The Realm Scrapper shifted. It did not hum, it did not glow — it howled like a beast torn from the marrow of creation. Reality folded in on itself, layers of dimensions colliding until the chamber was no longer a room but an arena of impossible chaos.
Gravity flipped with each breath. Shards of molten sky rained sideways. Islands of broken reality crashed together like tectonic drums. Nayan's twisted genius had gone further than Azrail asked: this was not just a training field, this was a stage of annihilation. And waiting at its heart, birthed from simulation hell, stood his opponent.
The Abyss Sovereign.
A living paradox, a black hole in humanoid form, shadows writhing for limbs, eyes devouring light like twin suns collapsing into themselves. Its aura did not merely press down on Azrail; it bent time, dragging each heartbeat into syrup. This thing was not simulated to be beaten. It was simulated to break him.
