As Arkan stepped into the cold, sterile light of the Real World, the fading echoes of the Fractured Reality still clung to his mind like a distant hum.
The weight of his encounter with Ivaim pressed down on him, a lingering frustration that gnawed at his thoughts. His glowing eyes flared briefly, betraying his irritation, but he quickly suppressed it.
Before him stood the child, small and fragile, eyes wide with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
"Your mother," Arkan said, his voice icy yet carrying an unspoken weight—something close to sympathy, though it barely touched the surface, "isn't going to be saved by wishing alone."
His gaze hardened as he met the child's eyes, the gravity of his words settling in.
"If you want to save her, you'll have to work. Harder than you've ever worked. There's no shortcut to power. No easy way out."
The child nodded, determination flickering in his eyes, though beneath it, fear still lingered, a shadow that couldn't quite be shaken.
Arkan recognized it. He had been that child once—the same fire burning within him, the same desperation to prove himself, to defy the odds.
"You don't have time for fear," Arkan continued, his tone unyielding, though not unkind.
"You need to prove you can endure. Only then will you have the strength to do what needs to be done."
The child said nothing, but the spark in his gaze spoke volumes. Arkan gave him one final, lingering glance before turning away, already preparing for his next task. His mind shifted to the weightier matters at hand.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, delicate object. It was thin, almost transparent, like a wisp of shadow itself. A Veil.
A Threshold Item. It would grant him access to the Black Veil Master's Fractured Reality.
With a flick of his wrist, Arkan unfolded the Veil. It shimmered, growing larger and swirling with an eerie, ethereal glow that seemed to breathe with its own strange energy. The air around it crackled, humming with ancient power.
The very space around the Veil rippled like water disturbed by a sudden force, and a dark, consuming energy engulfed him. He stepped forward, and the world seemed to melt away.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
[You have entered a Fractured Reality.]
[Welcome to The Sanctum of Falsehood.]
The Black Veil Master's Fractured Reality enveloped Arkan in oppressive silence. The air felt thick, almost viscous, pressing against his chest like unseen hands. Shadows clung to him, shifting unnaturally as if they were alive, breathing, watching. Each step deeper into the void resonated with a faint, ominous echo.
This place was familiar yet unwelcoming—the sanctum of the Black Veil Master, the Reality Weaver he served.
From the shifting darkness, her presence emerged, more felt than seen at first, like the weight of an oncoming storm. Slowly, the shadows coalesced, forming her silhouette—a figure that seemed both solid and ephemeral, her eyes twin abysses of ink that consumed light.
"Arkan," she said, her voice quiet yet commanding, a whisper that cut through the heavy silence.
He straightened, though the weight of his failure hung on him like chains.
"Master," he began, his tone measured. "The Spirit slipped through my grasp."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"Slipped through your grasp?" she repeated, her voice devoid of emotion, yet somehow sharper than any blade.
"I underestimated it," he admitted, his jaw tightening. "Its moves were... deliberate. It wasn't luck, not entirely. By the time I realized the trap, it was already too late. It forced me to exit it's Fractured Reality."
The Black Veil Master tilted her head slightly, the gesture languid and predatory.
"And yet, you thought it wise to confront a being that bends fortune itself?"
Arkan clenched his fists. "I thought I could outplay it. Luck isn't invincible—it's unpredictable, but—"
"Enough." Her voice was firm, the kind of command that left no room for argument. The shadows around her stirred, restless, as if echoing her displeasure.
"Luck is never just chance. It's will. Intent. And those who master it are far more dangerous than you seem to grasp."
He remained silent, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.
After a moment, she continued, her tone softening, though the edge never truly left.
"You failed, yes. But this is a moment, not the end. There are other games to be played."
"What's next?" he asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest.
A faint smile curved her lips, cold and calculating.
"The Ten Throne Holders sit atop a crumbling empire, blind to the fractures beneath them. Their grip on fate weakens with every passing day."
Arkan frowned. "You mean to challenge them?"
She stepped closer, the shadows tightening around her form like a second skin.
"Not just me," she said, her voice dark with certainty. "The time will come when those cast aside rise to claim what was denied them. You will be ready, or you will fall. The choice, Arkan, is yours."
Her presence intensified, an overwhelming weight that bore down on him.
"Do not be bothered by your defeat that Spirit had just outplayed you for now, but it won't always have fortune on its side. Learn from this. Adapt. When the storm comes, hesitation will cost you everything."
The air seemed to hum with the weight of her final words, a resonance that lingered long after her form dissolved into the encroaching darkness. The shadows closed in, silent and absolute, suffocating in their stillness.
Arkan exhaled slowly, his breath uneven despite his efforts to calm himself. The Ten Throne Holders, the Spirit, the shifting tides of power—Laivhest City teetered on the edge of upheaval.
A heavy weariness settled over him, colder than the shadows that surrounded him. The storm was coming, inevitable and unrelenting, and the thought of rising with the New Reality Masters felt distant, almost hollow.
If he fell, he wondered if it would even matter, or if he'd simply vanish like so many others before him, forgotten in the wake of something greater.
He closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself.
'I'll manage. I always do.'
But the words felt fragile, barely holding back the weight of his doubt.
The storm was coming, and it was far beyond his control.