Kuroda stumbles, his breath ragged, his body trembling. The glow of his ascension—the very power he sacrificed everything for—begins to flicker. It clings to him desperately, like a dying fme refusing to be extinguished.

  But it is fading.

  He gasps, golden blood pooling at his lips. He staggers back, then his fingers twitch. His mind races.

  No. Not like this.

  His eyes snap downward—his core. The shining emblem in his palm, the lifeline of his constructed divinity.

  He sms it against his chest.

  “INITIATE.”

  Nothing.

  His breath hitches. His fingers curl around it, pressing harder.

  “INITIATE!”

  Still—nothing.

  Desperation cracks through his voice, his golden eyes wide, wild. His hands begin shaking. He keeps pressing the core, over and over, as if forcing it will restore what is slipping away.

  “I SAID—INITIATE!”

  And then—his body begins to change.

  The flickering glow does not return.

  Instead, his form begins to distort. His once-pristine skin shifts, mutates—stretched too thin, warping in ways it was never meant to.

  Kuroda’s golden aura fractures, leaking out of him in jagged, unstable bursts. Something is terribly wrong.

  He stumbles, eyes darting, searching for anything—and then he sees it.

  A shattered building. A fractured window.

  A reflection.

  His breath catches. The figure staring back at him is not him. Not anymore. The golden glow is gone. His face is hollowed, stretched, warped beyond recognition.

  His Tamashkii—the thing that was meant to make him a god—has turned him into something else entirely.

  His lips part, but no words come out.

  He sees it now.

  He sees what he has become.

  And then—the air shifts.

  A soft breeze. A ripple in reality.

  His entire body stiffens.

  He knows that feeling.

  Slowly, he turns.

  His trembling lips curl into a sneer, his voice ced with venom and exhaustion.

  “You’ve come here to mock me on my st legs, haven’t you?”

  Nothing answers. Not at first.

  Then—a shadow steps forward.

  The mist parts. The air bends.

  And standing there—smirking—is Ayase.

  Kuroda’s golden eyes flicker, pure hatred burning in his gaze. Ayase simply tilts his head.

  “You truly understand nothing, Kuroda.”

  Kuroda bristles, his lips curling. “Even if I can’t take the world there… with Ancient’s blood I can reach the Chūkan myself. And when I do—” He exhales sharply, a deranged smirk cutting across his face. “I’ll just find a way to breach the in-between eventually. My pns will still come to fruition. It may take longer now—but with the Chūkan’s power, I can do it even stronger.”

  Ayase closes his eyes, then exhales slowly, almost… disappointed.

  Then, he speaks.

  “You fool. You truly think you used everyone?” His eyes open, sharp and knowing. “You were the one being used.”

  Kuroda’s smirk falters.

  Ayase takes another step forward, his expression unreadable. “Tell me, Kuroda.” His voice is eerily calm. “Do you really think Ancient’s rise was accidental?”

  Kuroda freezes.

  Ayase lets the words settle before continuing. “When the elders sent him to stop that asteroid, do you really believe it was only because he was powerful?”

  Kuroda says nothing.

  Ayase’s smirk widens slightly. “No. We knew exactly what would happen.” He gestures toward him. “Because of you.”

  The weight of the words sinks in, but Kuroda refuses to react.

  Ayase steps closer, his voice quieter now—deadly. “We knew he would protect them. That he would step forward, rise to the occasion. We knew that his name would spread, that his legend would take root. But it was you—” his eyes flicker with something sharp, something final—“you were the one who made him a hero.”

  Kuroda’s fingers twitch. His breath is uneven.

  Ayase gnces past him—toward Ren. “It only takes a single ember to ignite a wildfire,” he muses. “A single act of heroism to pnt a seed of something greater.”

  His gaze settles back on Kuroda, and his smirk vanishes. “We let you create a hero, Kuroda.” His tone is no longer amused. No longer entertained. It is final. “But at our core we…we are warriors.”

  He lifts his hand. The air stills. The mist gathers. A sigil forms beneath his feet.

  Golden. Absolute.

  And then—

  “Tenkai no Shingi No. 150—Complete Disruption.”

  Kuroda’s eyes widen in raw horror.

  Tamashkii energy surges violently from his body, ripping free from him, cascading toward Ayase’s outstretched hand.

  He screams.

  Golden energy is being pulled from his veins, his very essence being stripped away. His form, already broken, begins to crumble further.

  Ayase watches—expression calm, unmoved. “Even with Ancient’s blood, you never would have reached us.”

  Kuroda thrashes violently, cwing at the energy being torn from him. His fingers twitch. His nails dig into his own skin. He gasps, shuddering, his body shrinking, deteriorating.

  He is nothing.

  And then—his golden eyes flicker toward Ayase one st time. His lips part.

  A broken, rasping whisper—

  “I… I was right…”

  Ayase lifts his gaze slightly. His voice is almost gentle.

  “No. You were a fool to the end.”

  And with that—the st of Kuroda’s power vanishes.

  His body colpses, barely standing, his breaths ragged. He is nothing more than a man now.

  His fingers twitch. He reaches desperately for his sword—one st attempt to strike Ayase down.

  But before he can swing—Ayase is gone.

  The mist vanishes. The shift in the air fades.

  And then—a voice from the wind. A soft chuckle.

  “I think you have bigger problems.”

  Kuroda freezes.

  Slowly, he turns back around.

  And there—still standing. Still breathing.

  Still ready.

  Watari. Ren. Yumi. Ryuko. Akira.

  Kuroda’s breath shudders. His fingers clench. His eyes burn with the st remnants of defiance.

  But in his heart—he knows.

  As his vision begins to darken…

  It’s over.

  CUT TO BLACK.