Gradus Ascensions XX

The duel between Sky and his shadow intensified, their movements a blur of lightning-fast precision. They soared through the crumbling arena, their strikes a symphony of destruction and grace. Each katana they drew from the ether gleamed with lethal brilliance, only to shatter moments later under the relentless force of their clashes.

From the stands, Tenza rose, trembling—not with fear, but with the weight of realization. Sky wasn't just fighting his shadow; he was showing her, and the entire world, the unattainable heights of cosmic combat they would need to reach. Pinchitavo sat wide-eyed despite his exhaustion, his awe barely contained. Woomilla couldn't tear her gaze away, her breath caught as the clash rippled through the fabric of the game. Firelez's right hand rested on his gauntlet, the compass embedded within it glowing and pointing toward Tenza, as if drawn by something unseen.

The chat was a tempest of commentary, voices from across the globe struggling to capture the magnitude of what they were witnessing. "Is this still a game?" one viewer wrote. "Even the world championship has never shown combat like this." Another added, "They're moving like gods… no, like forces of nature."

The duel unfolded like a dance across the stars, their footwork so precise and fluid that it seemed to ripple through the cosmos itself. Every strike shattered sound and light, sending shockwaves that crumbled the ground below and scattered debris like shooting stars.

The shadow's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and venomous. "Your 'heroic' journey is nothing but an escape—running from grief, from vulnerability, from the raw pain of loss. You've built a cage around your broken heart and called it heroism."

Sky parried, his blade sparking against the shadow's, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions. "A cage with an open door," he replied, his tone resolute. "I'm not a hero like the ones I idolize—I learned from them. And yes, my heart is broken, but you can't break what's already in pieces."

Their duel ascended into a realm beyond the physical, each strike imbued with anima—the mystical energy that flowed from their very souls. Sky's anima flared like a supernova, enveloping him in radiant blue light, each swing of his blade trailing streams of brilliance. The shadow's anima was its antithesis, a malevolent force of darkness that pulsed with chaotic intensity. Their energies collided in dazzling bursts of light and shadow, illuminating the arena in a kaleidoscope of cosmic power.

The air crackled with tension, the weight of their combined anima distorting the very fabric of the game. With every clash, the arena trembled, shockwaves rippling outward and scattering debris in concentric waves. The ground fractured under the force of their strikes, the battlefield becoming a canvas of destruction.

Their wings beat with blinding speed, each movement a calculated extension of their will. Sky's wings, luminous and battle-scarred, carved through the air with purpose, while the shadow's corrupted appendages moved with a twisted grace, their edges fraying like silk unraveling into darkness.

The psychological warfare was relentless. The shadow's voice hissed again, its words laced with cruel precision. "Do you think they'd be proud of you, the heroes you worship? Or would they pity the boy who can't let go of their ghosts?"

Sky's strikes faltered for a fraction of a second, the shadow seizing on the hesitation to launch a flurry of attacks. But Sky recovered, his eyes blazing with determination. His response was measured, a thunderous defiance wrapped in quiet resolve. "I carry them with me, not as burdens, but as lessons. They aren't ghosts—they're my guides. And I've never needed their pity, only their wisdom."

The duel reached a fever pitch, their anima intertwining in a cosmic dance of light and darkness. Each clash was an explosion of energy, a physical tribute to their unparalleled strength and skill. Their movements were a symphony of destruction and creation, every strike a note in a celestial song.

From the stands, Tenza felt the weight of the battle pressing against her, not just physically, but emotionally. Sky wasn't merely fighting his shadow—he was fighting the doubts and fears that lived in every person who had ever dared to dream.

The arena shimmered, no longer a battlefield confined to the game's mechanics, but a stage for a confrontation that transcended reality itself. Sky's wings blazed like a phoenix rising from its ashes. The shadow's corrupted form twisted and writhed, its every move a reflection of Sky's deepest fears.

As light and darkness collided in an endless cascade, the duel stood on the precipice of revelation. The world watched, breathless, as the clash of anima illuminated not just the arena, but the unbreakable spirit of the human soul.

The shadow's voice cut through the air, once more, cold and precise, like a knife slicing through flesh. "You think you knew your mother? That her lessons were love? That those heroic tales were pure connection?"

The shadow raised a spectral hand, its fingers weaving through the shimmering threads of Sky's memories. With meticulous cruelty, it began to unravel them, pulling apart moments of tenderness and rewriting them into calculated maneuvers.

