The canyon had split. The thirty thousand metal spheres? They could still be seen. As was the Metal Jinn. His head was gone. Spine severed. A full second passed before his body realized it was dead. It dropped to the ground like a sack of rusted iron. A lot more steam rose off his back. His robes were barely rags now. Blood dripped from everywhere. He took one step forward. And that was when it came. A single, blunt punch. It landed square in his gut. His stomach folded in. Then another hit his shoulder. His back straightened up. A third struck his ribs. Then they all came at once. THUMP. THUMP. CRACK. THUMP. Hundreds of hits rained down on him. His vision flashed red, then white, then black. His shoulder jerked back with a sickening pop. His hip was hit deep enough that the bone caved in. Many landed between his broken ribs. They even struck his collarbone, his jaw— Still, he didn’t fall. Malik had been too fast, too focused. He’d killed before the metal could react. And now, the laws came back for their revenge. ...He wouldn’t let them win. Every time his knees buckled, he’d stomp hard, forcing himself upright. Well, as upright as he could be with the wave still ongoing. He coughed up even more blood. Too thick to spit. He kept swaying like a dying tree in a storm. One eye began to close, swelling shut in real time. Still. Still. Still, he didn’t fall. Because to fall now, after all that? Malik would not collapse. He had yet to end his mission. Rest would only come when Shimr joined his men in this mass grave. And so, he remained true to his word until the attack finally ceased. When it did, his body folded forward against the curved sword. Though only for a moment, as he quickly used it to move. Consciousness was quickly slipping away from him. If he were to kill Shimr, he had to do it now. His remaining eye shut from blood. They continued to bleed. His steam began to cease. His bleeding began to slow. Craned his neck upwards. Shimr was standing on the edge of a cliff far above. That smug smile was gone. Malik wiped the blood off his still-functioning eyes. The gold landed on pink. Their owner remained frozen. A coward who’d realized too late that the devil he summoned had walked through Hell to reach him and survived. He appeared on the hill. Shimr flinched hard, turned, and bolted as fast as he could. His fine shoes slipped on gravel. His robe snagged on a bent blade stuck into the earth. He stumbled, screamed, got back up, and ran even harder. "HELP! GUARDS! ANYONE! I YIELD! I YIELD!!" Malik didn’t speed up. He didn’t even bother to give chase. There was no need to tire himself any further. Slowly, he bent down and picked up a jagged piece of rock—black from flame—and hurled it. It shot through the air and hit the bastard before he could get too far. Shimr’s ankle twisted in a direction it wasn’t meant to. He shrieked and collapsed into a heap. Without pause, he clawed at the ground, trying to drag himself away, his remaining functioning leg pushing him forth. Malik’s steps didn’t change. A wolf hunting a rabbit. An owl hunting a dove. Though calmer, his wounds continued to gush. And he kept turning paler. Even paler than the fresh snow beneath him and his prey. His body trembled like it was on the verge of crumbling. But somehow, some way, his posture remained straight, even as he leaned on his sword while walking. Nothing human left but the blood, blood that was barely there. "AaaahhhHHHHEEEHHHHAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAaaaAAAAaaAAAaaAAaaahhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Shimr screamed, or at least tried to, and continued his attempts at crawling. Malik stared at him, his breath whistling now. Shallow. Wet. Anyone could see that. "YOU WIN! ISN’T THAT ENOUGH?! IT’S OVER! YOU DON’T HAVE TO—" Malik finally stopped. Looking down on the man-child he began to loathe. Shimr didn’t even try to turn around. He just whimpered into the dirt. Perhaps his way of escape. Malik stood above him. Eyes dull. Mouth flat. Blood running down his face. And then, in a voice barely audible, hollow as an empty room— "Your brother will meet you soon." Shimr’s breath caught. He turned around, picked up a handful of snow—slush, really, muddied and shaking in his grip—and chucked it up at Malik with all the strength of a tantrum-throwing toddler. "AAAHHH—NNNNNGGHHHH—GHAAAAAAHHHHH!!" Another wad of snow hit Malik’s leg. "HRRRGHHHHH—HHHAAAAHHHH!!!" And then one caught him in the face. A soft plop, barely a tap. It flicked Malik’s head upward. Shimr’s whining paused. One golden eye fell upon him. It was covered in layers of dry and wet blood. But he could see it as clearly as he could the Shams. It was the only thing he could see. And it was the last thing he ever saw. A low, hollow crackle. Then light. Blinding light. Pale gold, flickering at first. Then rising. Consuming. Aether sparked around Malik’s fingers. His whole body shook with it. He was killing himself further with this, betraying his earlier thoughts, his dead skin hissing like porcelain over boiling water. He just held out his hand. Pointed a single broken finger. And a drop of flame fell. It landed on his neck. He couldn’t even scream. His throat was burned first. He could do nothing but suffer, convulse. His eyes burst—white turned black, then nothing. Skin peeled like fruit, curling away from bone. Fingers snapped, legs kicked, and then stilled. The fire ate until there was nothing left to eat. Burnt down to the bones of the earth. The wind picked up again, swirling the ashes around his legs. And still he didn’t fall. He had fulfilled his revenge. No, revenge wasn’t the right word. It was too lofty for someone like him. Punishment. Malik had administered punishment. Now, he could finally rest. But he couldn’t fall here. This was the enemy’s land. And even in death, Malik would not lie in foreign soil. One foot in front of the other. Dragging half-dead limbs through wind and flame. There was no applause. No voice calling him a hero. Just cold, cold silence. Tens, hundreds, and thousands. None of them mattered. Malik didn’t even look. He reached the edge of the battlefield. Here, the fire-blackened soil was of a different color—a golden brown. Not the clean sand of untouched dunes. Not the white sand of palace gardens. His sand. One made from his fire. And Malik, the "Stranger," he— Malik offered no farewell to the world. One last breath into the dust. And the wind, at last, was still. {End Of Volume Five: Second Sun}