The rift screamed.
Each collision between Lucien and his reflection sent cracks tearing deeper into the glasslike plane. Obsidian and burning blades clashed, their strikes so precise, so absolute, that even the void-born copies surrounding them dared not interfere until commanded.
Lucien's aura coiled like a serpent, his strikes deliberate, honed by centuries of slaughter in The White. His reflection moved with wild abandon, each swing reckless yet overflowing with explosive power—as though destruction itself answered his call.
Every exchange painted the truth clearer: they were not just fighting. They were measuring each other, discovering where the other faltered, searching for the fatal thread.
The reflection's smile never wavered. "You're disciplined… too disciplined. That's why you'll break. Because I fight with the rage you buried, the hunger you feared. You cast me away, but I've turned into something you can't erase."
Lucien's pale gaze narrowed, his voice steady as ever. "Then you've already lost. Because rage is nothing without control."
Their blades met again—this time, the shockwave tore the rift wider. The fracture spilled into the skies of the mortal world, staining clouds with unnatural hues, raining faint shards of broken light across the continents.
The world could no longer ignore them.
Cut to the continents.
In Avaron, armies rallied beneath banners of silver and flame. The Emperor ordered the mobilization of his elite legions, their sole command: investigate the source of the rift before it consumed the skies.
In the southern dominions, cults emerged from the shadows, declaring the fracture as proof of their void-born prophecies. "The Sole Exception," their high priest hissed to his followers, "is no longer alone. The twin of ruin has arrived."
The great monasteries of the east sent envoys carrying sealed relics older than kingdoms, muttering of an ancient scripture: "When reflection bleeds, the world bends."
Even the hidden sects—those who had remained silent for centuries—stirred. Assassins, sorcerers, and monarchs alike looked to the horizon, calculating what this disturbance meant for their reigns.
Whispers carried across the continents: A figure of pale skin, noble face, eyes like a storm. Some feared him, others saw opportunity, but none denied the truth—the fracture belonged to Lucien Dreamveil.
Cut back to the rift.
The void-born copies pressed forward again, emboldened by their master's laughter. Lucien cut them down with ruthless efficiency, yet for every beast he felled, two rose from the fissures. His reflection's mocking grin sharpened.
"You see? No matter how many you kill, there will always be more. That is the nature of The White. Endless. Eternal."
Lucien's blade hummed with pale fury, his aura forming a storm around him. "Then I'll do what The White itself failed to do. I'll end you."
The glasslike world shook violently. And outside, armies moved, sects stirred, and kings prepared their hands—unaware that the true war was not against nations… but against the second Exception now clawing his way into reality.