The Riftkeeper stood frozen.
His chains—each one forged to bind the essence of a being—vanished into nothingness, limp and meaningless.
"No resistance. No counterforce," he muttered. "You didn't block them… You ignored them."
Ren kept walking.
The girl behind him—still clutching her dagger—watched, barely breathing. Something about Ren had changed again. His eyes shimmered, no longer just wine-colored, but reflecting something vast—something that didn't belong in the world.
"Why can't he touch you?" she asked.
Ren didn't answer. Not yet.
The Riftkeeper hissed. "You were once bound by a Name. We gave it to you—Ren. The label that made you possible. Without it, you were nothing. You owed us."
Ren paused.
"That name didn't define me," he said. "It was just a placeholder. A chain I allowed."
And now, he reached up—and tapped his chest once.
A faint, circular shimmer pulsed out. The earth beneath his feet split gently.
"I'm no longer tied to that definition."
Suddenly, the Riftkeeper felt an unease.
Names, titles, bindings—all crafted by the Order to limit beings like Ren—became meaningless. Even the girl's pendant, which had protected her family for generations, cracked with a sharp ping.
"You're unbound," the Riftkeeper said. "Then what are you?"
Ren didn't respond.
Because there was no word for what he was.
He stepped forward. And for the first time, the Riftkeeper—a being tasked with judging gods—stepped back.
Later, in silence...
The Riftkeeper vanished.
Not in defeat. Not in retreat.
The very concept of his being simply ceased to be relevant.
Ren turned to the girl. "We should move."
"Why?" she asked.
"They'll send others," he said. "Stronger. Smarter."
"And you'll fight them all?"
Ren looked up at the sky, now pulsing faintly red near the horizon.
"Only if I have to," he said.
But in his eyes… a flicker of something old.
Something primordial