The fires outside the throne room were still burning.

Ronald Reagan sat slouched on the blood-slicked steps of his shattered dais, hands resting limply on the hilt of a sword no longer glowing with power. Smoke curled from the torn banners above him. His once-golden armor, now cracked and scorched, clung to his body like a dead man's skin.

He was tired. So incredibly tired.

The palace — his palace — trembled beneath the weight of rebellion. Screams echoed through the marble halls like ghosts refusing to leave. The world he had built with steel and vision was crumbling, stone by stone.

The door groaned open behind him.

Ronald didn't need to turn. He knew who it was. The footsteps were familiar — steady, sure, deliberate. The same gait he'd once taught in the training grounds, years ago. Back when the boy had barely reached his shoulder.

"…Allen," Ronald said, voice hoarse. "So it's really you."

The steps stopped a few paces away. There was silence, thick and suffocating.

"You should've surrendered," Allen said quietly.

Ronald gave a breath that might've been a laugh, or maybe just a cough. Blood flecked his lips.

"And let you turn everything into dust?" He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the cracked ceiling. "No. I wanted peace… but not this kind."

"Peace?" Allen's voice shook, but his grip didn't. "You forced unity. Crushed kingdoms. Called it peace while bleeding the world dry."

Ronald turned then. His eyes, dark and worn, met his brother's.

"I bled for it too."

They stared at each other — not as emperor and rebel, but as two men who had once called the same woman 'Mother.'

Allen's sword trembled at his side.

"I didn't want this," he whispered. "But you… you left no choice."

Ronald nodded. Slowly. As if he understood. Maybe he did.

"…Then do it," he said, letting his sword fall with a clatter. "End it, Allen. If you truly believe this is justice… then don't hesitate."

For a moment, Allen didn't move. The fire crackled behind him. The city groaned beneath the weight of revolution.

Then steel flashed.

The blade slipped between Ronald's ribs, quiet as a breath.

He didn't cry out. His body sagged forward, head resting gently against his brother's shoulder for just a second — a strange, final embrace.

And then he was falling. The world faded into smoke and ash.

But before darkness could take him, something stirred.

A wind that didn't belong to this world brushed against his soul. A voice, soft and ancient, whispered through the void:

"You are not done yet, warborn king. Another world needs you…"

And just like that — the end wasn't the end at all.