Chapter 544 - 542:Death’s End.

Chapter 544: Chapter 542:Death’s End.

The smile on my face, from death’s grim look, I was sure looked like that of a psycho, but I didn’t care.

"Grandpa Momon. Grandpa Omari. Death says he wishes to stop me from advancing, what do you say to that?" I asked.

Hummmmm!!!!

The space around us vibrated vigorously as Grandpa Momon stood from his bow, his armor creaking like old metal as a feeling not too different from what I’d felt from Finality began bleeding into the atmosphere.

"Young Dante," his deep voice didn’t just fracture space—no, it brought every concept of motion or continuity around the region to an absolute stop.

Death’s emotionless face twitched as the grey aura around the being flared even more.

"You two dared go against the oath you took when you became my harbingers." His voice, still plain and emotionless, now carried a sting to it, but—

"The time for talk, dearest coward, is over." Momon drew his blade across the fabric of space, almost as though methodically cutting through something. "For now, death meets its End."

The moment the words left his mouth, every form of color bled out of the region around us. Everything turned a sterile white. Death’s eyes widened as—

RIIIPPP!!!

The arm wielding the scythe came flying off, a pallid grey aura bleeding through the stump.

The laws of death covered the arm, his intentions clear—Kill the injury—but—

"That won’t work, dearest coward." Omari’s words came from behind the being as his massive frame cast a shadow over Death’s figure, the tip of his lance already piercing through the midsection of the still-frozen manifestation.

"This is futile!!! I am death!! I reap that which has been sown!! Everything has its time. You two traitors as well!!"

The lance tearing through Death’s torso slowly began being corrupted by his pallid aura. Death’s arm carefully returned the severed stump to a state of wholeness, but—

"Time?" Momon appeared right before him, his massive arm tearing through the sterile world around us as he punched Death straight in the face. "Time is a delusion, O coward."

Crack!

The sickening crack of Death’s manifestation losing its face completely shook the entire region.

"We are the Period at the end of all. Even Death."

Hummmmm!!!!!

The sterile world around us shook. A terrifying aura fell upon the place as Death refused to be put down, its presence appearing fully.

"Mortals!!! You dare go against death’s mandate!!!!"

"O coward!! You’ve already lost all authority to claim a mandate!!"

BOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!

Their auras clashed.

Death vs End.

Life’s Harvest vs Life’s Finality.

Their clash wasn’t merely devastating.

It was warping. Unmaking the very fabric of space-time around us.

Reality itself screamed.

The sterile white cracked like glass under pressure. Through the fractures poured rivers of absolute black and rivers of absolute nothing. Stars that had never existed were born and died in the same heartbeat. Entire timelines flickered into existence only long enough to be erased mid-sentence. The concept of "before" and "after" began to fray at the edges.

Death’s grey aura expanded into a storm of scythes—millions of them, each one the size of continents, each one singing the final note of every living thing that had ever drawn breath. They fell upon Momon and Omari like a rain of endings.

Momon did not dodge.

He simply raised his blade and cut the concept of "falling."

The scythes froze mid-air, suspended in a moment that no longer knew how to continue. Then Omari’s lance swept sideways, and the frozen scythes were unmade—not destroyed, not broken, but denied the right to have ever been weapons in the first place. They dissolved into grey ash that forgot it had once been sharp.

Death roared.

The roar was not sound. It was the collective death-rattle of every star that would ever burn out, compressed into a single instant. The sterile white world shattered completely. In its place rose a cathedral of bones that stretched across light-years—ribs of dead galaxies, skulls of forgotten gods, a floor paved with the last heartbeats of civilizations.

From the center of that cathedral, Death’s true form began to rise.

No longer a humanoid figure.

A colossal, faceless reaper woven from the ending of all things. Its scythe was no longer a weapon. It was the boundary between "is" and "isnot." When it swung, entire concepts died. Hope. Continuity. The idea that something could continue existing after the cut.

The first swing erased the space Momon stood in.

Momon simply stepped out of a place that no longer existed and drove his blade into the reaper’s wrist. The impact sent shockwaves that unmade three newborn galaxies in the far distance.

"You still don’t understand, Coward," Momon said, voice calm even as the fabric of prime screamed around them. "You are not the end. You are only the middle of the sentence."

Omari appeared above the reaper’s head, lance inverted, and drove it downward with the full weight of Finality behind it. The tip pierced the crown of Death’s form. Grey aura exploded outward in a tidal wave of endings, but the lance did not stop. It kept sinking, dragging the concept of "harvest" down into something deeper.

