The final charge

Vel'Merath stood amidst the shimmering remnants of their last clash, breath uneven and eyes scanning the battlefield.

The dust had barely begun to settle, but already he could sense something was wrong.

The silence was misleading. It wasn't over.

Menma, still standing, his body radiating dark heat, smiled. "Not yet," he said coolly, his voice low and steady.

That single sentence was enough to snap Vel'Merath out of his momentary relief.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. He had genuinely thought it was finished.

Vel'Merath's expression hardened as he stepped back, his fingers tightening. "Fine," he muttered, "then I'll just end it again."

This time, he didn't hold back.

With a quick motion of his hands, Vel'Merath summoned the shimmering orbs of his Full Moon ability.

They lit up the space around him with a cold silver light, humming with restrained force.

But this time, there was a difference. A change in strategy.

Instead of unleashing them all at once like before, he adjusted his approach.

He released them one by one, each orb launching with calculated precision.

One after another, they flew forward, pulsing with volatile energy, hunting Menma with relentless intent.

But Menma wasn't the same as before either.

Now utilizing his creation ability with greater finesse,

Menma began hopping through the portals—ring after glowing ring—dodging the deadly projectiles as if he had rehearsed it a hundred times.

His movements were seamless, as if the world bent around his decisions.

Each orb missed him by inches, exploding harmlessly in the background while he danced between them with unnerving confidence.

Then, suddenly, a new ring appeared—right behind Vel'Merath.

Without hesitation, Menma emerged from it like a specter, his eyes now burning brighter, his aura heavier.

Something had changed—his power. It was growing. His demon side had progressed—now at 67%.

His form was more stable, more in sync with the corrupting power that once threatened to tear him apart. His control had sharpened.

With a wordless roar, Menma swung his blade with deadly intent, aiming to take Vel'Merath's head clean off his shoulders. But the strike never landed.

Vel'Merath spun around just in time, summoning a protective barrier that flared to life around him.

The attack struck the shield and sparked violently, sending waves of light outward.

Then the barrier shifted. Transformed. It splintered into dozens of glowing fragments—like little sentient lights—

that scattered and then darted toward Menma, chasing him with eerie persistence.

Menma, unbothered, smirked and leapt through another portal just before the lights could reach him. In an instant, he was gone again.

Vel'Merath scowled. His jaw clenched as he glared at the swirling remnants of the portal. "

"This creation of yours…" he growled under his breath, "such a damn haze to deal with."

He barely finished speaking when another ring opened a few feet ahead—and out stepped Menma once more, wearing that same infuriating smile.

"You think you can just keep running?" Vel'Merath growled, his voice sharper now, rising with frustration.

Menma tilted his head slightly, as if amused. He didn't answer.

Vel'Merath's eyes flared with resolve. "You think you can dodge these?"

With both arms extended, he activated his Full Moon form again—but this time, something shifted deep within him.

He didn't just summon the glowing orbs. He screamed.

A guttural, primal scream that echoed across the battleground, vibrating in the bones of everything nearby.

The orbs, once pale white, slowly began turning red.

Crimson light pulsed from them like blood flowing through a heartbeat. This wasn't just a visual change.

This was a boost. One he could only use once per fight. A trump card born of necessity.

Vel'Merath clenched his fists as he declared, "This is my Limit Surge. You won't escape now."

The crimson balls hovered in place for a brief moment—silent, deadly.

Then they fired.

But not at Menma directly. Instead, beams of red light shot from the orbs, streaking both upwards and downwards,

surrounding the battlefield like the bars of a cage—no, a birdcage.

An inescapable prison of burning light.

There was no gap large enough to slip through. It closed in tighter and tighter.

Menma's eyes narrowed as he analyzed the trap. Then he whispered, "Let's do this."

Just before the beams clamped shut on him, he jumped into a portal and vanished.

What followed was a blur of motion.

Menma hopping from portal to portal in rapid succession, appearing in one moment, disappearing the next, then appearing from another angle entirely.

The beams fired continuously, scanning and striking at every flicker of movement—but Vel'Merath couldn't tell if he was landing hits or not.

His orbs continued to surge and fire. The air sizzled with light, filled with the stench of burnt energy and cracked stone.

Time stretched. Every moment felt longer than the last.

Vel'Merath's breaths grew heavier. His vision blurred.

He tried to keep up, tried to focus on Menma's pattern, but the constant portal shifts and unrelenting use of his own boost began to wear on him.

Minutes passed. Maybe seconds. It was impossible to tell.

Then finally, he reached his limit.

With a frustrated shout, Vel'Merath withdrew the Full Moon creation entirely.

The red lights flickered and vanished, leaving only silence behind.

His arms dropped to his sides, muscles aching, lungs screaming for breath.

He stood still, trying to make sense of what had just happened. "Did I get him?" he muttered aloud, his voice hoarse. "Is it done?"

But the battlefield offered no answer.

Then, as the final glow of his creation faded, something sharp brushed the skin beneath his chin. Slowly, his eyes widened.

Before him, so close he could feel the metal's chill, was the tip of Menma's blade.

Menma had already reappeared. Already moved. Already won this exchange.

He stood firm, weapon raised, calm expression unchanged.

No signs of exhaustion. No damage visible.

Vel'Merath's heart pounded. He hadn't seen it coming.

He had been so focused on attack after attack, so consumed by the strategy, the energy expenditure, and the timing—

that he had left himself open in the end.

And Menma had capitalized on it without a second thought.