The silence wasn't empty—it was alive, thick with unspoken fury and something far worse—truth.
"You're angry because you blame yourself."
The words didn't rise—they settled, heavy, immovable, pressing into the space between them like iron. The kind of truth never meant to be spoken aloud.
"It was your plan—the Ashen Empire's attack on the Eternal Empire. Now, you're searching for a way to kill me. Because I'm the one who defeated your husband."
The quiet didn't stretch—it constricted.
Guinevere felt suffocated, as if the air had betrayed her, closing in, whispering, twisting into voices she couldn't silence.
Her dead husband surrounded her—not in body, but in echoes, fractured memories repeating themselves, layering, contradicting. Accusing. Pleading. Laughing. Dying.
The room felt smaller, the walls narrowing, the cold weight of history pressing against her ribs.
Then—the final wound. Not shouted. Not rushed. Just the truth.
"But you were the one who struck the last blow."
A slow exhale—controlled, deliberate, like the speaker measured each syllable, letting it fall like a blade slicing through silk.
"You threw the spear. I just moved him into its path."
The reaction didn't come immediately, and that was the worst part.
The hesitation. The realisation.
The moment where guilt was no longer a shadow—it was iron around her bones, a weight she could not shed, a permanence she could not deny.
Then—the shift. A decision. A challenge. A choice.
"But none of that changes the truth."
A step forward. A fraction too close. The space between them was no longer—it was a battlefield.
"I'm the reason he's dead. I can make this easier for you."
A pause—long enough to matter. Long enough to tighten around her throat like a closing grip.
"I can kill you."
Or—a choice far worse than death itself.
"I can bring him back."
The words weren't a mercy—they were a dagger wrapped in silk.
Guinevere laughed, but there was nothing human in it. Nothing composed. Nothing regal. Just the sound of something unravelling.
"You would do that?" Her voice wasn't steady—it was hollow, as if she were speaking through water, drowning in a choice she had never imagined.
A slow tilt of the head. Not amusement. Not pity. Something far worse.
"Of course."
Her grip tightened, nails digging into her palm as if pain could anchor her, as if feeling something real could remind her where she stood.
But she was no longer standing.
She was falling.
Into a past that refused to die.
Guinevere collapsed.
Anastasia was there before she hit the ground, catching her, but there was nothing to hold onto. Only emptiness. Only silence.
"Guinevere?" Panic edged her voice. "Guinevere!"
No answer. Only vacant eyes.
She turned, rage surging before reason.
"What did you do to her? Are you even human anymore?"
The words should have landed, but then she stopped.
Something shifted.
The figure before her was no longer the same.
His aura had changed.
Not anger. Not fury. Something worse.
Something unfeeling.
Something dead inside.
She had seen him fight before and seen him kill. But this was different.
His eyes were cold, empty—as if nothing was left to save.
Anastasia's body tensed. She understood too late.
He was about to kill her.
Not in anger. Not in passion.
But in emptiness.
And then—he didn't.
Instead, a single phrase slipped through the silence, barely a breath.
"I'm sorry."
Anastasia's breath caught.
"You're sorry?" she whispered—not in rage, but in stunned disbelief.
The words felt impossible.
And yet—they were real.
The Hidden Self Unleashed
His three wives watched, their gazes heavy with undisguised worry.
Seeing that side of him was rare—unnerving, even.
Not the Ren they knew, the one who was kind, measured, and steady, the one whose warmth made them believe in his goodness.
No—this was the other Ren.
The one he kept caged, buried beneath duty and restraint. The version of him that slipped free only when the bindings weakened, when something cracked deep enough to let him escape.
And now, he had escaped.
This wasn't the worst they had seen. No, not yet.
But they knew what followed.
They had lived through the moments when that hidden side did not return to its prison fast enough.
They had seen the consequences.
And now, as they stood before him, uncertainty settled in their bones.
Would he return this time?
"Fractured Silence"
Ren had taken Anastasia to her room—the transition was seamless, barely perceptible, like stepping through mist that parted without resistance. Then Guinevere. He held her unconscious form, her weight insubstantial, as though she had surrendered entirely to the silence.
With a thought, space obeyed. She vanished, carried elsewhere, somewhere untouched, where she could recover from the pressure he had placed upon her mind.
Then he returned to the pavilion.
His wives embraced him, their warmth pressing against him in quiet reassurance. Arms curled around his frame, hands smoothing over his back, yet the comfort did not reach him. He existed within the embrace, but not within the moment.
His mind had already shifted—he was speaking and listening, trapped in silent discourse with the other self that lingered just beneath his thoughts.
The Throne of Unchained Will
Ren sat upon his throne, his black dragon armour pressing against him like an extension of his will. His domain burned—not in chaos but controlled fury, the fire bending to his command. Across from him, his other self sat, eyes sharp, voice unwavering.
"What distinguishes an emperor from a horse if they are identical in form, ability, and power?"
The words echoed—familiar, yet carrying something more profound. Hollow Ichigo had spoken to them in Bleach episode 124. Ren remembered that scene—the fire-lit battlefield, the clash of instinct against restraint, the hunger that separated ruler from servant. But those were not just words he had heard.
They were truths he had lived.
He remembered his battlefield—the sky thick with smoke, the earth drenched in blood. He had conquered Asia, carved dominance into the land, and pressed his will into history. Nothing had truly challenged him.
The only one who could ever stand as his equal was himself.
His other self leaned forward, eyes burning like the surrounding flames.
**"We are the same. I am you, and you are me. The only one who can defeat us is us. The only one who can truly kill us is ourselves.
We are eternal—TRUE IMMORTAL.
Everything is within our grasp if we wish to take it. If we choose to claim it."**
The fire pulsed higher, not wild, but reverent, as if acknowledging its ruler.
**"We define our fate. It has always been within our grasp. We command, while they obey—not because they choose to, but because they lack the power to act as they truly desire.
But we do.
Right and wrong? Meaningless. No matter how many voices tried to dictate morality, we could never distinguish between them. Their definitions were hollow shadows imposed upon the strong by the weak.
In the end, we could only choose for ourselves.
Remember this, Ren. I am here, always waiting for you to stop chaining me in the name of restraint.
We have lived too long and held ourselves back too much.
If you wish to continue suppressing me, that's fine. I will play nice a little longer.
But know this—eventually, we will take the crown. Eventually, you will choose to merge with me again.
And when you do…
We will be whole.
We will be truly complete."**
The words settled into the fire-lit darkness, unwavering. Ren listened, silent. Somewhere deep within, beneath every thread of restraint he clung to, he knew his other self was right.