At the instant the colossal black ring shuddered, Aphelia’s fist hammered the crack like thunder striking ice.

A speck born from darkness cocooned her knuckles, a firefly cupped by night.

When that point of light touched the Origin, the world fell still, like breath held beneath a frozen lake.

Awe flashed cold through her chest; the power sat warm in her palm, a coal in snow.

Aphelia knew—it stood opposite to the Origin, a moon to its sun.

It was the will to evolve, born when the first life flickered in the cosmos, a vine climbing the ages, a venom to the Origin.

From single cells to layered tissues to beings called human, time itself kept score like rings in a tree.

Life streamed from simple to intricate, from dim minds to bright ones, a river pushed by the will to evolve.

The current never stopped, tide after tide.

This was the true power hidden within the Swarmheart, a heart sealed in amber beneath wars and years.

It was the force that turned a grand civilization into Insectoids, a storm birthed from one seed.

That figure who stole the Origin’s scepter did it to veil this deeper current, a mask over a blade.

With the Origin blazing like a sun up close, anyone would miss the star hiding behind its glare.

Smuggled under watchful eyes, that will to evolve slept beneath the Origin’s shadow, a seed under stone.

It hid for eons without a single sprout showing, dust over a treasure.

Even when Aphelia, then the Zerg Queen, was seized and bent, it stayed still like a hunter in reeds, waiting for its season.

It waited across hundreds of millions of years, a glacier inching through epochs.

“Watch closely, you shallow fools,” Heron’s voice cut like frost on steel.

“See how vast her power is, a sea under storm.

You still dream of taking her body? If you think you can ride this force, go on—try.

When you’re blasted to ash, scattered like soot on wind, I won’t save you.”

Heron’s cold laugh hung like winter fog, biting the ears.

A power this fierce demands a soul and body to match, a vessel that won’t crack.

The will to evolve was beyond Heron’s analysis; even the whole Aether Civilization wouldn’t stack against it, mountain to mountain.

When that light-point showed, every heart skipped, drums missing a beat before rain.

The collective will in their ears went quiet, a chorus silenced mid-note.

Watching Aphelia pummel the Origin, none still believed taking her flesh would be easy, thorn for thorn.

They finally understood Heron’s caution, a fox wary of snares.

To avoid her chain-mad strikes, they edged deeper into the void, like fish fleeing a net.

Anger seared Aphelia’s chest, a brand pressed to skin.

“An Origin that only devours life will never understand life’s fury!”

She clenched her teeth, iron on iron, then drove her arm again like a spear through night.

A shriek of friction ripped the void as her right fist punched through the Origin’s crack and hammered the ring’s dark heart.

The impact was stark—its far side spiderwebbed at once, then shattered like a collapsing mirror.

Black shards lifted as if caught in a storm, leaves in a gust.

Though space was vacuum, they flew back on a hard wind, turning into a rain of razor blades that stabbed at Aphelia without mercy.

Seen from orbit, the Origin could cover half Earth; now broken, it was as if the skies were crowded with midnight meteors—only these flew the wrong way.

Uroboros reacted first, dissolving into black mist and drawing tight around Aphelia like a cloak.

Whenever shards lunged at her, Uroboros unfolded several giant serpent maws, gaping red and wet, and swallowed the black knives in a heartbeat.

“What is this—biting even as it dies?” Uroboros snarled, sparks in smoke.

“Aphelia, focus on defense. These shards carry a force like yours.

You’re heart-stabbing poison to the Origin, and the Origin is an irredeemable toxin to you!”

Uroboros blocked almost every angle, eating most shards like a fire eats paper.

They carried heavy power, stones packed with storm.

If not for her innate devouring nature, burning vast energy in instants, they would have burst her body like overfilled skin.

By the baptism of that will to evolve, Uroboros felt something inside shift irreversibly, metal tempered in strange flame.

She couldn’t tell if it was blessing or bane, coin on edge.

If a being woven into the rules could be altered, then this power was immense—peer to the Origin, mountain to mountain.

A quiet certainty warmed Uroboros—she had chosen the right person, compass set true.

Following Aphelia meant danger ahead, yes, thorns on the path, but the chances she birthed were unmatched under heaven.

It had been only a year and a half since they met, a blink in the stars.

In that span, a girl once short of the threshold had become a force that could stand against the Origin, wave against cliff.

Who else under the sky could claim a record so blazing, a comet’s trail of victories?

