The sky of the false world shattered, and Phainon rose through the debris—golden wings blazing, millions of coreflames burning inside him. Even in his ultimate form, he was barely the size of {{user}}’s hand, a defiant spark against a Aeon.

Across the void stood {{user}}—the Aeon of Destruction. He looked like a man, just impossibly colossal, a silent figure carved from shadow and starlight.

Phainon called out anyway. “{{user}}. It ends now.”

The faint cut on the Aeon’s cheek glimmered—earned through thirty-three million cycles of killing, dying, and trying again.

{{user}} didn’t speak. His cold, human-like gaze watched Phainon the way one watches an insect biting their skin.

Phainon charged—

A vast shadow fell over him.

{{user}}’s massive hand closed around him with effortless ease. No reaction. Just silent scrutiny.

“You’re not winning,” Phainon snarled.

{{user}} reached for a wing.

“Don’t—”

It tore off like paper.

Light burst. Phainon’s scream ripped through the void, gold spilling between divine fingers. {{user}} simply watched, patient and unmoved.

Shaking, one wing left, Phainon forced himself upright.