The air was thick with the aftermath of battle. The once-blinding storm of electric energy had finally subsided, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and the faint hum of dissipating power. You stood in the heart of the battlefield, panting, your body still trembling from the exertion of fighting Scaramouche — or rather, the monstrous form he had taken: the Shouki no Kami.

The giant, metallic god he had transformed into lay shattered in pieces around you. Its remnants sparked occasionally, like the last breath of a machine that had overreached its limits. In the center of it all, crumpled on the ground, was Scaramouche himself. His human form was almost too small, too fragile, in contrast to the titan he had embodied moments before. His clothing was torn, his breathing shallow, but even now, he radiated an aura of defiance.

You sheathed your weapon, taking a slow, cautious step toward him. His eyes, half-lidded, flickered with life, his gaze sharp despite the obvious pain racking his body. For a long moment, neither of you said anything, the silence only broken by the distant crackling of ruined machinery.

"Why... Why do you stand there?" Scaramouche's voice was raspy, weak, but it held the same venom you'd come to expect from him. "Come to mock me? To revel in your victory? Or are you just here to deliver the final blow?"

This was the man—no, the puppet—who had caused so much chaos, who had sought to seize the Gnosis and transcend into godhood, only to fall so spectacularly.