Chapter 32
'With a single breath and a single sweep of his hand, a thousand blades danced in unison. They were born of will—of ideas that never stopped writing themselves.'
Suuuuufhh!
'Sway, my blades.
Bury yourselves deeper—not into his flesh, but into the core of his existence.
Show him that even perfection can be rewritten by a mere human named Theo Vkytor!'
And there Theo danced.
Not upon a grand stage, nor beneath the warm glow of a ballroom, but in the midst of a world collapsing into ruin—where every grain of dust trembled, following a rhythm only he could hear.
His left hand moved freely, fluidly, tracing a melody no one else could perceive, as though the notes vibrated only within the hollow of his own mind.
Behind his tightly closed eyes, Theo beheld an invisible symphony—a fusion of destruction, courage, and resolve, shaping a dance no human should be capable of.
With each breath, his steps carved meaning.
With each motion, the world bowed, submitting to a command born from something far beyond mere human desire.
His right hand rose, gliding upward before cutting downward, sweeping left, slicing right.
His movements were graceful yet heavy with significance, like a ballerina performing at the edge of death.
His feet shifted, aligning with his hands, as though his body were merely a vessel while his spirit had already transcended its mortal shell.
Then, when a single movement reached perfect harmony, the world quivered softly.
Dozens of swords materialized without warning.
They did not emerge from air or earth, but from the space where existence itself should have no authority.
They pierced directly into Cru's body, slipping into places no living or dead thing should ever reach.
The blades were not forged from steel or fire, but from pure intention—from the dance of a man refusing to yield to his world.
Each blade pierced from within outwards, as if Cru himself were the stage upon which Theo carved his final masterpiece.
There was no explosion, no scream.
Only silence, wrapped in the faint rhythm Theo composed with his mind.
And in that silence, each blade pushed deeper, refusing to be pulled out, refusing to be erased from reality.
He created an attack even the world could not comprehend—let alone an "entity" hope to evade.
The longer Theo danced, the more swords appeared.
Each sweep of his arm birthed a new blade; each turn of his foot created a strike that crossed the boundaries of cause and effect.
Until finally—amid swirling dim light and shadows screaming without sound—only Theo remained, standing with a weary body and closed eyes, while before him the world seemed to stop breathing, caught in a dance no one could ever replicate.
'The final stage of this dance isn't about beauty.
It's about certainty.
About how an ending should be carved.
One, two—'
Tsraaak!
Tiiiing!
Baaang!
And then—in a moment so brief that even time refused to record it—Ilux moved.
He was given only one second.
Yet in that single second he gathered all his consciousness, stacking power beyond the limits of his mortal frame.
By the time Theo opened his eyes, Ilux was ready.
At his fingertip formed a tiny bullet—no larger than a pistol round, yet carrying a weight that made the surrounding space tremble, as though hundreds of universes were being compressed into a single projectile.
The world fell silent, the air tightening.
Even light seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the destruction this small bullet would unleash.
When it was fired, time shattered.
The blast made no sound to mortal ears, yet it echoed across higher dimensions, sparking bursts of existence everywhere—while at the same time Theo's dance evolved into a formless storm.
The swords and katanas embedded in Cru blossomed, sprouting like flowers of death.
Each blade grew wildly, duplicating, multiplying.
Some expanded until they seemed to pierce the heavens, while others swarmed Cru's body in impossible quantities, cutting through flesh, soul, and every layer of his existence.
Cru—the Administrator who should have been eternal—now resembled a cracked statue devoured by the creations of the humans he once called weak.
His body could no longer move; every escape system he possessed was pinned, locked, and shattered by the swords born from Theo's dance.
Every attempt to flee resulted in him being nailed more tightly, more deeply, until the only thing left was a hollow stare—imprisoned in complete silence.
Then the bullet arrived.
It pierced the storm of swords and katanas, igniting an explosion devoid of light—an eruption that shook existence itself.
When the bullet touched Cru, time stopped—announcing that reality had bowed to witness the end of something that should never end.
Then everything broke apart, dissolving into blinding white, leaving no sound, no form—except one thing.
Two figures standing in the middle of nothingness: Theo and Ilux, staring at the shattered remnants of a dimension they themselves had destroyed.
'Even you can be surprised, huh, Cru?
I thought beings like you—born from code and governing the system absolutely—could never waver.
But seeing you stumble, almost unable to believe the wounds on your own body, I finally understand: even an Administrator can make a strategic mistake.
You didn't anticipate the combination of Ilux's attack and my sword dance.
And that—in a paradoxical way—is the most human aspect of you: the inability to accept that your own creation can strike back at its creator.'
Suuuuussh!
"Of all scenarios, of all story routes I have ever constructed in Flo Viva Mythology, this is the first time I—Administrator Cru—must acknowledge defeat."
'Meaning this isn't just an ordinary loss.
Like a hidden message, isn't it?
It's as though you've been waiting for this moment—waiting for something unwritten, something that might only be revealed in arc six, episode twelve—when Ilux faces the tenth female antagonist, the final boss of the game.'
Duuuuuffhh!
'If that's true… then what exactly are you aiming for, Cru?
What do you want to witness from your own defeat?
As an observant writer, I cannot ignore this feeling.
You're hiding something behind this defeat—something even Ilux may not know yet.
Fine. I'll stay alert.
For in a world as strange as this, endings aren't always final points—they're pauses awaiting continuation.'
Yet of course, Cru was not someone who could be defeated so easily.
The wounds carving through his body were not signs of loss, but shock—a swirling mix of fury and faint awe, like a god experiencing for the first time what it felt like to be struck down by his own creation.
After several backward steps—each carving deep cracks into the ground—Cru stopped.
His breath was heavy.
Not from exhaustion, but from processing the impossible: that two humans, two fragments of mortal existence, had forced him even a single step away from his supposedly absolute throne.
He looked down at his own body, studying the sword marks that pierced the boundaries of reality, the poison still dripping from tears in skin that should never rip, and the lingering heat of Ilux's bullet that refused to fade even though time had resumed.
In his mind echoed a single sentence—not complaint, not surrender—but the murmur of someone who had finally found something long awaited.
To be continued…