The world itself bent around Leon's hand.
The fracture gathered not as a sphere of light, nor as flame, nor as shadow—but as something wrong. A shard of silence that cut through every law, every rhythm. Even the pulse of the Fifth itself went quiet, as if fearful of what it was becoming.
Kaelith did not move. His towering figure straightened, inevitability coiling around him in a last defiant surge, yet he made no attempt to strike. Instead, he spread his arms wide—like a sovereign greeting the end of his reign.
"Inevitability accepts… only the purest rebellion." His voice was no longer thunder. It was reverence.
Leon's vision blurred into bleeding white, but he stepped forward, each pace costing him more than bone or blood. His very existence cracked with the motion. The fracture pulsed once. Then again. With every heartbeat, Leon felt his own essence unraveling into that abyss.
He thrust his hand forward.
The cavern, the sky, the throne—all of it broke.
