The Mirrorborn's remnants flickered like shattered glass suspended in water, its final shriek still echoing across the battlefield. The air shimmered with unstable energy, and Sam stood breathless—still locked in the pull of his unstable Echoform: Mind Split. Two voices rattled in his head. His own, and one that spoke in a tone far too ancient to be his.
He was slipping.
Valencia knelt nearby, her hands pressed against her side where the Mirrorborn's shards had slashed through. She was alive, but barely. Her gaze didn't leave Sam. Not because she feared him.
But because she knew what was coming.
From the smoke, the woman emerged. Slow, deliberate. Her footsteps left trails of molten gold on the fractured marble. The kampilan she held was unlike anything Sam had ever seen—not forged, not summoned, but… unraveled. Threads of time wrapped around the blade, as if each swing could rewrite a moment.
She wore no armor, no sigil. Only a faded shawl—blue and sun-bleached white.
Sam staggered forward. His vision blurred, not from pain, but disbelief.
"Mom?" he whispered.
The woman paused.
A breeze moved between them, unsettling the dust, carrying silence thicker than war cries.
"I'm not her," she said finally, voice echoing with strange delay—as if the air itself had to catch up.
Sam's knees buckled, but he caught himself. "You look like her."
"I was designed to." Her eyes didn't blink. "To calm your resonance. To disrupt your awakening. I was born from the Rift's future shadow."
Rael stepped beside Sam, blood drying on his knuckles. "This one's a Mirrorborn too?"
The woman shook her head. "No. I am what comes after Mirrorborns fail. A Temporal Reclamation Construct. The Court calls me Karya."
She lifted the kampilan—and time slowed.
The leaves fell upward.
Valencia's wounds began to close in reverse.
Even Sam's breath reversed course.
Only Karya moved freely.
In the stillness, she placed the tip of the kampilan at Sam's throat.
"You were supposed to break," she said softly. "But you adapted. And that… is dangerous."
The moment snapped back into motion. Time caught up.
Sam stumbled back, dragging Rael with him.
"You're from the Court of Logos," Sam breathed. "You're rewriting the past."
"I'm repairing the draft," Karya answered. "You are the deviation."
Lightning surged from Sam's fingertips—but it fizzled mid-air, distorted by the warping around her.
"You're not going to let me walk away, are you?" he asked.
She almost smiled.
"You already walked too far."
Suddenly, Valencia shouted, "Behind her—now!"
Rael was the first to move, striking with a sudden burst of wind-vein speed.
But Karya didn't flinch. She spun, twisting the kampilan in a circular motion—and erased the distance between them.
Rael's strike landed three seconds before he moved. And still missed.
Karya delivered a backhanded blow with the kampilan, and Rael crashed into the wall, twitching, dazed.
Sam charged. No finesse—just fury. His Echoform spiraled out of control, voices rising within his mind like a chorus of ghosts.
KILL HER.
SAVE HER.
IT'S YOUR FAULT.
YOU'RE A GOD.
YOU'RE A MISTAKE.
Karya's blade moved once more—and Sam's vision shattered.
He fell to his knees, clutching his skull.
But then—something clicked.
In the rupture of his mind, in the chaos of the feedback, something else stepped forward.
Not Lapu-Lapu. Not Bonifacio. Not even Rizal.
But a version of himself—older, crueler, eyes filled with purpose, not fear.
"You need me now, don't you?" the figure said. "Let me wear your skin. Just for a moment."
Sam didn't speak. He just nodded.
And the shift began.
[Outside – Rift Horizon, Observatory Chamber]
In a cold, mirrored chamber somewhere far beyond the fight, the Rift Seer turned to the Director.
"The Echoform is evolving again," he said. "He's synchronizing with himself. Across timelines."
The Director didn't answer. She was watching a dozen screens—each one showing a different version of Sam.
Some were heroes.
Some were monsters.
Only one was real.
And that one had just welcomed his darker self.
[Back at the battlefield]
Karya paused mid-swing. Her eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong.
Sam rose slowly. But he didn't move like Sam. His posture was deliberate. Efficient. His aura no longer crackled—but hummed like a war machine waiting for orders.
"You're not him," Karya said.
He smiled.
"I'm the reason he survives."
And then he struck.
The blade didn't glow. There was no fire, no lightning. But every step carried the weight of inevitability.
This wasn't Sam fighting.
It was the ghost of the man he might become.
And Karya—who wielded time like a scalpel—finally looked afraid.
Their blades clashed.
Reality bent.
And somewhere in the shattered edge of the Rift, a new timeline opened its eye.