Novel Full Chapter 363: A Raised Hand IV
Chapter 363: A Raised Hand IV
***
{Outside The Projection}
Ah… here it was.
The Fall.
It had arrived.
A moment spoken of in every history book.
The moment when Cyrus defended all of humanity.
The moment when Malik assassinated him before them all.
Where he took his blood and…
Was that an exaggeration?
They had to see it.
And those who’ve already seen it?
They had to see it too.
See the truth.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik stood still as a statue, his golden eyes staring down from the mountain’s edge.
Down at the Holy City.
It looked… tiny from here.
Tiny enough that he could see most of it.
A pearl next to a blue-green oasis… its main source of water.
He saw everything, gleaming marble towers that stabbed the sky, buildings layered on top of buildings, each one taller than the last, but again, none, none, compared to that monster in the middle.
The Holy Palace.
Up here, it was even more impressive.
Truly, a building bigger than anything a mortal should’ve ever been allowed to build.
A mountain made of gold, marble, and sheer human arrogance.
But Malik wasn’t looking at the buildings, no.
He was looking at the gate.
It was drowning in people.
Everyone was there.
From beggars holding their rusted tin bowls, to the fat merchants fanning their sweaty faces, to mortal soldiers gripping spears, to grandmothers holding their grandchildren, to nobles in their gold-laced silk, to priests, to caliphs, to street rats, to carpet sellers.
To… her.
A crimson-haired lady.
Once, his little sister.
She looked older.
More beautiful.
Yeah.
Malik’s cold eyes found Huda.
There she was, pressed near the front, wide-eyed, hands trembling over her mouth.
Her sisters. Her brothers.
They were all there.
All staring.
All watching.
Because there was a man down there, alone.
Fighting.
Cyrus.
The bastard.
His hands were bursting with light, his limbs bending, snapping, and spinning.
He was a storm, a tempest of Aether.
But why?…
Why was he alone?
Malik’s eyes shifted past him.
Past the piles—mountains—of bodies.
…Ah.
That was why.
There were others.
There were many others.
But they were dead.
Slaughtered.
A thousand corpses littered the sand before Cyrus, their broken bodies beneath the horde of sin, leaving only their swords and shields sticking out, their red unseen under the black sludge.
No matter how many Cyrus killed, even more came, pouring in from the east.
It was a river of nightmares, of failure.
An unending flood of twisting limbs, split-open jaws, and eyeballs in places where God never intended.
Still, Cyrus fought.
SLASH.BOOM.CRACK.
Limbs flew, heads rolled, and bodies popped.
Watching that, Malik asked himself a question:
’…Do I interfere?’
His lips twitched a little.
’I…’
And for the first time in what felt like forever…
’I don’t know.’
He hesitated… actually stuttered in his actions.
A man who knew better than anyone what it meant.
What it always led to.
And yet he could not simply act.
He needed to think… he needed to—
’No.’
Ignoring every consequence…
’I won’t freeze here.’
Everything that could bite back at him…
’No one will die needlessly.’
Malik looked down at the Drowned.
{Nār Al-Khals.}
His Fire of Purity.
A flame of incredible white.
The fire that Depravity could never survive.
The Fallen, no matter their rank, would struggle against it… struggle a lot.
Sure, High Jinn ranked ones might take a few seconds, but they’d still burn.
He could help end this calamity…
Ensure that no one remembers this day as a tragedy.
His eyes glanced at Cyrus, confirming his status.
And it seemed that in the time he hesitated…
’He’s fully healed.’
Cyrus had killed another ten thousand.
’Hm.’
Without a word, Malik pressed his palm to the ground.
The stone vibrated, a soft hum, unheard and unseen by all.
Then, from deep beneath the earth…
FWOOM.
It came.
FWOOM.FWOOM.FWOOM.
White fire burst from the sands, giving out no heat or smoke.
It was just light…
Fire so pure it became light.
Pillars stabbed up, swallowing the Depraved whole.
They weren’t even allowed a moment to scream.
They simply ceased.
Erased from the world.
Turned into nothing but flickers.
No ashes or black sludge remained.
Malik kept it subtle, only targeting the ones far enough from the city.
Far enough that no one saw.
This wasn’t for glory.
This was for the world.
He only wanted to help.
…Cyrus noticed.
Of course he did, his pink eyes flicking up.
He smiled.
A small smile, barely there, but a smile nevertheless.
His attention quickly returned to the calamity, however.
He couldn’t stop fighting.
SLASH.BANG.CRACK.
Malik couldn’t either.
They needed to work together.
Otherwise, the Holy City wouldn’t see another morning.
Thankfully for them and the world as a whole, their teamwork was on point.
It was as if they had fought together their entire lives. As if this was their one last hurrah before death claimed them.
Cyrus would sweep his staff in a wide arc, and the ground would split, swallowing tens of thousands of Fallen, shooting mountains of dust in the air, while Malik, using the dust as cover, would go wild, his white fire melting them entirely, and his golden fire exploding them from the inside out.
Cyrus’s Aether would sizzle through their bodies, rupturing them in clusters, and in the gap between each pulse, Malik’s fire would sweep in—destroying all that little remained.
This repeated for hours.
Time dissolved into a blur of fire and breath.
From the early morning till the afternoon.
When the Shams reached its peak.
When the sky turned bright.
Where all of a sudden…
Cyrus began to slow.
Malik noticed it immediately.
His staff, once instantaneous—blurring faster than Jinn eyes could track—now took a moment.
Then two.
Then three.
His steps got heavier, his swings slower, and his dodges… sloppier.
It got to a point where Malik, of all people, began to feel concerned.
This wasn’t right.
When he fought him, Cyrus easily lasted over twelve days.
Twelve.
And it was instantaneous.
A hair’s difference meant death.
So why now… after mere hours… was Cyrus slowing down?
Was it Malik’s fight still affecting him?
They both could heal in minutes.
Their Aether reserves could replenish even faster.
That just couldn’t be.
Or…
No, not the time to think.
It didn’t matter what was wrong with him.
Malik’s next actions had to be calculated.
If he helped too much, they’d see.
If he did nothing, he’d die.
But Cyrus couldn’t die.
He had to live.
So Malik just had to pick up his slack.
Use more of his Aether.
Risk his life further…
While still keeping himself hidden.
That was all.
And so, they fought.
They fought with all they had.
They fought until the very last.
Until the final Depraved fell and melted.
Until Cyrus stood opposing nothing but corpses.
Standing just barely, his blood painting the cracked stone beneath his feet, leaking down in thin trails from a hundred near-invisible wounds.
His breath came shallow and ragged, each exhale wheezing through clenched teeth.
His limbs weren’t doing much better. Once vessels of endless death, they now hung loose, trembling, as if held together by sheer Will.
His staff dipped low, and the tip scraped against the stone, sending out a grating sound that echoed through the ruined field.
The battlefield had fallen quiet.
It no longer screamed or howled.
Only wind and the faint drip-drip of blood falling from the Sultan’s fingers remained.
But that didn’t last for long…
Cyrus moved.
Slowly, achingly, he raised his arm.
His hand was high, pointing at the heavens.
At victory.