My Charity System made me too OP

The black tide surged up to Leon's chest in an instant, its current pulling like a living thing.

Every drop of it was heavy with memory—soldiers' last breaths, their rage, their despair—all pressing against his skin, trying to sink him.

Kaelith strode easily across the surface, each step parting the water like a commander walking through his own army.

"War is not won by those who fight against the tide. It is won by those who command it."

Leon clenched his jaw. His Shell Pulse still beat steady under the crushing weight, but every echo was muffled, distorted by the voices in the tide.

If I try to brute-force this, I'll drown in seconds.

The spectral soldiers in the water began lunging upward—arms of steel and bone breaking the surface, grasping for his legs.

Leon's eyes narrowed. "You want me to fight your army in your rhythm? …Not happening."

He let his breathing slow.

Shell Pulse: Karmic Loop—he felt the pull of each grasping arm, the flow of every attack, the inevitability of impact.

Then… he inverted it.

Instead of pushing back, Leon let the current take him—only to snap the motion back with Absolute Return, the very weight of the tide being fed back into Kaelith's own flow.

The effect was immediate.

For the first time, the water beneath Kaelith's boots shivered. The war tide faltered for half a beat, enough for Leon to rise above the surface in a spiraling leap, the black water trailing behind him like torn banners.

"Fusion Technique…" Kaelith murmured, lifting his sword as if saluting. "…Not bad."

But the sky above them cracked like glass, and from the rift, a rain of spectral spears began to fall—each one wreathed in that same crushing war-tide energy.

Leon landed on a half-sunken fragment of the arena, staring up.

He's forcing me to go all in.

The first spear struck the tide with a thunderclap, sending a shockwave of black water high into the air.

Leon leapt to another drifting fragment just as three more spears slammed down, their impact zones glowing like molten wounds in the surface.

Kaelith stood untouched in the midst of the chaos, the storm obeying him. His voice cut through the din:

"You've proven you can defend. But war is never won on defense alone."

The next wave wasn't just spears—it was soldiers. Hundreds of them, armored in the banners of a thousand fallen kingdoms, bursting from the tide in perfect formation. Their movements were impossibly synchronized, their strikes overlapping so no opening could exist.

Leon's pulse deepened.

Karmic Loop won't be enough to break this chain. If I try to return the force… they'll just reset the rhythm.

The Fifth Pulse—Fracture Requiem—flashed in his mind like a forbidden chord. The last time he used it, it nearly tore his Shell Pulse apart.

I could end this now… but if I misstep, it'll end me instead.

A halberd cleaved the air beside him, close enough to slice a thread of his sleeve. Another soldier lunged from behind, and Leon used Tripart Echo, splitting into three shimmering after-images that broke the attack's timing.

The echoes collapsed back into him, the energy rebounding through his frame. He chained it into Absolute Return, sending a shockwave through the nearest rank—yet they re-formed instantly, Kaelith's command holding them like puppets on a single string.

Kaelith raised his blade and the entire tide tilted, dragging Leon toward the center where the general stood.

"If you want to win, you'll have to kill the war itself, not just survive it."

Leon's teeth clenched. His Shell Pulse throbbed—three layers in perfect sync, the fourth pushing at its limits. The Fifth… whispering.

The black sky split again, and this time an entire fortress descended from the rift, its walls bristling with siege weapons aimed straight at him.

The fortress struck the tide like a continent falling from the heavens.

The waves it birthed towered higher than mountains, each crest armed with siege bolts the size of tree trunks.

The air turned heavy—war had taken physical form.

Leon skidded along a fragment of broken causeway, every muscle locked in calculated tension.

If he stayed in the fortress's firing path, there'd be no room for evasion—only annihilation.

Karmic Loop won't erase something this vast.

Tripart Echo would buy seconds, not salvation.

The Fifth Pulse's pull deepened.

Fracture Requiem—the forbidden resonance that shattered every link in the world's rhythm. It was like holding a blade with no hilt; to swing it was to bleed.

Kaelith was already moving across the tide toward him, stepping over spears, soldiers, and shattered battlements as if walking a straight road. His armor glowed with warlight, the aura of countless campaigns condensed into a single man.

"I told you, Ascender," Kaelith's voice boomed, "Defense is a grave. If you fight only to endure, you've already lost."

The fortress's first volley fired.

Siege bolts, burning with molten runes, tore through the storm. The air screamed under their passage.

Leon's pulse synced—first layer, second, third, fourth—each reverberating through his frame like an orchestra tuning for a violent symphony.

No more testing… no more holding.

He stepped forward, his Shell Pulse collapsing inward into a singular, unstable heartbeat.

The Fifth Pulse awoke.

The world's rhythm didn't just break—it screamed, fractured, and scattered into raw chaos.

The nearest wave inverted, folding into itself. Siege bolts hung frozen midair, their momentum stripped. The fortress's towers buckled as time in their stonework unraveled. Soldiers dissolved into scattering motes of memory.

Kaelith stopped mid-stride. His eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in recognition.

"So you do carry the Requiem."

Leon's voice was low, each word pulsing with dangerous resonance:

"Then stop talking, and try to survive it."

The battlefield convulsed.

Fracture Requiem's waves rolled outward—not like sound, not like light, but like a memory being torn apart and rewritten mid-thought.

The fortress's ramparts split into jagged fragments that floated in the air, rotating like pieces of a broken music box. The tide lost its sense of direction, water folding upward into inverted waterfalls.

Kaelith moved anyway.

Even in a world where rhythm no longer existed, he forced one into being. Each step was a war-drum—steady, defiant—cracking the Requiem's influence in a narrow corridor around him.

Leon didn't give him the luxury of reaching striking distance.

His hand swept in a slow arc, and three uncompleted echoes of himself appeared—not perfect afterimages, but warped, half-real phantoms that moved in conflicting tempos. Each one struck at Kaelith's advancing form from impossible angles, carrying blade-light that was both earlier and later than the swing itself.

Kaelith's halberd roared with heat as he cut through the first phantom—only for its wound to open in the second echo he faced. His armor buckled under the third's strike, though the phantom hadn't yet reached him.

"So this is how you break armies," Kaelith muttered, halberd spinning into a defensive wheel. "Not by killing them—by unmaking the time they fight in."

Leon's answer was a quiet, resonant hum—one that made Kaelith's halberd bend in his hands.

The warlord didn't slow. With a roar, he drove his halberd into the fractured air, stapling his own rhythm into reality.

For the first time since the Requiem began, a true, stable beat rang out on the battlefield.

And Kaelith surged forward.