Nightmare’s End: Part One

Beneath the shattered battlefield, beneath the suspended isles drifting like ancient gods above the sky's black abyss—far below, where the festering abominations lurked in the island's subterranean belly—something unspeakably strange pulsed in the dark.

The air was thick with power. A halo of runes encircled the entire Isle, glowing faintly with an austere white radiance—pale, cold, and unwavering. They formed a perfect ring around the floating landmass, humming with restrained fury. Each rune was etched with a precision so intricate, so refined, it seemed only a timeless master of sorcery could have carved them.

And indeed, he had lived long enough to earn that title a thousandfold.

Lich stood on a translucent platform suspended in midair, his skeletal form framed against the eerie runelight. Though his face was naught but bone, the subtle tilt of his skull and the slow tap of skeletal fingers betrayed his disdain—as if even death could not spare him from the madness of his master's ambition.

Without warning, a spirit materialized beside him—beautiful, spectral, and dreadful to behold. Miseria. Her presence was like a lullaby sung by a corpse: haunting, soft, and filled with an unspoken dread. She wore a simple black dress that seemed to drink in the darkness around her, its surface glimmering faintly with constellations, as if stitched from night itself. A sheer veil concealed her features, but the elegance and horryfing beauty that radiated from her figure could not be hidden.

Miseria exhaled slowly, tilting her head as she observed Lich, who stood as the lone sentinel, maintaining the delicate stability of the runic circuit.

"This is madness," she murmured.

The runes had not been inscribed to protect the island. No noble intent guided their design. Rather, they served a singular, ominous purpose: to anchor a ritual circle—one Klaus had prepared long before the first blade was drawn or the first scream pierced the battlefield.

Miseria raised her gaze, and what she saw drew a shiver through her incorporeal form. Above them, the Vectors of spiritual essence stretched like lattices of violet flame, forming ethereal highways that spiraled into a distorted plane where time writhed and curled upon itself like a dying serpent. The currents of light wove together, coalescing into the shape of an octahedral prism, its center a mass of concentrated spirit essence—dense, seething, and terrifying in its intensity.

Her breath caught in her throat. Awe and revulsion danced in equal measure across her thoughts.

A singularity of spirit essence.

All of it—harvested. Wrenched from the dying breaths of fallen champions on the battlefield. Transcendent warriors of the Kingdom of Hope. Innocents incinerated in the Ivory City by Sevirax's wrath. Thousands. Tens of thousands.

They were here. All of them. Trapped, distilled into this colossal font of power.

It was enough. More than enough. Enough to transform Klaus into a Titan — even if he was a beast rather than a demon. Enough to form and drown all seven of his spirit cores in raw essence.

Miseria's spectral form trembled faintly. For all her bitterness toward Klaus, for all her sighs and complaints… this—this was suicidal.

"He's gambling everything," she whispered, eyes glimmering behind her veil. "Is he truly that mad?"

Her voice carried a weight of quiet concern.

The ancient sorcerer turned his skull toward her, his gaze empty but searing with silent judgment. No warmth touched his voice—only unvarnished truth.

"If fortune favors him… perhaps a thirty percent chance. But let us not waste time on sentiment." He paused, flames flickering in his sockets."Have you finished the final sequence of runes?"

Miseria scowled, scoffing in irritation. That was it? Their master might be ripped apart, his soul undone, and this dry-boned bastard treated it like a mundane calculation?

She huffed and turned her gaze upward again, face hidden but rage palpable.

"Everything is ready. The circle is closed."

Lich nodded slowly, his skeletal fingers twitching in faint excitement. The flames in his sockets pulsed brighter, betraying a rare flicker of anticipation.

"Good," he said. "Then we wait."

There was a pause. A long, dreadful silence.

"Because if this works…" he added, almost to himself, "then everything changes. Everything."

The final piece of Klaus's grand design had yet to be tested. All of this—this insane ritual, this dance of spirits and madness—was built upon theory.

And now, they were gambling the future on whether the theory would become reality.

He leaned forward, watching the storm of spirit essence begin to tremble, collapse, and converge.

