched—each feather a memory of resilience. The shadow continued, its voice a cruel mockery. "You arrived too late. Too weak. Too broken."

Spectral tendrils of darkness wrapped around Sky's memories, attempting to choke them, to suffocate the hope he had fought so hard to hold onto. But Sky stood like the fundamental rock of a mountain, a living homage to the heroes who had shaped him. The blood of Edmond Dantès ran in his veins—the spirit of revenge tempered by honor. Captain Nemo's unwavering resolve coursed through his thoughts. Tomoe Gozen's legendary fearlessness burned in his heart, a warrior who had defied impossible odds with an everlasting spirit.

"I learned from those who never surrender," Sky roared, his voice a thunderclap of defiance, reverberating through the arena. Each syllable was a tribute to the heroes who had taught him that true strength is not the absence of fear, but the courage to face it.

The shadow materialized memories like weapons—his mother's last breath, the crushing weight of grief, the unbearable silence of helplessness. But Sky had been forged in the crucible of legendary spirits. Like D'Artagnan, he understood that a true warrior's strength lies not in avoiding pain, but in transforming it.

Physical blows intertwined with psychological strikes. Each punch became a memory of loss. Each sweep of Sky's wings carried the weight of unresolved trauma. The shadow tried to fragment his sense of self, but Sky's resolve was a mosaic of resilience—each piece carefully placed by the heroes who had guided him.

"You were too late," the shadow snarled, its voice dripping with venom. "Too weak to save her." The battle was no longer just physical—it had become a war of narratives, of memories, of the very essence of heroism. Sky was fighting not just his shadow, but the universal human struggle against despair—the voices that tell us we are not enough, that we are defined by our failures.

Sky wings unfurled fully as living proof of everything he had overcome. "I will never surrender," he declared, his voice ringing with the authority of a thousand battles fought and won. "Because I am the sum of all who have fought before me, and I will carry their strength into the future."