The scene had pieced itself back together.
The shattered terrain was now whole again. And then—
WHOOOSH.
A jagged rupture split the air—space itself cracking like glass under pressure. Out from the rift stumbled Art.
His divine, radiant image from before? Gone.
Now he looked like a beggar at best. Clothes in tatters, face caked with ash, eyes dazed and hollow. There was no lingering divinity to be found—only weariness clinging to every inch of him.
I tilted my head, expression impassive, voice devoid of inflection. "What happened to you? A moment ago, you were pretending to be a god. Now you look like something I'd scrape off my boot."
Art let out a dry, humorless chuckle—self-deprecating and weary. "Yeah, yeah. God, huh? What a fucking joke."
He slumped to the ground, exhaling as if he hadn't breathed in years.
