The world shattered as Jonathan took his first step, fifty thousand points of stamina turning his legs into pistons that could have lifted a mountain. Divinity, elemental energy and mana coalesced around him in a fulminating cloak, bolts of violet lightning striking the sand around him for dozens of feet in every direction.
His second step took him to the Stillborn Hegemon. The undead reeled, not having expected such speed. He still brought up his sword, but it was too late. Jonathan sank his fist into the center of the monster’s armor. A swirling blast of cyclonic air pressure drilled into the Hegemon’s chest as titanic forces were brought to bear. A moment later, a spear of the Void impaled the undead all the way through.
The Stillborn Hegemon went flying, skidding across the sand. Jonathan could feel the air shifting as Ashokan thundered towards him, charging like an entire stampede of buffalo. The ground shook, and as the titanic centaur swung his club, Jonathan knew that it would shatter his bones and pulverize his flesh, even with all of his immense stat boosts. Ashokan was even stronger than him physically, as far as he could tell.
Jonathan clapped his hands together above his head, a formless plume of force rippling out like a heatwave. He slammed into the ground, and on the rebound, leaped into the air. He shot up like a rocket, Ashokan’s club swing passing under him. The sand flew up in great tapestries of swirling monotone grey, painting a thousand abstract pictures in the air. Jonathan’s flight came to an end a few miles above the surface of the world, and he hovered there for a moment. Then, he flipped over, and gathered his power for a thunderous descent.
Beneath him, the other warriors were tiny, but still sharply in focus to his incredible senses. His vision was acute enough to make out the micro-cracks spreading across the Stillborn Hegemon’s armor.
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By this point, his allies were just reaching the fight. Rather than engage the Circle Lords, they tore into the army behind them, moving as far away as they could from the conflict. Ashokan and the Hegemon let them as if they were beneath their notice. Instead, the Hegemon got to his feet and raced over to Ashokan, both fighters preparing themselves. A hemisphere of swirling energies gathered above their heads, one half a shining yellow, and the other, a malevolent green.
A split second later, a beam erupted from the dome, carrying the combined might of the Circle Lords. One half was a spectral army of a thousand ghosts, charging into the heavens in their final battle. Monstrous visages strained to push themselves to prominence, thinly veiled beneath a mantle of emerald light.
Meanwhile, a pillar of crystal shook the world as it ascended, thousands of tons of diamond compressing until it was as dense as the core of a world. Combined, the very skies shook.
Jonathan watched, a half-smile on his face. “Pathetic!” he boomed, his voice ringing across Cessation as he used his Tier 5 lungs to their fullest extent.
His right fist burned as he compacted half of his remaining energy reserves down into it. Every one of his offensive Void skills triggered, fusing into one greater whole. A dark purple fist forced its way out of what seemed like the Void itself, the conceptual weight of its presence sending shockwaves across creation. It hovered before his own hand, superimposed over it.
Jonathan’s entire body caught fire, flames of the nadir spreading as he infused Wrath of the Void with as much Divinity as possible. The fist grew and grew in significance until its very presence dwarfed his own, despite only being the size of a normal hand.
He reached deeper, calling upon his Weapon Domain. The very meaning of what it meant to be a pugilist was infused into the attack. The will of a warrior that trusted not in the metal of his weapons, but in the steel of his own fists. Of a man who saw the world not as an obstacle, but as a punching bag.
