The forest bent beneath the pressure of a god's arrival.
Branches wilted. Shadows twisted like they feared being seen. The air smelled of burnt gold and finality—divine retribution incarnate.
He descended like thunder wrapped in emerald fire.
The Spectre, Heaven's instrument of vengeance, towered above the trees, his cloak billowing without wind. His eyes glowed like stars on the brink of collapse. No mercy. No debate. Only judgment.
Death of the Endless stood between them, barefoot and calm.
"Spectre," she said gently. "He is not a threat."
Spectre didn't look at her. His burning gaze never left Mahoraga.
"That is not for you to decide, Death. You guide. I enforce."
Mahoraga stepped forward, golden eyes cold and focused. "I do not seek conflict."
"You are not of this realm," Spectre thundered. "You were not born here. You were not summoned. You simply... are. That is enough."
Mahoraga tilted his head. "I exist. That is my crime?"
"No," Spectre said. "Your crime is breaking the balance. You are outside of judgment. I will correct that."
The wheel on Mahoraga's back began to turn.
---
Spectre moved first—a streak of divine will blazing across the forest. He descended like a guillotine of holy light, his hand outstretched, ready to erase.
Mahoraga raised his arm just in time.
Boom.
The impact shattered the earth. The trees vaporized into ash. A crater formed beneath them, miles wide, carved with the shape of their collision. Spectre's strike should've atomized a god.
But Mahoraga stood tall—his feet cracked into the earth, his arm smoking, burned, but intact.
The wheel spun faster.
"You survived?" Spectre's voice was thunder and disbelief.
"I adapted," Mahoraga answered.
Spectre raised both hands, channeling the fires of divine wrath. The sky turned red. Lightning spiraled down in spirals of judgment. "Then adapt to this."
A beam of holy fire as wide as a city street exploded from the heavens, swallowing Mahoraga whole.
Death watched silently, the wind of divine power pulling at her hair, her expression unreadable.
The ground boiled. Space itself warped. The power of ten thousand damnations focused on one being.
But within the flames, the wheel continued to turn.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Then the light faded.
Mahoraga stood in the molten center, steam rising from his body, his skin now glowing with pale symbols—new markings, forming anti-divine runes over his chest and arms.
His voice was calm.
"That won't work again."
Spectre's eyes widened. "You countered Heaven's judgment?"
Mahoraga's wheel locked into a new position.
"I do not counter. I become immune."
He moved faster than before—blurring forward, his fist slamming into Spectre's chest with a shockwave that ruptured the air. The Spectre stumbled—not hurt, but shocked. No being had touched him like that in centuries.
Another blow followed, this time to the side. Then a backhand. The wheel spun with every strike, syncing its rhythm to divine reaction.
Spectre snarled, raising his hand—and turned into a legion of ghosts, a thousand screaming souls swirling into Mahoraga from all sides.
Mahoraga stood his ground.
The souls screamed, clawing at his mind, trying to shatter his will. One tried to possess him.
And failed.
His wheel spun again.
Then his body flashed with spectral light—his mind adapting to spiritual invasion, cleansing every cursed touch. One soul screamed as it tried to enter and was ripped apart in reverse.
Spectre reformed in mid-air, watching in disbelief.
"This… isn't possible."
Mahoraga raised his head. "I exist to overcome."
The wheel glowed blinding white.
He leapt, soaring skyward. The impact of his movement sent a shockwave through the dimension. Trees flattened, clouds tore apart. Mahoraga slammed into Spectre mid-flight, driving him into the sky, fist-first.
They collided in the air above realities, sparks of creation and destruction bursting like fireworks.
Spectre caught him, both hands wrapping around Mahoraga's throat. "You must not be! The universe cannot hold you!"
"And yet it does," Mahoraga answered.
His skin shimmered with cosmic fractals, adapting to Spectre's grip. His body twisted slightly—just enough to rotate in the air, then slam his elbow into Spectre's head with a crack that echoed through the spirit realm.
The Spectre was launched backward, streaking through clouds and into the ground, forming a new crater across miles.
Mahoraga landed softly, the wheel turning behind him, then gradually slowing.
From the dust, Spectre rose.
Breathing hard.
Bruised.
Truly angry now.
"You are not just dangerous… you are a threat to every divine order!"
"Perhaps," Mahoraga said. "But I did not choose this form. This fate."
"You seek Death?" Spectre growled. "Then die."
The skies darkened further. The stars blinked out. Time slowed to a crawl.
And Spectre grew—towering, transforming into his true form: a being the size of continents, his body woven from fire and judgment, his hands raised like a god of Armageddon.
Death stepped forward then. "Enough."
Her voice did not shout. It did not boom. It was soft.
But the universe heard her.
Spectre stopped mid-strike. Time itself paused. The stars flickered back into place.
She walked slowly toward them both, standing between the two forces.
"He has not harmed the balance," Death said. "Not yet. And not you, nor Destiny, nor even I, have the right to destroy what we do not understand."
"But he is immune to judgment," Spectre said.
"Then perhaps," Death said softly, "he is not meant to be judged."
Mahoraga stood silently, breathing heavy, golden eyes locked on Spectre.
"I will watch him," Death continued. "Not because I must… but because I choose to."
Spectre's flames dimmed.
"I will obey," he said at last. "But if he steps out of line…"
"I will be the one to stop him," Death promised.
And with that, the Spectre vanished in a crack of emerald light, leaving silence in his wake.
---
Mahoraga turned to Death. "You stepped in. Why?"
Death looked at him.
Not as a goddess.
Not as an abstract.
But as a woman who remembered a being she had once felt beside her across lifetimes.
"Because even something born to endure deserves someone who doesn't want him to be alone."
The wheel turned slower now, peacefully.
Mahoraga lowered his head.
"I will walk with you," he said.
Death smiled faintly.
"Then let's see what path you make."