Aiden fell.
Not physically.
His body was still, standing upright at the heart of the ruined sanctum. But his spirit—his soul—drifted somewhere between waking and dreaming, haunted by the echo of the Emissary's voice.
"Just... surrender your humanity."
He gritted his teeth.
Never.
Around him, the sky bled starlight. The scars of the last battle were still fresh—rents in space, splintered laws, fragments of collapsed universes drifting in and out of sight like dust motes.
His world was no longer whole.
Nor was he.
He staggered.
The effort to stand was like lifting a collapsed mountain. His internal energies were slow to stir, weighed down by something thick and ancient.
Corruption?
No. Not yet.
But it was close.
Aiden drew in a breath—slow, cold, steady.
He summoned his Martial Spirits.
The Golden Sword appeared first, flickering weakly, its once-pristine blade dulled.