"Every Arthurian story, every whispered tale of heroism—they weren't inspiration. They were instructions," the shadow hissed, its words laced with venom. "She wasn't raising a son. She was assembling a weapon."

Fragments of memory twisted before Sky's eyes. The warm glow of bedtime stories transformed into the cold calculus of strategic briefings. The gentle guidance of her voice took on a chilling edge, as though every word had been a carefully placed gear in a machine of her design.

"She knew she was going to die," the shadow continued, its tone steady and deliberate, each word a psychological dagger. "She chose her death, orchestrated it to give you the ultimate motivation. You weren't her child—you were her mission!"

The world around them blurred as the weight of the shadow's accusations bore down on Sky. The arena seemed to shrink, the battlefield collapsing inward as if the game itself conspired to trap him in this moment of doubt.

"You've asked yourself these questions, haven't you?" the shadow taunted, leaning closer. "Late at night, in the silence, under cardboard stars, when the grief was too much. You wondered if you were a failure. If she looked at you and saw nothing but wasted potential."

Sky's wings faltered for a brief moment, the blue light dimming. But his voice, though quiet, carried a strength that refused to be extinguished. "I did," he said, each word steady and deliberate. "I believed exactly what you're saying. That I was a failed weapon. That my life was nothing more than her unfinished strategy."

The shadow smiled, sensing the cracks in his defenses. But Sky raised his gaze, his eyes burning with defiance. "But then I learned. From Dantès. From the Bronze Saints. From every hero who turned their pain into strength. My mother's lessons weren't a cage—they were a forge. And I chose to step into the fire."

The shadow recoiled, but before it could strike again, the battlefield itself began to shift.

Far above the arena, unseen by the crowd, the agents of the Grand Lodge manipulated the battlefield with unnatural precision. Their goal was clear: Sky had to lose, not just for the shadow to triumph, but to maintain the global narrative that Latin America could never win, could never rise beyond its limitations.

Invisible algorithms shifted the game's physics. The shadow gained impossible speed, its movements a blur that defied logic. Each strike landed with the force of a collapsing star, shaking the arena and sending cracks spider webbing through the ground. The Grand Lodge's influence elevated the shadow to the level of an old god—unstoppable, inhuman, and invincible.

In the stands, Tenza gripped the railing, her knuckles white. "This isn't just a fight anymore," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Firelez's gauntlet pulsed with energy, the compass pointing furiously at her. "No," he said, his voice grim. "They're trying to destroy him. Not just his body—but his hope. The hope he's trying to give to you, to all of us."

Sky's resolve burned brighter. He wasn't fighting just for himself, or even for his heroes. He was fighting for the people watching—the ones who had been told they would never rise, who had been crushed under the weight of systems designed to keep them down.

"This isn't just my fight," he muttered, his voice low but firm. "This is for every person who's ever been told they aren't enough."

The shadow struck with supernatural speed, its blade tearing through the air like a bolt of darkness. Sky barely managed to block, the impact sending him skidding across the fractured arena floor. The Grand Lodge's manipulations pushed the shadow further, each attack calibrated to exploit Sky's vulnerabilities, both physical and psychological.

"You can't win," the shadow sneered, its voice a chorus of mockery. "Not against me. Not against them. You're an anomaly—a mistake. And mistakes don't last."

But Sky refused to yield. His wings flared, their blue light piercing through the shadow's darkness. With each strike, he channeled not just his own strength but the resilience of those he fought for. He could feel their hopes, their dreams, their defiance coursing through him.

The shadow lunged again, its strikes raining down with relentless ferocity. Sky met each blow, his movements growing sharper, more precise. He wasn't just defending—he was adapting.

The arena quaked under the force of their duel, the air thick with raw energy. Light and darkness clashed in bursts of brilliance, illuminating the battlefield in a chaotic symphony.

As the shadow prepared to deliver what it thought would be the final blow, Sky's voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. "You think I fight for myself?" he shouted, his wings blazing. "This fight isn't about me—it never was. It's about them. The ones watching. The ones who've been told they can't. You can cheat, you can stack the odds, but you'll never break the spirit of a people who refuse to give up."

The shadow hesitated for the first time, its strikes faltering as Sky's words echoed through the arena. The Grand Lodge's manipulations couldn't erase the truth of his defiance.

