The fissure widened until the void itself seemed to buckle under its glow. Blue light poured outward in pulses, every beat resonating with the rhythm of a colossal heart. The air warped, the fabric of reality trembling as if something on the other side demanded they enter.
Clara staggered back. The images spilling from it were too vivid to ignore—scenes etched with burning precision into the folds of existence. A city drowning in fire. Towers split like parchment. The cries of people crushed beneath crimson storms. And above it all: Yurin.
Not the Yurin she knew—calm, calculating, always one step removed from the chaos. This Yurin was drenched in carnage, threads of crimson spilling from him like rivers of blood. He did not control the storm. He was the storm.
Damien spat through his teeth. "Tell me I'm not the only one seeing this nightmare reel."
"You're not," Evelyn sang, her grin feral. "But isn't it lovely? The great Yurin Crimson, not a savior, not a protector—but the executioner. I always suspected our boy had hobbies."
The fissure throbbed. Without warning, the ground beneath them shattered, and all four were pulled into the blue light.
The fall was endless. Letters dissolved around them, fragments of unwritten worlds scattering like ash. Clara gasped, reaching out instinctively, but the air offered no anchor. And then—impact.
She hit cobblestone. The scent of ash filled her lungs. When she raised her head, she saw it: the memory made whole.
They stood in the ruins of a city. Skies aflame. Corpses strewn across streets like discarded dolls. The air reeked of burning ink and blood. And at the city's heart, atop a mountain of rubble, stood Yurin Crimson.
Not their Yurin—the memory Yurin. His aura bled into the horizon, staining the flames a deeper red. Crimson threads lanced through the air like whips, dragging people into his grasp only to unravel them into dust. His expression was not rage. Not grief. It was serenity.
Clara's stomach turned. She stumbled back, wings twitching. "What… what is this?"
Yurin, the one beside her, did not move. His calm was unnerving, his eyes locked on his own doppelgänger in the distance. "It is truth," he said quietly. "A piece of what was."
Damien rounded on him. "Truth? That's you up there turning an entire city into confetti! Don't tell me this is some metaphorical fever dream!"
Yurin's gaze slid to him. "Metaphors do not scream as they die."
Clara's breath hitched. She wanted to shout at him, to demand answers, but the memory pulled at her. The figures of the fallen were not nameless. As she walked forward, she saw their faces—people smiling, laughing, alive only moments before they were erased. Each expression branded itself into her mind.
And then she saw a child. Small, hands reaching upward toward the sky, eyes wide with horror as crimson threads pierced their chest. Clara's wings flared instinctively, but her fire passed through the child like smoke. It was only a memory. Unchangeable.
Her voice broke. "You killed them all."
Beside her, Yurin's silence was confirmation enough.
Evelyn twirled through the carnage, eyes gleaming. "Mmm, I adore this. The paradox girl gets a taste of the man behind the mask. Tell me, Clara—do you still feel safe in his threads?"
Clara turned, glaring at Evelyn through tears. But she didn't answer. She couldn't.
Instead, she focused on Yurin. Not the memory Yurin tearing lives apart, but the one standing silently at her side. "Why?" Her voice shook, equal parts fury and desperation. "Why did you do this?"
Yurin met her gaze. His eyes, steady as stone, did not waver. "Because it was necessary."
The words chilled her more than fire ever could.
Damien snarled. "Necessary? You slaughtered innocents. What could possibly justify—"
Yurin's aura surged faintly, silencing him. "You will not understand. Not yet."
"Then make me understand!" Clara shouted, stepping closer. Her wings flared wide, sparks flying. "Don't you dare keep deciding what I can and cannot know!"
Yurin's face softened by a fraction—something like sorrow flickered in his gaze before vanishing behind the calm. He reached out, not with threads, but with his hand. "Clara… you are not ready to bear the whole of me."
She froze, staring at his extended hand. The weight of his words pressed against her, heavy as iron. Not ready. Not able. Always bound by his measure of her strength.
But before she could respond, the memory shifted.
The crimson Yurin atop the rubble turned—directly toward them. His gaze locked on Clara, crimson eyes piercing across time and memory. He raised his hand, and the entire memory began to unravel into threads that whipped toward them like a storm.
Evelyn clapped with delight. "Oh, now this is getting personal!"
The memory was no longer passive. It was hunting them.