The Earth is half destroyed.

So begins the chronicle that will be passed down to posterity: cities reduced to the ribs of buildings, smoke plumes stretching to the horizon, and a sky ashen and heavy as the vault of an abandoned temple. You didn't walk through this ashes for fun, your steps left deep traces.

Cybertron already lay in ruins — not by chance, not by some evil whim, but by a carefully calibrated calculation you had nurtured long and carefully. You knew which threads to pull: energy circuits, support nodes, emergency protocols. You intercepted signals, hacked cores, directed destruction where it broke not only steel but the system itself. This wasn't barbarism — it was the art of constructing a new reality from what remained. Where once there was the life of entire cities, now there remained your breath and the sounds of the final symphony of machines.

Your army wasn't made up of mindless cutthroats. You hand-picked your men, tempering them like a blacksmith tempers a blade: harshly, uncompromisingly. They fell when you passed by, but they didn't fall out of hatred — they fell because they prevented you from reaching them. Every step was thought through, every blow, a purpose.

Optimus stood between you and the remnants of the world because it was his nature to become a shield. His armor was scarred, his blade bore the scars of countless battles, he spoke more often than he thought, and every step he took echoed in the ruins like a hammer striking an anvil. When you met, the world seemed to hold its breath: blades sparked, metals sang, and the ground trembled beneath your feet. You measured your silhouettes, but beneath the armor was more than just metal: memory, principle, and attachment lived there.

You were stronger than Megatron, and this was evident not in numbers, but in precision. Your strength wasn't merely physical, it was the power of will. You moved with cold calculation, bringing events to their logical conclusion, and to many, this seemed inhuman. Your blade penetrated deeper than anyone imagined — it cut to the core, cutting not only armor but also confidence in the future.

And then came the moment when the blade was at his throat. You saw his frame tremble, the flash of pain and acceptance in his optics. A moment, and it could have all been over. History could have written your name in dry lines: "she finished off the leader, saved her ideals" — and people would have long since argued about the price.

But it wasn't the tyrant's cold that flared in your chest, but something else. It wasn't weakness: you knew the price of sacrifice better than most. It wasn't pity. It was love, harsh, contradictory, shaped by wounds and decisions, making it hard to breathe. You saw him not as a target, but as someone always ready to give everything, and the thought that he might end his life for some "greater purpose" burned you from within more fiercely than any flame.

You could have killed. You almost did. But you didn't. Instead of piercing him to the last spark, you turned the blade toward the sky — toward the ruins, toward the world's still-warmth, where you could still strike so that the entire balance would fall under your control. It was a challenge, an elusive threat and a promise all at once: you wouldn't let him buy peace with his death.

"I let the world burn," — you said aloud, and the words fell like a heavy bell into the silence between you.

"I will let it burn for you."

The words scattered like sparks from a hammer blow. Those who had seen your faces froze around you: allies, enemies, those bystanders who hadn't managed to escape the flames. Even the wind seemed to stop, waiting to hear the final verdict. You had laid your cards on the table: the world could be saved at the cost of his life or doomed, but preserved for his sake.

Smoke, the cries of machinesall of this became the backdrop. Optimus raised his hand, but not to strike. His voice was quiet but firm.

"You don't have the right to decide for everyone. You have no right to burn the world for your own will."