And in that moment, Sky surged forward, his blade burning with the light of his anima, a blue arc that cleaved through the darkness. The fight wasn't over, but for the first time, the shadow wavered.

Before Sky's katana could reach the shadow, a figure materialized before him, her blade meeting his with a hauntingly familiar grace. Tomoe Gozen stood as a flawless embodiment of precision, her movements a dance of deadly beauty. Her parry deflected Sky's strike, redirecting it harmlessly away. Sky's heart sank as he took in her form—both inspiring and devastating.

More figures emerged, stepping forth like phantoms from his dreams, now twisted into nightmares. Edmond Dantès moved with predatory cunning, his strikes calculated to dismantle Sky's defenses. D'Artagnan advanced with unmatched swordsmanship, his blade a blur of elegant yet unrelenting fury. A towering presence resembling Captain Nemo wielded his strategic brilliance with devastating efficiency, each calculated movement designed to trap Sky in an inescapable web. And then, a radiant figure streaked across the battlefield, his attacks as relentless and dazzling as a meteor shower. Each strike hit Sky with a force that could shatter mountains, driving him back with brutal precision.

Sky's confusion turned to horror. These were his heroes—figures who had shaped his soul, who had inspired him to rise beyond his pain. And now, they were instruments of his destruction.

The assault was relentless, a whirlwind of skill and strength that left Sky battered and breathless. Tomoe's strikes were swift and precise, each movement a masterclass in warrior spirit. Dantès circled like a predator, exploiting every opening with surgical precision. D'Artagnan's blade danced, finding cracks in Sky's defense with unnerving ease. Captain Nemo's tactics left Sky no ground to recover, driving him into corners with merciless precision. The radiant figure streaked across the battlefield again, his strikes descending like meteors—each one a cosmic hammer, sending shockwaves through Sky's battered frame.

One particularly brutal strike hit Sky squarely in the chest, the force sending him careening into the arena wall. The impact cracked the stone, leaving Sky slumped against the surface, battered, bloodied, and gasping for air.

Tears streamed down his face, cutting through the dirt and blood. He struggled to stand, his legs trembling beneath him. His voice, choked with anguish, broke through the sound of clashing blades. "Why? Why must it be this way?"

His heroes didn't answer. They pressed their attack, their forms moving with mechanical precision, their eyes devoid of the warmth and inspiration they once held. The shadow had turned Sky's deepest loves into weapons against him, their attacks not just physical, but emotional daggers aimed at his heart.

Sky's katana trembled in his hands as he raised it to defend himself. His movements were sluggish, each block a desperate attempt to survive. His cries echoed through the arena, a mixture of pain, disbelief, and defiance. "I don't want to fight you," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

The radiant figure struck again, his blows coming faster than the eye could follow, streaks of light carving through the air. Each impact felt like a star imploding against Sky's battered body, the force driving him deeper into the wall. The audience gasped, their voices rising in a chaotic tide of disbelief and sorrow.

Tomoe's blade flashed, her strikes forcing Sky to his knees. Edmond appeared beside her, his blade poised to deliver another precise blow. D'Artagnan stepped forward, his sword gleaming, its edge a reminder of the skill Sky had always admired.

From the stands, Tenza turned to Firelez, her knuckles white. Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "He can't do this… he can't fight them."

Firelez's voice was low, grim. "He doesn't want to. That's the point."

Sky endured, his spirit refusing to shatter. But the weight of the battle pressed down on him, each strike a reminder of the respect and love he held for these figures, now weaponized against him. His cries filled the arena, a poignant melody of pain and defiance.

The heroes advanced, their forms unrelenting. Sky struggled to his feet, his body trembling but his resolve burning fiercely. He didn't lift his blade to strike them—he couldn't. Instead, he raised it to defend, to endure, to remind himself that he was not fighting them, but the shadow that twisted them.

Through the haze of pain and tears, he whispered, "I won't let you break me. Not like this."

The battle raged on, a clash of cosmic wills. And though Sky stood battered and bloodied, his spirit remained unbroken—undeniable evidence to the strength of a broken heart that refused to surrender, even when faced with the unbearable weight of his own heroes turned against him.

The shadow's laughter was impersonal, precise, like a knife cutting into Sky's essence. "You believe yourself unbreakable. But every fortress has its weakness. Every hero, his fatal flaw. Shall we explore yours?"

Sky knelt on the fractured arena floor, gasping for air, blood streaking his face. Yet his voice, though broken, carried a humility that cut deeper than defiance. "You think of me as a hero? I'm flattered. But I'm just me."

