Unknown to him, every cycle of destruction and reconstruction was not meaningless repetition. With each collapse and rebirth, his control over the spiraling forces sharpened, reaching a level of precision he had never touched before.
Destruction. Reconstruction.
The endless rhythm hammered into him like the beat of a war drum, wearing down his will yet tempering it at the same time.
At last—after what felt like an eternity suspended in torment—Ricky found himself in a state where he could halt the violent pull of the spiritual forces just before they collided. His consciousness flickered like a candle in the storm, hazy and unsteady, but he endured.
He lifted his gaze toward the floating spirals within his inner world. They revolved in eerie silence, massive and resplendent, their glow illuminating the vast emptiness like stars suspended in an eternal night. His face darkened, grave and weary.
One mistake… and that would have been the end of me.