"How… fascinating."

____

With a wavering step, Klaus approached the imprisoned deity. His expression was a warped fusion of exhaustion and mania, yet twisted into a grin of unrelenting ecstasy. He extended his hand toward the chains that bound Hope, and the ritual began.

Amethyst flames surged around his form, crackling in feverish spirals. An illusory key—glimmering with spectral light—materialized in his palm, a symbol of defiance, of rebellion. It was the key to unshackle a god.

He poured everything into it. His strength, his essence, his soul—funneling it into one singular, reckless act: he would shatter the Chains of Hope. Even if Noctis or the One in the North remained standing, he would do this. Alone, if he must.

Around him, the air thickened, suffocating beneath invisible pressure. The alabaster floor, once radiant with sacred light, was now slick with blood—his blood. He clenched his teeth, forcing more power into the key. But how could a mere mortal sever bindings forged by a god?

He laughed—a raw, unhinged sound—his voice cracking under the weight of pain and lunacy. Hope stood still, silent, watching him as one might observe an insect struggling in the rain. Her form was a paradox of beauty and horror, shadow and radiance, incomprehensible in its divine complexity. She did not acknowledge him, and Her silence stoked his rage like fuel to a fire.

Focusing on Conquest, Klaus summoned the full might of his will. The resonance of it rang through the chamber as he bellowed with equal parts rage, desperation, and madness:

"Do something! I can't do this alone! If you don't fight to be free—if you don't even try—then what the hell is the point of all this!? Damn it, help me!"

Still, she gave him no answer. Only stared down at her own chains, unmoving, unbothered.

The vortex of swirling essence surrounding Klaus deepened, his form flickering like a flame in a storm. He had become the eye of a spiritual maelstrom. The entire tower seemed to tremble with his cry.

"Maybe I don't understand you! Maybe I never will! But I know this—everyone who's ever yearned for freedom has tasted chains! So fight! Struggle with me! Help me free you!"

And then—finally—Hope stirred.

She looked at him. The full weight of her gaze descended like an avalanche. Klaus could not read her expression, could not decipher that eternal, veiled face. Was it pity? Amusement? Rage? Did she want to be free? He could not tell. Her form was too vast, too alien for mortal senses to comprehend.

But he knew one thing.

Three chains remained—and those final bindings, while powerful, trembled beneath the weight of her suppressed essence. He could feel it: pressure coiled like a collapsing star, poised to detonate.

Taking another step forward, his amethyst flames flared higher, scorching the air with spiritual fury. He poured more into the ritual. More power. More soul. More self.

"I won't let you go unless you bless me!" he roared. "So do it! Give me the power to set you free!"

Desperation reached its peak. His voice grew hoarse, essence bleeding from his soul like light from a star on the verge of collapse.

Then, in an instant, the grand hall ignited.

Light—blinding, holy, absolute—roared to life.

But it was not alone.

Darkness surged to meet it, coalescing into a glorious spectacle—light and shadow intertwining in a dance that transcended mortal comprehension. It was the marriage of heaven and abyss, of creation and annihilation. The Ivory Tower became a cathedral of divine paradox.

"Ha... ha ha ha... kekekhahahahahahahaha!"

The sound echoed through the tower like a curse—or a hymn. His eyes gleamed with deranged euphoria, pupils wide with ecstasy.

He had done it. Somehow, he had scammed a god.

He knew she had seen through his deceit. Hope was no fool—she had likely understood his plan from the start. But she had no choice. If she wanted freedom, if she longed to escape her bondage, then she had to pay the price.

And she had paid it.

He felt the spell respond, announcing its result in a tongue he could no longer hear. But the words didn't matter. Nothing did.

Not compared to this.

The euphoria of triumph, the ecstasy of fulfilled desire, coursed through him like a drug, burning hotter than any fire, sweeter than any dream. He trembled in its grip.

Even through the haze of elation, a faint thread of reason held on—barely. With great effort, he sent a mental command to his spirits.

The final act had begun.

