The sky of Arden Gate was splitting again.
The three shadows that had walked from the Second Fissure leaned closer. They did not stride. They did not advance. They simply were—present everywhere, touching every breath, every heartbeat. Their gaze pressed down, heavy as oceans, cold as the grave.
Lio stood in the square, ink dripping from his arms, claws black and curved. He breathed like a beast, chest heaving, his laughter broken into growls. He had fought through duplicates until the ground itself was a swamp of shredded letters. The town survived only because he forced it to remain, rewriting with blood and pain.
But hunger gnawed him. Every strike fed him, every scream fueled him. The boy who had once clung to his name was gone. What remained was something darker—an echo of will sharpened into bloodlust.
And somewhere far above, the Eleven debated.
