The One Who Writes Existence-Chapter 44: Clash Of Flame and Decay

Flames erupted. Decay spread.

The battlefield trembled as two divine forces clashed—Ignis's chosen, the God of Molten Flames, and Eterna's champion, the Goddess of Decay.

The God of Molten Flames stood tall, his body exuding neither molten lava nor roaring fire.

To the untrained eye, he looked normal—his presence deceivingly calm. Yet, beneath his skin, he was the hunger of fire itself. A force that did not simply burn, but consumed.

The Goddess of Decay faced him with an air of quiet inevitability. She was the end of all things—the slow, patient unraveling of existence.

Her very presence caused the ground beneath her to rot, crumbling into dust without a trace.

Molten moved first.

A sphere of burning chaos erupted from his palm, a fire so pure it defied logic itself. It did not merely burn—it melted reality.

The very laws of physics distorted in its wake as it surged toward Decay, consuming all in its path.

Decay merely sighed.

She raised a hand.

The moment the flames touched her fingers, they withered.

Not extinguished. Not repelled.

They simply aged into irrelevance.

A roaring inferno that should have devoured the world became nothing more than a fleeting memory.

"You burn brightly," she whispered, her voice soft yet absolute. "But everything fades in time."

Flames meant nothing to her.

She took a step forward. The fabric of existence recoiled.

Then, she extended her hand—and his body began to rot.

The God of Molten Flames felt it immediately. His very being—his divine essence—was corroding. The process was neither painful nor violent.

It was inevitable. His molten core darkened, his energy withering as time itself sought to erase him.

But instead of fear, he grinned.

"I don't burn," he said. "I consume."

With a roar, his body shifted.

The flames that coated his soul were not mere fire. They were something far worse—the hunger of combustion itself.

If she aged him, he would devour the very concept of decay.

For the first time, the Goddess of Decay narrowed her eyes.

"Well," she mused, "that's a good concept."

Then, with a smirk, she added, "But here's some advice—you really shouldn't tell your opponent how your power works."

A sound like shattering glass echoed through the void.

From the air around her, something began to form.

Fragments of translucent reality twisted, linking together—assembling themselves into a scythe.

A weapon of entropy.

The Synth of Decay.

The moment it fully materialized, the battlefield screamed.

Molten Flames felt something—an unfamiliar, dangerous presence. The scythe did not radiate power. It drained it.

Seeing the threat before him, his grin only widened.

"Good," he murmured. "I was getting bored."

With a snap of his fingers, his weapon materialized.

A spear—one forged from the primordial core of hungry stars. A weapon not of destruction, but of endless consumption. Its blade shimmered with the glow of collapsing matter, a hunger so absolute it sought to swallow even the space.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

They clashed.

The Synth of Decay met the Spear of Devouring.

The impact sent shockwaves tearing through the battlefield.

Decay swung, her blade severing existence itself. Where it struck, concepts unraveled—time, space, even the idea of movement itself ceased to exist.

But Molten did not evade.

Instead, his spear devoured the erasure.

Her power, meant to end all things, was consumed.

A second clash. A third. A hundred strikes exchanged in a breath.

Each attack rewrote the battle.

Decay swung—Molten burned the strike before it could manifest.

Molten Flames stabbed—Decay aged the spear into rust.

For every concept erased, another was devoured.

For every loss of existence, another force replaced it.

Decay was losing.

No matter how much she unraveled, Molten simply burned through it. His fire did not destroy—it absorbed.

And then—

A single opening.

Her blade sliced through the inferno.

For the first time, a flame was cut.

Molten staggered.

The fire that should never be extinguished flickered. Not consumed. Not erased. But severed.

He stared at the fading ember where his power had been.

Then—he laughed.

A deep, roaring, triumphant laugh.

"I've never seen that before." His eyes gleamed with exhilaration. "You actually cut my flame."

Decay merely twirled her scythe, unimpressed.

"You're welcome."

But then—she did something unexpected.

Raising her free hand, she let her own power wash over her body. The essence of decay—the force that unraveled all things—began consuming her.

Her form should have withered. Her existence should have crumbled.

Yet, she stood taller.

Her aura swelled, her presence intensifying rather than fading.

Molten grin wavered. He narrowed his eyes. "You are bluffing."

Decay smirked. "Am I?"

The battlefield itself began to deteriorate at a terrifying rate, as if even reality feared what was happening.

Molten sighed, rolling his shoulders.

"Now things are becoming dangerous."

Then, for the first time in their battle—

He got serious.

His spear ignited, not with flames, but with something far more primal. A hunger beyond fire.

The battlefield trembled—

And they clashed once more.

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Beneath the facade of destiny, lies a labyrinth of choices; don't assume the path you've chosen is the only one that leads to truth – for in the shadows, alternative realities whisper secrets to those who dare to listen.