There was no warning.
No flare of magic.
No declaration.
Just collapse.
The moment Nyros extended his hand, the void folded inward, like pages being torn from a book that had never been read. The Realm Without Threads consumed itself, trying to erase Kael and his companions from reality—not with destruction, but with negation.
Kael's blade of woven light surged forward, igniting the shadows with pure purpose. The Core within him responded instinctively, flaring to shield him with golden runes that shifted too fast to be read.
Tyrnex roared, leaping forward with his massive arms spread wide. His body became a bulwark against the unraveling storm, soaked in the strength of his newly assigned purpose.
"I am the end that holds!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the void.
But Nyros did not flinch. He did not scream or charge.
He simply unmade.
With a flick of his wrist, he erased a piece of Tyrnex's cosmic armor—just wiped it from existence like chalk from slate. The Hollow King recoiled, stumbling as tendrils of void tried to pull him back into nothingness.
"Hold the perimeter!" Kael shouted, darting toward Nyros with lightning-fast strikes of radiant energy.
Each swing of Kael's blade carved temporary structure into the realm—slices of real space, defined and stable. But those pockets unraveled seconds later as Nyros walked through them without resistance.
"Your blade is sharp," the Threadless King murmured, voice like the memory of silence. "But I was never written into this story. You cannot wound what never was."
"Maybe not," Lyra growled behind Kael, both hands alight with fire-forged arrows. "But you're sure as hell here now!"
She released a volley of arrows inscribed with rewritten celestial law. Each bolt exploded on impact, not just with force—but concept: burning the area with emotion, memory, meaning.
Nyros staggered slightly—his first reaction yet.
Valen seized the moment, spinning his void-tempered spear and jabbing into the opening with a war cry. "Get wrecked, un-history!"
The spear struck—but instead of blood, the air around Nyros fractured. A scream erupted not from Nyros, but from the Loom itself, echoing all the way back into Kael's world.
Kael's heart sank.
The Loom was reacting… because Nyros wasn't outside the story anymore.
He was rewriting it from the inside.
Kael flared his wings of woven light and soared upward, drawing on his last reservoir of divine energy. His voice rang out like a song composed of will:
"By the Thread of Origin, I declare this realm bound!"
The void shuddered.
Light exploded.
For a moment, Kael saw the true shape of the Realm Without Threads—not empty, but blank. A canvas untouched. And standing at its center was Nyros, smirking behind his mask.
He whispered, this time directly into Kael's soul:
> "You still think this is a war."
> "It's not."
> "It's a rewrite."
And then—
The battlefield split.
Each of them—Kael, Lyra, Valen, Tyrnex was suddenly alone in their own version of the void.
Each faced a world where they never existed.
Each faced the question:
> What if you had never been written?
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