Void tilted his stolen head slightly.
"It always pains me," he said, voice soft but resonant, "when you rewrite everything I erase, old tree."
Sylvanyr said nothing.
Her silence was anger refined into grace. The cherry blossoms around her began to tremble, compressing into the shape of a gauntlet around her clenched fist, while the rest stood ready for action—each breath a command waiting to be given.
Void moved first. No flourish, no rage—just a simple punch.
A straight line that decided everything it touched had never lived.
It struck Sylvanyr's cheek.
And broke into cherry blossoms.
The petals obeyed her will.
They scissored apart, spiraled inward, and wove themselves into a cage of light around the possessed body.
Void rolled his shoulder once.
The cage exploded—absence rippling outward like a wound in reality.
But absence bloomed.
Petals reclaimed the hole as quickly as it appeared, knitting existence back together with the quiet precision of merciless seamstresses.
Sylvanyr vanished.
She appeared in a blur of light and motion—no sound, no warning.
Her heel crashed into the clone's ribs with a crack sharp enough to split silence itself. Bone shattered. The force hurled him backward, tearing through layers of space until the world itself fractured.
He broke through the veil between realms—
and entered another dimension at a speed so fierce that light couldn't follow.
The impact came like judgment.
He slammed into the alien ground, and the collision bloomed outward—
a blinding detonation that carved a crater miles wide and sent shockwaves racing across the dimension's horizon.
Mountains bowed. Skies rippled. The realm itself trembled beneath the echo of her kick.
Wind screamed through the torn sky as he staggered forward, ribs clicking back into place with every breath.
She appeared before him again like a mirage given form—eyes glowing green, hair lifting in the storm her power made.
Before he could blink, her hand seized his jaw.
A crunch thundered through his skull as she slammed his face into the ground, the earth rippling like a lake struck by a meteor. Dust billowed, stone cracked; gravity itself bent under her fury.
"Still breathing?" she whispered.
Without a word, she lifted him with her petals, body hanging in the air like a puppet on invisible strings. His limbs jerked as if the atmosphere had turned into an ocean. Then she began to punch him like a bag made for gods.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
She blurred forward, raining blows faster than the eye could track. Each strike sounded like iron snapping through marble—ribs shattering, vertebrae twisting, bones in his midsection folding inward with wet, metallic cracks that echoed through the desolate landscape.
He coughed crimson, the air trembling around his broken form.
She pivoted once—and drove her heel into his abdomen.
KRAAACK!
The kick detonated a shockwave that tore the air apart, hurling him across reality itself.
His body vanished into a vortex of shattered dimensions—colors and fragments of space splintering like glass.
Somewhere in the nothingness, he regenerated—flesh knitting, bones realigning, energy roaring back.
But before he could rise—
A hand gripped his head from behind.
Her voice was cold, almost amused. "Still not enough?"
She kicked again, the universe folding as he flew—
—through another dimension.
Then another.
Then another.
Each blow tore holes through worlds, space buckling around the trajectory of her wrath. The last impact erupted with the sound of a dying star.
She appeared above him, dragging the air itself down like a guillotine of force.
One final toss sent him spiraling upward, landing on the moon, dust scattering across the cratered plain.
The clone rose, trembling, fury igniting in his core.
But she was already there.
Her silhouette eclipsed the stars—then descended.
Every strike was a quake, every hit a storm. The moon shuddered beneath them as her blows carved glowing fissures into the surface. He howled, energy flaring wild, consciousness slipping into madness.
At last, she drove her knee into his chest, cracking the stone beneath them.
"This would have been a good reunion," she said, eyes narrowing, "but you decided to ruin it."
The blindfold dropped, and the pupils of the clone began to mutate into endless darkness.
Void had fully descended into the clone—yet Sylvanyr was unfazed.
Void teleported, deleting space and distance between himself and his next position.
"It's been a while since I've gotten this worked up."
He laughed then—and it didn't sound mortal.
He stopped using the clone's sword.
He used authority.
< Endless Void >
Reality peeled. Whole bands of color dropped out of the spectrum; sound went thin; the stars nearby tried to forget their names.
But Sylvanyr's petals refused to agree. They stole the erasure, folding it into a crown that hovered above her hair like a polite threat.
> "You learned a new trick," Sylvanyr said.
Void grinned, and they vanished again.
Ten worlds died in silence—only to be born as blossoms as fast as they were unmade.
