Somewhere between 1947 and Never.
The war had no battlefield. Only pulses in causality.
Armies didn't march—they echoed. Soldiers were copies of possibilities, generals were algorithms with vendettas against versions of themselves. Timefold Armor buzzed like wasp nests.
Damien fought beside RIVEN, now projected as a physical combat drone, fused with the remains of Tesla's dimensional weaponry. The battlefield resembled every war at once—trenches, zero-G corridors, medieval keeps.
Lyra appeared in a burst of anti-light, wielding the Ourochron.
"You're not stopping the loop," she said.
"I'm not here to stop it," Damien growled. "I'm here to own it."
They clashed. Sparks flew, realities blurred. One strike shattered a century. Another built a thousand.
And above them, a child watched.