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... didn't shatter—it melted. Threads of black flame crawled from his soles, trailing in erratic, seething patterns. They weren't chaotic. They were deliberate like veins, branching from a single, burning heart.

Mephisto moved to intercept.

The god's scythe carved through the air in a sweeping arc, no wind behind it—just silence and finality. Like a curtain being drawn across a stage before the death scene.

But this time—

It missed.

The axe struck first.

...

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