Chapter 21: The Birth of the Final Gate
When the light faded, silence fell like snow.
The battlefield was a graveyard of echoes—bodies of alternate selves dissolving into shimmering dust, each one vanishing with a whisper of memory.
Valerian stood at the epicenter, sword still drawn, breath ragged.
Alex's form lay collapsed beside him, half-buried in ash and broken stone. His expression was unreadable—peaceful, almost amused. Not dying. Not pleading.
Watching.
"You still think this is the end?" Alex asked, voice hoarse.
Valerian didn't answer. His grip tightened around his blade. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his armor scorched, but he remained standing.
"You killed your past," Alex continued. "Good. But the past was never your enemy."
The air around them shimmered—warped.
Lira limped into view, clutching her side. "Valerian—something's wrong with the sky."
He turned.