The world broke open with a final, agonized cry.
Across the fragmented skies, the last of the rebellion's fires burned in spiraling ribbons, torn apart by the unnatural gravity of Darius's rebirth.
Reality itself bent around him — refusing, struggling, then yielding.
Not with grace.
Not with understanding.
But because it had no choice.
Darius stood at the center of a world undone.
He no longer wore a crown.
He no longer bore a title.
The void-cloak on his shoulders writhed with the stolen memories of dead gods.
His skin, once warm with life, was now etched with lines of living shadow, as if darkness had branded him with its most sacred language.
His eyes were stars inverted — twin abysses that saw the truth behind all veils.
He had transcended divinity.
He had killed it within himself.
There was no more name to shield him.
There was no more past to define him.
There was only Will.
