The words echoed like a curse.
"You weren't its victim. You were its seed."
Lucien's grip on his blade quivered, though his posture did not falter. The reflection's laughter filled the rift, wild and triumphant, the sound of truth tearing into flesh more deeply than any sword.
"No…" Lucien's voice was low, deliberate, controlled even as the storm of doubt raged inside him. "I carved my strength in blood and silence. Every scar, every kill, every endless night in that void—it was mine."
The reflection tilted his head, mock pity gleaming in his eyes. "Then why do you feel it now? The pull of the rift. The hum in your bones when it splits wider. That is not willpower, Lucien—it is recognition. You are the White, and the White is you."
The void-born copies shrieked in unison, bowing to the reflection's words, their twisted bodies trembling as though worshiping an inevitable truth.
Lucien's aura exploded. The pale storm around him howled with such violence that the rift itself trembled. His voice cut sharper than his blade:
"I am not your seed. I am your end."
He lunged. Their blades met again, but this time, Lucien pressed forward with fury that was no longer cold—but righteous, desperate, defiant. The reflection grinned even as his arms strained against the onslaught.
"Good! Resist it! The more you fight, the more you'll prove me right!"
Cut to the outside world.
The skies above every continent cracked open further, fractures bleeding pale and black light in equal measure. Oceans shifted. Mountains rumbled. Even the winds carried whispers of something vast and alien.
In the gilded halls of Avaron, the Emperor gripped his throne, his advisors trembling as runes across the chamber walls glowed red. "Mobilize the Grand Legions. This… this is not war. This is apocalypse."
Far to the south, the cults knelt in frenzy, screaming praises into the night. "The twin Exceptions clash! The seed awakens! The world will kneel beneath the mirrored throne!"
Within hidden monasteries, elder monks broke ancient seals, drawing weapons that had not seen the light of day for millennia. One whispered as the rift-light painted his face, "So the scripture was true. The Exception is not chosen by the gods—but by the void itself."
Even the dormant powers of the east, assassins and monarchs who had long stayed silent, stirred. Some hungered for the chaos to come. Others prayed it would not reach their doors. But all knew one truth:
The world had felt something awaken.
Back in the rift…
Lucien's blade cut clean through another wave of void-born, his breathing sharp, his body trembling not from weakness—but from the weight of what had been spoken. For the first time since leaving The White, he did not know if his battle was against monsters, or against himself.
The reflection's smile widened, as though savoring his hesitation. "Do you see it now? The more you deny it, the closer you come to breaking. And when you break, Lucien… the White will bloom."
The rift shuddered, its fractures spreading like veins across the sky.
Lucien tightened his grip until blood ran down the hilt. His pale eyes hardened, fury igniting. "Then I'll burn it before it ever flowers."