Death’s form convulsed.

"I AM THE LAW!!" it bellowed, voice fracturing across every plane. "I AM THE INEVITABLE!! EVERYTHING THAT LIVES MUST—"

"Must what?" Omari interrupted, twisting the lance. "Must end? Then end."

He pushed.

The reaper’s body began to fold in on itself, collapsing into a singularity of pure cessation. But Death refused. It tore itself free, sacrificing entire layers of its own existence to reform. Grey blood—actual conceptual blood—rained across the void, and where each drop landed, something died. Distant stars winked out. Pocket dimensions collapsed. The memory of certain colors ceased to exist.

"MOMON!!! OMARI!!!! YOU TRAITORS!!"

Death’s roar fractured the sterility around us as the void’s chilling winds began blowing through the realm.

"COWARD!!!! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE US!! NOW COME, MEET YOUR END!!"

Momon roared right back, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword tightly as his gaze peered through the foundational structure of prime itself, his gaze settling on the very manifestation of prime’s law of death.

Their clash escalated beyond anything the previous exchange had prepared me for.

Momon and Omari moved as one. Every step they took erased a different aspect of Death’s authority. Momon cut the concept of "reaping." Omari pierced the concept of "inevitability." Together they began rewriting the local laws so that death was no longer guaranteed—only possible, and only if Finality allowed it.

Death retaliated by killing the idea of distance. Suddenly the reaper was everywhere at once, scythes falling from every angle, every timeline, every possible version of the fight. The platform I stood on cracked under the conceptual pressure. The fabric of reality slowly peeling away.

"Dante. They’ll send us into the void if you don’t do something, now!" Shaia’s call snapped me from my trance as I moved.

Chaos energy churned from within me as I willed the origin of Denial, rejecting the concept of instability—but—

CRACK!!

"Huh? They... they ended the rejection?" I was surprised. I’d done it without any true intent, the same level of casualness I’d used during the fight between Malachi and Paku, but—

"You’re underestimating these two. Especially since they’re seriously trying to put an end to prime’s death." Shaia’s voice was hard.

I nodded. Willing it again as Denial surged from within me, Rejecting the concept of instability once more—and this time, it held.

The warping slowed. The collapsing timelines stabilized just enough for Momon and Omari to press their advantage.

Death’s true form was fully manifested now—an infinite lattice of endings, a living equation that solved for zero. Its scythe had become a horizon. When it swung, the horizon moved, and everything on the wrong side of it simply stopped being recorded by existence.

Momon met that horizon with his blade.

The collision did not produce light or sound.

It produced silence so complete that even the idea of vibration died for several heartbeats. Then the silence broke, and the backlash carved a wound across the outer void of space that would never heal. Through that wound I glimpsed things that should not be glimpsed—dead futures, unborn pasts, the final page of books that had never been written.

Omari used the opening.

His lance became a spear of pure Period. He thrust it into the center of Death’s lattice and spoke a single word that carried the weight of every ending that had ever been deferred:

"Enough."

The lattice cracked.

Grey aura flooded outward in a desperate tsunami. Death tried to kill the spear, the wielder, the moment, the memory of the moment. None of it worked. Omari’s Finality had already decided the outcome.

Momon appeared beside the fracturing reaper, blade raised high.

"You were never the end," he said quietly. "You were only the fear of it."

He brought the blade down.

The cut was clean.

Not through flesh.

Through authority.

Death’s roar—raw, ancient, and for the first time truly afraid—echoed across the void as its form began to unravel from the inside out. The grey aura peeled away in long, screaming ribbons. The cathedral of bones collapsed into dust that forgot it had ever been bone. The scythe shattered into a million forgotten last breaths.

"I am death!! I am the—"

The sentence never finished.

Momon’s blade completed the period.

A final, absolute silence fell.

Where the Law of Death had stood, there was only a faint, fading outline—like the afterimage of a word that had been erased from every language at once. Then even that outline was gone.

Momon lowered his sword. Omari rested his lance against his shoulder. Both turned to look at me through the settling stillness.

The sterile white was gone. The dark cold of space had returned, quieter than before.

And for the first time since the beginning of Prime, Death was no longer inevitable.

Only optional.

And only if the ABSOLUTE allowed it.

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A/N: Fuck... this is arguably my most epic fight scene yet, bloody hell, Momon and Omari cooked. It’s late but as always,

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Thanks for reading...