_____

Hassan accepted the glass knife from Loki in silence, its translucent edge gleaming faintly with cursed promise. He would slow Sevirax's healing, dragging the dragon down with the devouring grip of his darkness. Meanwhile, Loki was already gnawing away at the beast's will, corroding Sevirax's very resolve to fight. The Immortal Beast would die before its wounds could knit back together, and that gave Klaus no more than ten fleeting minutes to complete his task.

His crimson eyes, like molten rubies, flickered toward the tower. But before he could fully shift his attention, something pressed into his mind—not a thought, not a command, but an intent. It was not spoken, yet it was understood. The time had come.

It was time to end the life of the Ivory Dragon.

A quiet sigh escaped him, weightless yet profound. His towering, armored figure shifted. Crimson eyes lit with burning clarity, he turned to Loki and spoke — each word laced with glacial finality.

"Do what our lord commanded… or I'll devour you as I once devoured the sun."

Loki, amused and scornful, let out a breathless chuckle. His wings shimmered as he descended from the smoky heavens, his posture that of a jester daring fate.

"Bold words for a beast playing knight. Tell me, what makes you believe you can stop me, mongrel?"

The dragon struggled to rise, his massive form bound by the living blackness that Hassan had conjured. Darkness that clung like tar, like hands of the underworld itself, dragging the beast downward. Only the dragon's head remained above it—his final pride, still held high.

But inside, Sevirax was already broken.

A thousand years of resistance had left his soul in shards — tortured in the Temple of Astral Pain, defeated by Noctis, driven to incinerate his own kin, and cursed to live on after his brother's death. His mind, once radiant and mighty, was little more than splintered glass reflecting agony.

Loki found it easy to slip past the shattered walls of Sevirax's psyche. He left behind a seed—created by Miseria, at Klaus's behest. A false memory. A gift wrapped in deceit. Not real, but real enough to offer a kinder death. A lie... so merciful it felt like truth.

Hassan stepped forward, expression hidden beneath his armor, and raised the glass knife. With practiced precision, he plunged it into Sevirax's chest, piercing his flesh. A being once immortal and transcendent was now, again, only mortal.

A guttural, mournful roar escaped the dragon's ruined throat — a sound that trembled the very skies. It echoed across the flaming city like a requiem. But Sevirax did not die.

His body trembled as he fought against death, against fate itself. He ignored the ones who felled him. Ignored pain. Ignored despair. Crawling forward, dragging his enormous form through fire and blood, he made his final approach to the Ivory Tower.

The sanctuary he had sworn to protect.

Blood marked his trail like fallen petals. With agonizing slowness, the white dragon wrapped himself around the towering pagoda, curling protectively as if his presence alone could guard it. With a final exhale, he lowered his head before its gates, golden eyes dimming.

It was his duty.

His oath.

Even in death.

He had promised.

And as flames devoured the world around him, Sevirax saw none of it.

Thanks to Miseria's false memory, Sevirax saw a city untouched by war — pure and resplendent beneath a gentle sun. Streets gleaming with marble, filled with laughter, kindness, and song. No flames. No ashes. Only peace.

In that dream, the Ivory City still stood proud. In that dream, his people still lived.

And within that dream, Sevirax — Blessed of the Sun — found rest.

Hassan stood over the corpse, unmoving. Two enormous hands of darkness rose from the earth and gently closed the dragon's eyes.

"Rest in peace… you deserve that much, at the very least."

Then he turned his gaze to the Ivory Tower, its silhouette untouched by the ruin around it. His voice, deep and low, rumbled like distant thunder.

"…I wish you luck, my lord."

***

Hey guys!

Yeah, I know—I said the nightmare would end in the next chapter… and I meant it! But when I started writing, I realized the finale was turning into a four-thousand-word monster. Sooo… I made an executive decision to split it into two parts. You're welcome (or sorry, depending on how you feel about it)!

Anyway—what do you think so far? Did you enjoy it? Did anything feel off or awkward? If you spotted any mistakes or have cool ideas to make the story even better, feel free to drop a comment. I really appreciate the feedback!

As always, thanks a ton for your support—and enjoy the ride!

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