Black dust rained down like ash. Cracks split through the air itself, not just the ground—as if sky, earth, and time were breaking together.
Yan Zhi staggered, drenched in blood, yet his sword never left his grip. Across from him, his flawless self stood almost untouched, as though the battle had been no more than a passing breeze.
"Look at you," the figure said, calm, its voice drowning out the whispers that still echoed. "Your body is broken. Your heart torn. You cling on only through stubbornness. Is that power?"
Yan Zhi gave a bitter smile. "No. It's me."
He stepped forward. Each footfall made the ground crumble into nothingness. His sword trembled—not from weakness, but from the shadows inside it pressing, eager to break free.
"Scars are not weakness," he shouted. "They are proof that I lived! You… are nothing but emptiness pretending to exist!"
His flawless self raised its blade, eyes flashing cold for the first time.
"Then prove who deserves to remain."
The clash was no longer a duel of swords—it was the collapse of a world. Mountains disintegrated. The sky shattered into falling shards of glass.
The shadowed faces that haunted Yan Zhi screamed, fracturing into dust. Yet fragments of them sank into his veins. He felt pain, burning… and power.
"Accept us…" they whispered.
Yan Zhi nodded. "You are part of me."
In that instant, his blade flared with absolute darkness—not perfect, not beautiful, but real.
He roared, striking. The slash was jagged, messy, but it carried every wound, every regret, every ounce of will.
The flawless blade blocked—yet cracks spread across it.
And the world broke.
The Fourth Layer collapsed in a storm of shadow and ruin. When silence returned, Yan Zhi was left kneeling in emptiness.
The voice of his flawless self lingered faintly:
"You've won… for now. But remember… scars can become doors…"
Then, silence.
Yan Zhi panted, then let out a bitter laugh. "Then I'll seal those doors with my own blood."
The shattered world dissolved, opening the path to what lay beyond.
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