The wind howled through the ruins like the cries of the dead.
Shadows stretched long and thin under the broken sky.
Max stood at the center of the Heart of Azarath, facing the final Door.
It was unlike the others.
The Seventh Door was not made of stone, wood, or any earthly thing.
It was a Door of pure black glass — shimmering, pulsing with light and shadow, reality itself bending around it.
No name carved upon it.
No symbol.
Because it was his.
The Door of the Keybearer.
The Phantoms floated silently behind him:
Fire burning low, steady. Stone grinding softly. Wind whispering with anticipation. Forest roots curling at his feet.
They waited.
The ruins waited.
The world waited.
Max clenched his fists.
He had conquered fear.
He had conquered weakness.
He had conquered death itself.
Now he would conquer the unknown.
He stepped forward and placed both hands upon the Seventh Door.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
The black glass was cool against his skin — humming with a strange heartbeat.
Then — cracks began to spread across it like veins of light.
White.
Blue.
Green.
Red.
Gold.
Every color of the powers he had inherited.
The cracks grew, spiderwebbing across the surface, until—
BOOM.
The Door shattered.
Not into shards —
into stars.
The fragments soared upward, becoming part of the broken sky.
And from the hollow space the Door had occupied, a pulse of energy radiated outward —
slamming into the other Six Doors across the ruins.
Each of them flared to life — brilliant columns of light bursting into the heavens.
One after another.
The First Door: Fire.
The Second Door: Stone.
The Third Door: Wind.
The Fourth Door: Lightning.
The Fifth Door: Tides.
The Sixth Door: Forest.
And at the center —
the Seventh, the one with no element — Max himself.
The earth shook.
The sky cracked.
Reality bent.
And the Doors... opened.
From the First Door emerged Aria —
her hair a blazing river of flame, her eyes molten gold.
She floated a few inches above the ground, her body wreathed in living fire.
From the Second came Sylas —
taller and broader than before, his skin veined with glowing ore, his arms like mountains carved to walk.
From the Third rushed Luna —
her form almost weightless, spinning through the air like a living hurricane, laughing wildly, beautifully.
From the Fourth stormed Dante —
cloaked in lightning, each step sparking against the ruins, raw power crackling in his veins.
From the Fifth rose Mira —
a queen of the oceans, her robes swirling with endless water, her every breath a tide.
From the Sixth burst forth Kaela —
the Mother of the Wilds, leaves and vines growing from her very skin, eyes glowing a fierce, wild green.
And from the shadow of the Seventh Door...
...stepped Talon.
Talon was different.
Darker.
His armor seemed woven from shadows themselves.
His eyes glinted with something sharp — something cold.
He moved like a ghost, soundless, deadly.
Max felt it immediately.
The others smiled at him, light in their faces, relief and gratitude shining from their bodies.
But Talon?
Talon watched him.
Measured him.
Judged him.
Max lowered his hands.
The light around the ruins began to fade, settling into a low, deep hum beneath the earth.
For a few long, aching moments, no one spoke.
Then Aria stepped forward, her voice rough with emotion.
"Max," she whispered.
"You did it. You brought us back."
The others followed, surrounding him — touching his arms, clapping his shoulders, their laughter and tears echoing into the wounded world.
Max smiled — a small, tired smile — and nodded.
But as they celebrated, he felt Talon's gaze burning into his back.
Later, when the first joy had cooled, Talon approached him.
The others rested by the broken statues of the old gods, preparing for the battles to come.
Talon spoke in a low voice, one only Max could hear.
"You survived," Talon said.
"You grew stronger. Strong enough to open the Doors."
Max said nothing.
Talon stepped closer.
"But why you, Max? Why not one of us?"
His voice was not accusing.
It was not angry.
It was worse.
It was cold.
Detached.
Suspicious.
Max met his gaze, unflinching.
"Because I had to," Max said simply.
"Because I couldn't let you die for nothing."
Talon stared at him a long moment.
Then he turned away, vanishing into the gathering mist without another word.
Max watched him go.
The others might believe completely.
But Talon?
Talon would be a storm waiting to break.
And Max would have to be ready.
For enemies outside Azarath — and enemies within.
The Seven Warriors had returned.
Azarath had new hope.
But the war was just beginning.
And in the farthest reaches of the broken sky, the Oblivion King smiled.
Because death was never the end.
Only the beginning of something worse.
[End of Chapter 5]