Zatara felt a heavy weight in his heart. On the other side of the world, he was setting up a magic circle to conceal Earth and disrupt its spatial latitude coordinates.
However, the deafening noise that shook all of Azarath sent terrifying shockwaves across the planet. Massive air ripples and atmospheric disturbances spread outward, shaking half the world.
He paused, his vision blurred by the fierce wind and sand. The grains scraped against his face like blades, searing his skin. He stopped casting his spell and drove his wand crafted from Olympus vines deep into the ground, gripping it tightly. Though the magic circle had been covered by sand, its power remained undiminished.
Zatara, thin and frail beneath his loose dark mage's robe, squinted through the storm, his heart growing heavier. He raised his head, staring into the distance.
Far ahead, at the very center of Azarath, loomed Sacred Peak—the highest mountain, its summit seemingly touching the sky. Columns of lava erupted violently into the heavens, while thick black smoke blanketed the atmosphere. The entire sky and land were consumed by rolling darkness, shrouded in fire and destruction.
Even from this distance, he could smell the acrid stench of burning sulfur. The heat wave surged toward him, causing the temperature to spike dramatically.
This was the end of the planet.
A hellish glow burst forth, and a beam of energy powerful enough to rend the heavens, split continents, and tear through space shot from Azarath's moon.
The moon was blasted out of its orbit, turning into a drifting meteor in the depths of space.
The sheer devastation was horrifying.
Such catastrophic destruction could only mean one thing—Bardi and Raven… had failed.
If Trigon had been successfully pulled into the spiritual realm, the battle would never have taken place here. Life or death would have been settled beyond the material plane, sparing the world from ruin.
Zatara's expression darkened with worry. If Bardi couldn't stop Trigon… then no one could.
And Earth would suffer the same fate as Azarath.
At that moment, a dazzling light appeared in the starry sky, like a dying sun burning with its last embers.
A beam of heat vision, no thicker than a silk thread in Zatara's eyes, streaked down from the cosmos.
It tore through Azarath's atmosphere, creating a chain of shockwaves that resonated with terrifying power, as if space itself trembled.
The beam descended toward the heart of the volcanic Peak, where molten rock and toxic smoke churned in chaos.
The heat vision struck Trigon's body, slamming him into the mountain and carving a blazing path through its core. The sheer force of the attack melted the surface of the Divine Peak, instantly vaporizing its rock layers under temperatures exceeding 100,000 degrees.
The beam of searing destruction carved through the mountain's heart, reducing its structure to molten ruin. Lava spewed out in colossal torrents, engulfing the once-sacred summit.
High above, Bardi, radiating an intense light, followed the trajectory of his attack—like a blazing star crashing down. He dove straight into the core of the Peak.
All that remained was a world of scorching fire and shattered stone. The air reeked of burning sulfur, and waves of heat seared flesh.
Bardi collided with Trigon, blasting him out of the mountain's remains and across the land. Their impact carved an abyss hundreds of meters wide and thousands of miles long, deep enough to become a river.
The once-mighty Sacred Peak could not withstand their battle. Chunks of its structure collapsed, sending avalanches of rock plummeting to the ground. Lava, long contained beneath the surface, erupted like an apocalyptic geyser.
"Boom..."
The sacred mountain began to tilt and fracture. The violent conflict at its core had destabilized its foundation. As lava surged out, the peak's upper sections crumbled.
The sky darkened beneath an overwhelming haze of thick, turbulent smoke. Destruction spread like an unrelenting plague, suffocating the planet in chaos.
Their battle raged across the world—from the eastern ocean to the southern lands, through polar ice caps and across fractured continental plates. Their clash was so intense that they penetrated 17,000 kilometers into the planet's core, fighting in the depths of the mantle.
Azarath itself was crumbling.
Its atmosphere failed to regenerate, its tectonic structure weakened beyond repair. The very foundations of the world split apart.
Massive earthquake waves erupted from the broken land. The continent—once whole—was torn asunder, scattering into countless islands.
Volcanoes erupted across the globe. Tsunamis soared a thousand meters high. Glaciers collapsed in chain reactions of destruction.
Raging hurricanes and searing heat waves cracked the land. The planet's magnetic fields spun into chaos.
Azarath was finished.
The Lost Armor—Azarath's ultimate planetary weapon was designed to help Bardi unleash the full potential of his power.
But this was his limit.
His genes had reached their final stage.
If no further evolution occurred, then this level of destruction, enough to annihilate a planet would remain his peak.
And yet, compared to Trigon… it was still far from enough.
Do not be deceived by the sheer devastation, the collapsing planets, the shattered moon, the dying world.
Trigon had only fought using his body.
For a demon of his stature, the body was not even his greatest weapon.
For Bardi, however, physical combat was his most formidable ability.
The cracked earth trembled beneath them. Lava surged upward in fiery bursts, releasing waves of scorching heat.
Bardi and Trigon stood amidst the ruin.
"Damn it! You've wasted yourself!"
Trigon's towering figure remained intact. His crimson form was monstrous, though darkened scorch marks marred his body where Bardi's attacks had landed. Yet, he had already healed.
He stood tall—untouched, unshaken.
His grotesque mouth stretched wide, nearly to his ears, baring rows of vicious fangs. His once-blinded eyes had recovered.
Six crimson pupils gleamed with terrifying malice.
Bardi remained silent. His gaze was sharp, his expression indifferent. Faint glimmers of light flickered across his body.
The towering, hundred-meter-tall form, began to shrink.
Time was up.
His power had reached its limit. His genes were collapsing.
Trigon was too strong.
No mere surge of strength could overcome a demon who had roamed the cosmos for countless ages.
This outcome was inevitable.
A fight against Trigon could never be won by brute force alone.
Faint motes of light drifted from Bardi's body, rising into the sky, remnants of Azarath's final cries.
The light was fading.
Darkness reigned.
The planet was crumbling, and no one could stop it.
Azarath's last hope—the Lost Armor—had failed.
Even their vengeance had amounted to nothing.
Not even planetary destruction could stop Trigon.
The demon was too powerful.
And the light… was too weak.
Perhaps it had never existed at all.
Hope had never been real.
Light was nothing but belief.
And Trigon… was despair incarnate.
"I wasted myself? What does that have to do with you?"
Bardi's voice was cold, his gaze merciless.
At the end of his life, there was no need for emotion.
This was it.
He still felt unwilling.
But it no longer mattered. He had no strength left.
"You are my food! A waste of my meal!"
"My soul's nourishment!"
Trigon roared, his breath ragged. His clawed finger curled, its sharp tip gleaming ominously. Saliva dripped from his gaping maw as his six crimson eyes burned with hunger.
"Merge with my soul… and make me eternal!"
Trigon's mouth stretched wide, eclipsing the heavens. His fangs gleamed, cold and sharp.
Bardi's vision darkened.
The endless abyss of Trigon's maw consumed him whole.
(To be continued.)
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