Neon's eyes narrowed behind the glowing goggles.
Within the orange-tinted lenses, arcane sigils rippled like liquid script, scanning for residual heat, micro-movements, and the pulsing mana filth leaking from the creature's half-pinned, heaving frame.

Above, the storm loomed—no longer thrashing blindly, but watching.
Waiting.
Its swirling mass of cloud and fury tightened, like a clenched fist around the battlefield. The storm had found its conduit.

Neon felt it—every atom around him charged and restless.

His breath hitched—sharp and cold, inhaled through clenched teeth behind the mask.
The air tasted of ozone and iron, thick with damp rot and scorched mana.
Arcane static crawled across his skin, not painful, but insistent—like a thousand invisible insects prickling along his arms. Sparks trailed up his gauntlets, flickering in and out of phase with reality, leaving behind a faint scent of burned copper.

Near the creature, heat warped the air in oily ripples—slick and unnatural—pressing against the curling tendrils of frost that had crept up its limbs.
The clash of elements thickened the atmosphere, drawing tight around Neon's ribs like a vice.
Frost hissed as it met heat. Mist rose in wisps, clinging to his legs like breathless ghosts.

Neon stepped forward.

Each bootfall squelched into the mud, sinking slightly before lifting with a soft suction pop.
The ground stank—wet leaves, black earth, the metallic tang of spilled blood—and something else. Something wrong.

Even through the filtered vents of his mask, the stench hit him—burnt void, thick and oily, like smoldering plastic and spoiled mana. It clawed past the seal, slithering into his lungs with every breath, acrid and wrong. Rain pattered off his shoulders and helm, but slower now—the droplets lagged in the air, trembling as if uncertain.

Neon's will bent time in tiny fractures. Water hovered, stuttered, froze midfall—each bead a suspended shard of reality.

He raised his arms, gauntlets humming.

Veins of raw energy coiled around his fingers, gold-threaded with violet, as if lightning had been braided into silk.

His breath steamed from his mouth in thick gusts, drifting into the cold like the sighs of exhausted spirits.

Ahead, the Netherling thrashed—limbs jerking, joints cracking with sick, wet sounds. Its dozens of mouths gaped in voiceless defiance, teeth glistening like shards of obsidian, tongues writhing.

Neon's heartbeat matched the storm—slow, thunderous, relentless.
The clouds pulsed with each beat.

Then—

ZAAKKOOM!

---

A jagged bolt tore down—not falling, drawn, tethered by will and wrath.
It struck with a sound like worlds cracking.

Energy surged through Neon's spine.
His hair stood on end. Even S.A.B.R.E. shrieked—metal legs scraping mud as it ducked away from the surge.

Neon didn't flinch.

He moved.
A single, lethal step.
And with grim finality—slammed his palm against the creature's chest.

CRACK—THOOM!

Lightning detonated through the Netherling, exploding outward in a white-hot burst.

The tree behind it shattered from the impact—wood exploding in jagged splinters.
The pinned flesh boiled, burned, and cracked in pulses of blinding light.

All around them, ice crystals exploded like shrapnel, and steam erupted outward in a howling wave, hissing like a dying furnace.
The air turned white. Sound was swallowed by the sheer force of the impact.

The scream that followed was unnatural—not just pain, but defiance, a guttural, intelligent rage, as if something inside the creature understood what was being done to it.

And then—

Silence.

Utter and terrifying.

Neon dropped to his knees, breath ragged.
His limbs trembled under the weight of expended mana, adrenaline, and the raw aftermath of channeling celestial force.
Every joint ached—bone-deep pain that throbbed with each heartbeat.

The rain returned, gentler now, falling in slow, rhythmic taps against his armor.
Like a lullaby after war.

Steam curled from his shoulders, his gauntlets, the scorched earth beneath him. The mud sucked at his legs as if trying to keep him rooted, but he stayed upright—barely.

He looked up.

Where the Netherling had been was only a crater of churned soil, shattered bark, and lingering shadow—not smoke, not mist, but something darker.
It clung to the broken ground like a memory refusing to fade.

Behind him—clink. click. whirr.

S.A.B.R.E. emerged slowly from the fog, its sleek limbs twitching in cautious, stuttered motion. Its metal body dripped with water and grime.
It stopped a few feet from Neon—hesitant. unsure.

Then, it pressed against his side—tentative, like a dog afraid of being scolded.
Like it didn't recognize him for a moment.

Neon didn't speak.

Didn't move.

He only stared.
At the fading glow.
At the shadows that refused to die.

---

The storm was fading, but the world beneath still hissed with smoldering pain.

Steam bled from the scorched ground in pale, ghostlike tendrils, coiling through the shredded trunks and broken stone like mourning spirits. It clung to Neon's legs as he stood amid the wreckage, the mud sucking at his boots with every tremble of movement. The acrid stench of burnt wood and scorched flesh curdled in the air—thick enough to taste, even through the filtration vents of his helmet.

Sparks crackled across his armor in lazy bursts, the fading echo of borrowed lightning snapping one final time before guttering out. Cold rain slapped against his plating, hissing softly as it met the hot metal. Tiny arcs of residual energy sizzled and died along his gauntlets, leaving only silence.

He stood hunched, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts. Each breath rasped through clenched teeth, catching in the rebreather like a wounded animal's growl. His back shuddered with the effort to stay upright. The faint orange glow of his visor flickered uncertainly—warning sigils pulsing across the interior display.

OVERCLOCKED. MANA RESERVES AT 2%. EXTERNAL STRUCTURE COMPROMISED.

Beneath the shell of armor and circuitry, his skin was slick with sweat, blood, and rain. Muscles spasmed with overuse. Every nerve screamed. His entire body felt like it had been chewed up and spit out by the storm itself.

Then he spoke—barely a whisper through the modulator, warped by static and fatigue.

"…Why…"

His voice crackled like a dying radio transmission. Then, raw, furious—

"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?"