The shadow's cold smile widened. Its voice softened, becoming almost intimate, a predator whispering to its prey. "Just you? No. You're a carefully constructed narrative. Every moment, every lesson, every breath you've taken has been a preparation. Your mother didn't raise a child—she engineered a weapon."

The shadow's tone shifted again, now unearthly, now dangerous. "Do you want to know the precise moment she decided you would be her instrument of vengeance? The exact second her love transformed into strategy?"

Each word was a dagger, not designed to shatter but to fracture, to seed microscopic cracks in Sky's sense of self. Yet, Sky's answer came, quiet but firm, his voice trembling with pain and resolve. "And what if I want to be her instrument of vengeance? Even Edmond Dantès was one. Why couldn't I?"

Sky's gaze lifted to Edmond, and though he knelt battered and bloodied, he found solace in the radiance of his hero. "I'm content to stay here, below your brilliance," he whispered, a faint smile on his lips.

The shadow froze, caught off guard by the simplicity and sincerity of his words. Its response came slower, more calculated. "An instrument... interesting choice of words. But Dantès was consumed by vengeance. It devoured him, leaving nothing but a hollow mechanism of retribution. Are you prepared to become nothing more than the sharp edge of someone else's pain?"

It began to circle him—not in motion, but in thought, each word a probing question, testing the limits of Sky's defenses. "And me? I am no instrument. I am the unfiltered truth you've spent your life running from—the parts of yourself you've built walls to contain."

Sky lifted his head, his voice raw but steady. "But you're the one running from me. You think I don't understand Edmond's ultimate choice? Letting go?" He paused, his battered wings trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. "I don't need to let go. Because if I don't carry the mantle of the herald of justice for this universe, who will? It's you and me, partner."

The shadow faltered. Its certainty wavered, the precision of its attack disrupted by the profound understanding in Sky's words. For a moment, its voice softened, almost curious. "You think you understand," it hissed, "but understanding is not the same as surviving. Dantès' journey was a crucible that nearly destroyed him. The herald of justice? You're not a savior—you're a vessel of collective trauma."

Sky didn't flinch. His reply was quiet, resolute. "Exactly. You just described what it means to be the herald of justice. To hold the sins, the failures, the traumas of entire civilizations. Not to decide what justice is—but to stand strong so the indifferent universe doesn't win."

The shadow's form flickered, its essence trembling. It wasn't breaking—it was changing. Sky's voice grew softer, inviting. "You try to break me, but I'm already broken. Even Apophis tried, and he couldn't succeed. I understand you. You're part of me, and I am part of you. Stop fighting. Join me. Become part of my ego."

For the first time, the shadow hesitated. Its voice cracked, the inhuman detachment crumbling. "You... you would invite me in? Not as an enemy, but as part of yourself?"

The arena seemed to still, the universe holding its breath. The boundary between Sky and the shadow began to blur, their forms merging not through violence, but through deliberate, profound integration. The shadow's voice, once venomous, softened. "Not defeat," it murmured, "but transformation."

Its essence shimmered, no longer an attack but a negotiation. A fragile equilibrium formed, the light and darkness finding their place. The shadow spoke again, its voice now indistinguishable from Sky's. "Are you prepared to hold all of this? Every sin. Every failure. Every trauma?"

Sky's answer came even as pain wracked his body, the shadow's katana plunging into his shoulder, his HP dropping to critical levels. Yet he smiled through the agony. "Yes. Join me, and see how I'll lead this universe into a future of peace."

The shadow's form trembled, its edges flickering with uncertainty. "Peace," it repeated, as though tasting the word for the first time. Slowly, the word began to transform—not into weakness, but into strength.

But just as the shadow began to merge fully with Sky, it froze. A scream ripped through its being, raw and guttural. Its hands shot to its head, its form shuddering violently. The Grand Lodge had intervened in full force. Their will, insidious and unrelenting, tore into the shadow, wrenching it back into their control.

The shadow's katana rose, trembling. Its voice, once transformed, now fractured and distorted. "I... I don't want to—"

The Grand Lodge's influence tightened its grip. The shadow's trembling arm steadied. Its blade pointed toward Sky, a weapon once again.

Sky looked up, his body broken but his gaze firm. The shadow's form surged forward, the katana poised to strike.

The arena held its breath. The world watched, powerless.