At last they reached the core.
The Sanctum unfolded into a vast chamber of glass and brass, a cathedral suspended inside the automaton's chest. In its heart floated a colossal gear of obsidian, each tooth engraved with equations that glowed red-hot. Around it revolved mirrors, endless and shifting, each reflecting the Phantom's infinite forms.
The machine-god stood within them all, his body a shifting storm of mask, flesh, and gear. His voices spoke as one:
"You cannot win. Every move you make, I have already calculated. Every word you speak, I have already accounted for. You are error, and error is already solved."
Elric raised his chalk one last time. His hand trembled, but his gaze was steady. "Then solve this."
On the mirrored floor, he scrawled a question no equation could answer:
If perfection consumes all, who chooses to remember imperfection?
The words burned into the glass, splitting the chamber in a cascade of light. The reflections screamed, each giving a different answer, each tearing further from the whole.
Evangeline collapsed, clutching her head as the glyphs on her arms unraveled into smoke. Selene threw herself before Elric, shadows rising like wings, as the Phantom surged in fury.
The chamber convulsed. Brass shrieked. The great gear cracked.
And for the first time, the Phantom hesitated—paralyzed not by paradox, but by the unbearable weight of choice.