Reality shattered like glass under strain.
Aurus moved. Space cracked. Each step left fractures, spreading like webbing through the dream.
When he slashed, the world itself tore apart. It wasn't a unique blade, it wasn't anything special, if it wasn't for having followed him during his whole life.
No, it wasn't special; any blade would do the work. What mattered was the user.
Just his will, cutting sideways through dimensions. The battlefield broke open like pages torn from a burning book.
Air turned inside out, time flickered.
But the Slumbering King wasn't affected.
His black hands rose, every twitch rewriting the world.
Towers rose. Stone and light coiled into shape. Dozens, then hundreds of floating rings, drifting like pieces of shattered gravity. Puppets flooded the new ground, thousands of them, weapons drawn, eyes glowing white like stars without warmth.
