The lattice of the Weaver's threads closed in, humming with power so ancient it felt like the heartbeat of creation itself. Aloysius's shadow-self darted between the glowing strands, his movements impossibly precise because he knew every technique, every feint, every instinct Aloysius possessed.
When their blades clashed, sparks of raw essence ignited the air, tearing open small rifts that revealed glimpses of other realities worlds where Aloysius had made different choices, some crowned in glory, others drowned in ruin.
"You see it now," the shadow said, driving a strike that forced Aloysius to his knees. "I am every version of you that would take the power without hesitation. No restraint. No mercy. No weakness."
Aloysius's vision blurred as the Weaver's threads began to pierce his skin not physically, but deep into his soul, pulling at its structure. Fragments of him splintered away, each carrying a different memory or emotion.
The Weaver's voice echoed:
"To wield the Fragments of Eternity, you must first decide which self survives."
The shadow lunged, aiming for Aloysius's heart both literal and spiritual.
But Aloysius caught the strike barehanded, divine blood dripping from his palm. His eyes blazed with a light not born from the Fragments, but from something far older within him.
"You're right," he said through gritted teeth."I choose."
And the void screamed.