Power coursed through Joy’s body, fervid and feverish. It was a heated iron that branded his flesh, a thunderous roar that augmented every heartbeat. Every fiber of his being buzzed with that exhilarating energy, with that burning euphoria that drove away all other thoughts from his mind. The raw strength was intoxicating, blinding as it coursed through his veins.

Yet it was not his strength.

He could not fail to notice that fact, even as the power of a god threatened to overwhelm his mind with complete power. His form had grown, swelled to scrape the sky in an avatar of sheer light—but it was not his body. His arms moved on their own, his muscles crackling with pure magic. It was Ajah that controlled this body, and Joy could do naught but watch and struggle not to drown in the tides of sheer ecstasy that crashed over him.

He was little more than a spectator in his own body, a mere onlooker that watched this sport between gods. And indeed, it seemed to be sport, from the lack of seriousness that Atal held towards the entire conflict. This was a spat, a scuffle between brothers—and the world being destroyed was but a minor detail. After all, there was nothing here that could not be remade.

That callous attitude angered Joy, for it rendered all their sacrifices, all their struggles, as little more than dust. But even worse than that, Joy could feel Atal’s longing pain for his brother, feel the grief and love that was held for Atal. It was with a start that he realized—Ajah did not intend to kill Atal.

That final realization filled him with a burning rage, with a sudden flare of hate and anger. So many of them had died just to get this far, just to get this chance. Was it all for nothing, then? All of their deaths, all of their spilled blood, just for this fool to make it all melt away in the wind?

And so Joy fought against the god’s overpowering will, struggled to stay afloat amidst that surging sea. And he waited, gathering his strength and biding his time. It felt like he was a boat in a tempest, a bird caught in a storm, but he fought to keep the pieces of himself from drifting away. And then he saw his chance.

The air crackled with wild power, flashing with blinding light. Joy watched as a bolt of lightning seemed to arc from the ground where Kha stood, searing a molten path through Atal’s skull. Curling smoke and sinuous sulfur drifted off the god’s burnt visage as the god fell to his knees with a wild scream. My foolish servant, Ajah began to whisper, and Joy noticed the mild tremble to those words. The magic was enough to send a rivulet of fear through Ajah’s heart as well, and that instant of weakness was enough.

A chance. Joy seized the moment of insecurity, when the god was briefly caught off guard. Letting out a roar, the demon ignited every last vestige of power and magic in his body, his spirit bursting aflame. Instantly, everything around him seemed to sharpen, the madness of the god’s aura beginning to lift off his shoulders. He rode that momentum, used that strength to crash against Ajah’s will. The god struggled, but his surprise was enough for Joy to wrest his own body back—and with it, the strength of a god.

Euphoria and ecstasy crashed into his mind with a sudden wave, disorienting and blinding. Yet he pushed it away reflexively, struggling to press the god away. Opening his eyes, Joy found the astral image to have changed. No longer was the form of a blindingly white man, but it shifted into something demonic. With horns and claws, Joy let out a earth-shattering roar, the mountains shaking from the force.

Atal was shocked, confused, and Joy used the opportunity to slash out at the shadowy figure with white claws. They burned a trail of white-hot flames through the god’s blackened skin, sparks flying out in a spraying shower as if he was grinding against steel. Atal let out an inhuman squeal of pain, a high-pitched noise of raw pain and agony that grated against the soul.

Joy was deaf to the noise, his own heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears as he lashed out with another hand. Yet he let out an instinctual howl of defiance as he struck out again. His claws tore through Atal’s neck, gouging through the shapeless throat and burning it with fire. At the same time, Joy lunged forward with an animalistic roar. The lightning-scarred god could hardly react, thrown off by the pain, and could do little more than scream as Joy’s fangs buried themselves in his collar.

Joy clung desperately to the god as he thrashed, shadowy ichor filling his maw as Atal bled from formless wounds. Yet the more fiercely he fought, the brighter Joy burned his vahma. He felt that fire eating away at the weave of his soul, as the threads began to unfurl and fray. One by one, they crumbled into ash in the fire, and Atal was not dying fast enough.

And then Ajah struck his psyche with the full rage of a god.

It was a blow that bypassed the flesh, a strike that ravaged his mind directly. His thoughts, his will, it all began to crumble like a wall that had been battered by a ram. Joy felt his concentration falter, felt it crack like a broken dam. But he could not fall. He could not lose his grip, not this close. So many people dead, so many lives forsaken to reach this line in the sand. And he just needed to hold on.

Just a little more, he told himself, clinging at the vestiges of his sanity. He could hear Ajah howling at him, could feel the god battering at him like a storm—implacable, irresistible.

Just a little more.

Joy swung his arms out wide, catching Atal in his tight embrace with a guttural howl. His mouth was slick with black blood, his eyes bloodshot and wild. His monstrous visage was fuzzy now, hazy and flickering as he wrestled with Ajah for dominance. His own strength was running out, the illegitimate strength from burning vahma now slowing to a trickle. Running out.

Running out of time, running out of life. But he just needed a little more.

“W-what are you?” Atal gasped out as he was pinned to the ground, the god weakened and bleeding from unseen wounds. “What thing—are you?”

Joy ignored him as he hugged Atal, reaching out to the bottomless strength of a god that lingered just out of his grasp. It was Ajah’s strength, not his own, but Joy drew it into him nevertheless. He felt it lingering, curious to his touch like a nest of starving serpents, and he opened himself up to their hunger. Like a thousand threads, like a million rivers, that power flowed into him in an unfettered flood. It crashed against his banks, wore away at his flesh, but still he drew in more.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The god’s voice boomed in his mind like thunder, rippled through his psyche and cast his thoughts aside. Yet Joy ignored it still, drawing in more and more of that burdening strength. He was screaming now, his throat ragged and raw as smoke curled out of his gaping mouth. His flesh was cracked and transparent, the skin broken and thin as glass. Inside of him, there was a light like a star that shone with incomparable brilliance, a radiance that seared everything else with white.

STOP! YOU WILL KILL US ALL!

Ajah fought him, realizing now what he intended to do. The god tried to wrest back his strength, tried to stem the flow. Yet it was like holding back the tide; now that it had started, more and more of the god’s power coursed into Joy’s body. It was bottomless, limitless, and it burned inside of him.

YOU FOOL—

He was trembling now, shaking with feverish madness. Every fiber of his being was stretched to its limit, struggling to contain that wild power. His skin was crumbling to ash, his blood turning to steam, and finally he could hold it no longer. It was like a fire inside of him, a storm howling to be released. And as his body fell to pieces, the power boomed out unrestrained.

Joy did not see as his own body tore itself apart, borne on the edge of a blossoming flame. He did not see as that glorious fire mixed with umbrous shadows—white on black—swallowing the dark. He did not see as that expansive light swallowed whole both gods and demon alike, ripping through reality itself with sheer power.

Instead, his last thoughts were of Sister, of how she had died. She had smiled at him, had she not? She had smiled as the fire ate her. Then he would do the same—die as she had died. That lingering thought was enough to twist his mangled body, to guide ruined muscle. As the fire consumed him, his own lips peeled back in a smile of resignation, of peace.

Of Joy.