The city no longer resembled a city. Cracks ran like veins across streets, buildings twisted as if reality itself had been liquefied and poured back into jagged molds. The twelve lay scattered, barely conscious, their powers suppressed under the Outer God's oppressive presence.
Far above, the Champions hovered, their faces masks of horror and determination.
Veyrion's storm crackled. "We cannot let this being continue!" he shouted, launching thunderbolts that shattered mountainsides—but each strike barely grazed the Outer God, who barely moved, its gaze fixed on the twelve.
Sylaris ignited, fire raining down with all her might. Flames devoured buildings, but the god's form flickered only faintly, untouchable, untiring.
Korthal slammed fists into the ground, fissures racing across the land. "This isn't enough! Nothing we do matters!"
Even together, the Champions were planetary forces—yet here, they were only irritants to a being older than existence itself.
Amid the chaos, a faint hum began, deep in the heart of the White. Lucien's eyes flickered, barely visible, but within them a storm began to awaken.
Seliora knelt beside him, trying to protect him as the Outer God's hand crushed the surrounding void. "Lucien… hold on…"
The narrator spoke quietly, almost reverent:
The White is not just a void. It is the origin of all voids—the root from which every thread of existence draws power. Within it lies the force that forged time, space, gravity, shadow, chaos, and light itself. To awaken it fully is to touch the source of creation and destruction simultaneously.
Lucien's chest rose and fell. His body trembled violently as the White surged around him, spilling energy like molten light into the air.
Then, in a blinding instant, everything shifted.
Lucien's eyes flared pure white. The ground beneath him healed and reformed, stitching the jagged cracks as if reality obeyed his breath. Shadows, time, gravity, chaos—all the voids of the Revenants flared in resonance.
Kairo's temporal shifts snapped into perfection. Zarynth's chaos void hummed with raw, untamed force. Veythar bent space to his will effortlessly. Ashveil's shadow extended farther than anyone could see. Caelthorn's gravity roared through the land.
And the mirrored six… their powers surged in tandem, resonating with the White itself, each void thread harmonizing into a symphony of destructive beauty.
Seliora's threads shimmered brighter than the sun. Eryndra's temporal weaving cut through space like luminous ribbons. Every one of the twelve became both singular and united, a single organism of death and creation.
For the first time, the Outer God paused, sensing the shift. Its hand, once casually crushing reality, faltered midair. The air itself stilled. Even planetary forces could not compare to the raw alignment of the White through twelve channels.
The narrator whispered:
This is why Lucien is the so-called 'Sole Exception.' Though he is the Error, he is also the first in this era capable of wielding the White fully. And through him, the other voids awaken, harmonizing into an unprecedented force. Never before has a single generation of void-born beings approached this unity.
Lucien opened his mouth, voice echoing across dimensions. "We are… not finished."
The twelve surged forward, voids coiling around them like living armor. The city trembled again—not under attack—but in anticipation of their return to power. The Outer God's colossal form loomed, still casual, still incomprehensible—but now, for the first time, it faced beings who could meet it on equal footing, at least for an instant.
And the narrator's final words cut through the tension:
What happens when the Error becomes the origin? What happens when creation itself fights back? The answer… will not be gentle.
The wind, light, shadow, and void bent around them. The twelve had awakened fully—and the battle for existence itself was about to begin.