The silence in the Academy's great hall was suffocating. Alaric's outburst still hung in the air, and the crowd's collective stare pressed down on him like a mountain. But even as their voices swelled again—some calling him a savior, others a traitor—Alaric's mind spiraled inward, away from the chamber, away from the world.
Because Rudra had awakened.
"Do not break," the voice thundered from within him, firm yet familiar, sharper than his own thoughts.
Alaric staggered. "You…?"
From the shadows of his mind stepped Rudra, not as a whisper or phantom but as a figure of flesh and presence. He bore Alaric's face but carried himself differently—his eyes burning with fire, his stance defiant, his aura thick with confidence that Alaric had never dared claim.
"I am Rudra," he said. "The soul you buried, the strength you never dared to wield. I have always been here, waiting. And now, when they would crush you, I rise."
Alaric trembled. "Another soul…? Another me?"
"No," Rudra growled. "The other half. Where you choose restraint, I choose fury. Where you seek light, I embrace dark. We are two, but we are one. And together, we will not fall."
The psychological realm surged back around them. Chains of light wrapped Alaric's wrists. The battlefield of corpses stretched to the horizon. And standing opposite him were two figures:
Kenive, the sentinel of radiant order, his armor blazing with holy fire.
Eryndor, the serpent of shadows, his body wreathed in coils of endless night.
They had tested him night after night. Now, they stepped forward to claim him.
"You must choose," Kenive intoned, his voice iron and law. "Light or dark. Purity or corruption. No soul may walk both paths."
Eryndor hissed, his words dripping venom. "He belongs to me. The shadows have already claimed his blood, his dreams, his name."
Alaric faltered, torn between them, until Rudra stepped in front of him like a shield.
"He chooses both," Rudra declared.
The realm quaked. Both Eryndor and Kenive recoiled.
"Impossible," Eryndor spat.
"Blasphemy," Kenive hissed.
But Rudra only smiled. "Not impossible. Not blasphemy. Balance."
The fight came swift and brutal.
Kenive struck first, hurling spears of radiant fire. Rudra met them head-on, his blade carved from shadow and flame, cleaving light into shards. Eryndor lunged next, his serpentine form wrapping around Rudra, whispering promises of endless dominion. Rudra roared, seizing Eryndor by the throat and forcing him back into the abyss.
Alaric watched, torn between horror and awe. Rudra fought not as a savior nor as a villain but as something beyond both—unyielding, defiant, whole.
The clash echoed across the realm. Blades of light, waves of darkness, storms of energy colliding in cataclysm. For every strike Eryndor landed, Rudra countered with ferocity. For every snare Kenive wove, Rudra shattered it with sheer will.
But it was not only brute force. Rudra argued as he fought, his words cutting as deep as his strikes.
"You claim light is purity," he roared at Kenive, "but purity without freedom is tyranny."
"You claim darkness is strength," he snarled at Eryndor, "but strength without compassion is destruction."
His voice thundered through the realm. "Light without dark is blind. Dark without light is lost. Together—they are whole. And I am both!"
At last, Rudra's blade pierced Kenive's chest, his other hand crushing Eryndor's form into dust. The two forces—light and shadow—screamed, twisted, and finally bowed before him. The realm itself dimmed, then steadied, as though conceding his victory.
Rudra stood triumphant, his eyes blazing, his aura vast. He turned to Alaric, extending his hand.
"You will walk the path of light," he said. "I will walk the path of dark. Together, we are balance. Together, we are strength."
Alaric hesitated only a moment before clasping his hand. As their palms met, the chains shattered, the battlefield dissolved, and the voices that had tormented him fell silent.
When Alaric's eyes opened again, he was back in the Academy's hall. The crowd still argued, the council still debated—but something had shifted. His back was straighter. His gaze no longer wavered. His voice, when it came, carried both steel and fire.
"I am neither traitor nor savior," Alaric said, his tone echoing through the chamber. "I am both. I carry light, and I carry dark. I will not choose one over the other, for to deny either is to deny myself."
The hall erupted into chaos. Some shouted blasphemy, others salvation. But none could deny the power in his words, the undeniable presence that had rooted itself in his soul.
Clem's eyes widened in relief. She had seen him broken, faltering, drowning in trials. Now she saw him reborn—not alone, but with Rudra beside him, a second soul bound in unity.
That night, when he finally closed his eyes, the realm returned. But this time, there were no chains. No corpses. No mirrored reflection with blackened eyes.
Only Rudra, standing at his side, silent and steady.
And for the first time in weeks, Alaric slept without fear.