Somewhere between the ninth and the tenth, the clone's body began to break.
The void inside him flared feral. The body swelled with black veins, the blindfold seething into a band of crawling darkness. He went berserk—erasing by reflex, swiping holes into the map of existence, speed spiking past calculation—then vanished from the dimension back to the land of Sylvanyr.
He crashed into Seraphina with enough force to turn continents inside out.
She didn't move.
Her body, soul, and name—indestructible.
The strike rang against her like a bell rung underwater. Her heel dropped; the shock made the body react more violently, as it was too weak to host a concept. Sylvanyr was already there when he came out the far side. Petals braided into a spear in her hand; it met his temple and folded half his face into blossom dust before he could reform it.
He screamed—not in pain, but fury.
The scream erased light for a thousand miles.
Petals replaced it before the sound finished.
Sylvanyr looked bored. "It seems that body can't take more hits."
They stepped through a seam and returned.
Seraphina's Indestructible Domain locked around them like a closing book—walls of crystal law sealing above and below, every molecule bolted into meaning. Sylvanyr opened her hand; Petal World stacked over the ice like a second sky, a second ground, a second set of rules.
The clone lunged to rejoin his master.
The connection snapped.
It was audible—a brittle little clink, like a teacup cracking. Power bled out of the body. The abyss in his veins dimmed to a mean black. In a blink, he dropped to something like Coelion—a terror to armies, inferior to gods.
He looked at the women.
Every animal that had ever lived flickered awake in his eyes.
He ran.
He erased the wall in front of him; it re-bloomed.
He erased the floor; petals birthed a new one and made it hold him.
He tried to erase himself—but Sylvanyr declined his attempt. The erasure turned into a tight garland around his neck.
Seraphina didn't chase. She adjusted one cuff and stepped aside.
Sylvanyr began to walk.
No hurry.
No anger.
No mercy.
The petals drifted after her like patient weather.
The clone darted left—a lattice grew there.
He vaulted it; the lattice lifted, a courteous hand offering him right back to the ground.
He tried to make a door; the door bloomed shut and became a wreath.
He hit the invisible edge of the domain and slid down it like glass.
He looked up.
Sylvanyr stood over him, palm open.
> "You rely on beginnings," she said. "I garden those."
Roots of light uncoiled from her hand and crawled over him—up ankles, over hips, folding his wrists to his chest. He thrashed. The roots didn't tighten. They remembered him. They found the name he had been given the moment he was declared—the first time someone had said you and meant this.
He began to bloom.
Black petals pushed out of skin and shadow, unfolding along a trunk woven from his own aura. Bones softened into cambium; his voice splintered into a hundred papery leaves. The blindfold came apart; two empty hollows watched her with animal terror through a mask of bark.
He tried to speak. Roots filled his mouth with gentle efficiency.
In the silence, Sylvanyr looked almost kind.
Her fingertip touched a single petal.
> Root of Origins.
The petal fell.
The tree unexisted—not burned, not broken—forgotten by reality in a clean, surgical instant.
Where the clone had been, there were only drifting motes of light and a hush that sounded like relief.
Seraphina lowered her blade.
Petals settled.
The ice domain rang once, then quieted.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Sylvanyr looked at the place where the clone had stood, as if checking an old scar.
Then she turned her head, eyes lifting toward the crack that had brought the hand and the hunger.
> "He'll feel that," she said, laughing hard.
Seraphina exhaled—a slow ribbon of frost.
"Back in the day, a clone was a piece of cake."
Far below, two specks at the other end of the domain—Rin and Rose—watched the last petals fall, the last cracks mend.
Rin's fingers loosened on Winter's Touch. Somewhere in the ache of his bones, something steadied.
The petals faded.
The ice held.
And in the cold, clean quiet after godhood—
the world remembered how to breathe.
Codex Record: Root of Origins
Effect: Every concept that exists has a "root name" in the World Tree. Sylvanyr can trace that name to its first declaration and prune or erase it.
Pruning the root doesn't destroy something; it forces it to forget that it ever existed in that layer of reality or simply erse it for a period of time.
She rarely uses this—doing so can delete mythologies or undo bloodlines.
She once pruned "fear" from an entire continent for a century.
> "You rely on beginnings. I garden those."
Offensive usage: she can make captured enemies bloom converting them into a root or tree that she could prune or erase from existence. However she needs to capture them with her petals.