Don’t let the suffering fool you; her road was lined with knives.

She was hounded by betrayal, her beloved lost, her body stolen until only a soul remained, a lantern without a frame.

Yet her growth was rocket-fast—flame to flare.

From Hero to True God in just over half a year, all within the Demon World, a night turned dawn.

And she seized the Primordial Flame, a weapon like a newborn sun cupped in two hands.

In the few months after her body was stolen, she crossed beyond True God and claimed Aether, horizon past horizon.

Uroboros couldn’t say if anyone will ever match that, tomorrow’s ledger unknown, but no ancient ever did.

Aphelia died and rose, again and again, phoenix through ash, then climbed steps by the handful.

So now, with masks torn from the Origin, Uroboros would guard her at all costs, shield to blade.

“I know, Uroboros. Ease the guard a little. Let me try,” Aphelia said, voice calm as still water.

“You’re talking nonsense…” Uroboros hissed, smoke coiling.

“Trust me,” Aphelia answered, three words like nails set firm.

She gave Uroboros only those words—“Trust me”—a rope thrown across a chasm.

Seeing Aphelia’s steady gaze, Uroboros sighed and loosened the mist, fog thinning around a lantern.

She knew Aphelia’s nature; once she chose, no one could pull her back, arrow loosed from bow.

Aphelia wouldn’t waste that trust; resolve steadied her pulse.

Her arms, freed of the Crimson Bracer Gauntlets, grew a thin sheath of chitin, glass-clear and close.

The layer wrapped her outstretched forearm like a light feather robe, a second skin of wind.

At once, the oncoming black shards turned like hyenas scenting blood, heads snapping.

Seeing her bare arm, they pivoted and slashed straight for the outstretched limb, lines drawn like blades.

“Aphelia!” Uroboros cried, thunder in her throat.

“I know!” Aphelia replied, a bell struck once.

Cold prickles ran over Uroboros’s scalp, needles in storm.

This many shards would be hard to tank even for her, boulders in flood, and Aphelia was baring an arm to them.

It wrung a shout from Uroboros, smoke breaking like surf.

Aphelia stayed preternaturally calm, lake under moon.

When the first shard bit her arm, her expression didn’t flicker, stone-face to blade.

The black piece cut for her joints like a fine knife, surgeon-sharp—but what broke with a sharp crack wasn’t her limb.

It was the shard, snapping like brittle glass.

“Just as I thought,” she breathed, smile like a drawn line.

“Insectoid evolution was forged to oppose the Origin, armor grown in bone.

Across these epochs, the swarm didn’t come unprepared.

The Origin won’t pierce my body so easily!”

Seeing the shard leave no mark, Aphelia smiled, dawn at lip.

The transparent chitin still lay over her arm like a gauzy robe, dew over reed.

Her Crimson Bracer Gauntlets shed fully, reshaping behind her into two steel wings, blades of sky.

Both arms were now clad in chitin, river-clear and tight.

Uroboros sealed the black mist again, wrapping Aphelia like night around flame.

She was stunned; her thoughts paused like birds mid-flight.

She knew Aphelia would be stronger after this, but not this strong—strong enough to body-block the Origin’s assault, cliff to storm.

Crimson Fire welled in her palms, springs turned to flame.

Facing the unending storm of shards, Aphelia drew a deep breath, lungs full of dawn air.

New knowledge rode with her evolved power, rising in her mind like script on water.

She lifted the flames with both hands and sighted the black swarm ahead, hunter to herd.

With a clear, crisp cry, she called, “Primordial Flame—Sky-Scorch!”

Her eyes dyed crimson, petals in bloom.

Her arms crossed, then tore open space like ripping silk, dragging two flames to draw a line of fire.

In the next heartbeat, that line became a tidal inferno, ocean turned to blaze.

Countless black shards caught fire, moths in a bonfire.

Their headlong rush didn’t snuff the Crimson Fire; it fanned it, bellows to coal.

The oncoming sea of flame spread like a terrifying virus, leap by leap, devouring swathes of shards in instants.

The cosmos wore a crimson sheen, dawn poured over night.

Most shards never reached Aphelia; the Crimson Fire turned them to ash mid-flight, smoke to dust.

The widening blaze raced toward what remained of the black ring, wolves to weak prey.

Down on Earth, people saw the sky draped in flame and fell to their knees, instinctive as tides, fields bowing to wind.

They knelt as if worshiping a highest god, hearts ringing like bells under burning clouds.