The clash never happened.
Not yet.
Black and gold pressed against each other in the air between them, invisible yet violently present. The devil sigil burned in Kael's chest, radiating cold authority, while the golden light around the young man pulsed with restrained divinity.
Two paths.
Two errors in time.
The ground trembled.
"You feel it too, don't you?" the young man said calmly, though a bead of sweat slid down his temple. "The world rejecting this moment."
Kael's lips curved upward. "No. I feel the world hesitating."
The pressure intensified.
Pebbles rose from the ground, vibrating violently before shattering into dust. The air screamed as if stretched too tight.
Then—
A sharp crack echoed through the night.
Both Kael and the young man stiffened.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
Space twisted.
A massive, invisible force descended between them, slicing the pressure cleanly in half like a blade through silk. The black and gold energies were forcibly suppressed, crushed back into their sources.
Kael staggered half a step, blood spilling from his mouth.
The young man coughed, his golden light flickering erratically before retreating behind his eyes.
Footsteps followed.
Slow.
Measured.
Heavy with authority.
An old man emerged from the darkness, leaning on a black staff carved with unfamiliar runes. His hair was silver, his face lined with age, yet his eyes were frighteningly clear.
Not clan.
Not sect.
Not mortal.
Kael's instincts screamed.
Danger.
The old man glanced at Kael first.
Then at the young man.
His brows furrowed.
"…Two," he murmured. "There are two of you."
The young man bowed immediately. "Senior."
Kael did not.
The old man's gaze lingered on Kael longer, sharper, as if trying to peel him apart layer by layer.
"Interesting," the old man said slowly. "One reeks of fear and authority. The other reeks of order and destiny."
He tapped his staff once against the ground.
The sound echoed far too deeply for such a small movement.
"You both stepped somewhere you shouldn't have," he continued. "And now the timeline is bleeding."
Kael wiped the blood from his lips. "If you're here to fix it," he said calmly, "you're late."
The old man chuckled.
"Bold," he said. "Or foolish."
His eyes hardened.
"Neither of you is strong enough yet to be erased without consequence."
The young man's expression changed. "Senior… you won't—"
"I won't kill you," the old man interrupted. "Not tonight."
Relief flickered across the young man's face.
Kael felt none.
"Instead," the old man continued, turning his staff slightly, "I will let fate decide."
The ground beneath them split open.
A massive rift yawned between Kael and the young man, swallowing light and sound alike. From within it surged chaotic energy—ancient, violent, untamed.
"A trial," the old man said coldly. "One path. Two candidates."
The young man's eyes widened. "Senior, that place is—"
"A battlefield that erases pretenders," the old man finished. "Perfect."
He looked at Kael.
"Survive," the old man said, "and the world will accept you a little longer."
Then he looked at the young man.
"Win," he added, "and you may keep calling yourself a savior."
Before either could react, the rift expanded violently.
Gravity reversed.
The ground vanished beneath Kael's feet.
As he was dragged into the abyss, Kael laughed.
Not loudly.
Not madly.
But with sharp, dangerous delight.
"So even fate wants to test me now," he thought.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Above the rift, the old man watched silently as the chaos closed, his grip tightening on the staff.
"…This era," he murmured, "was never meant to have devils and heroes born twice."
And far within the rift, as Kael's consciousness plunged deeper—
The devil sigil ignited.
Hungry.