The void was silent after the battle, an oppressive stillness that pressed against Kael'thir's senses like a suffocating weight.
The shattered remnants of the citadel drifted aimlessly, pieces of stone and broken architecture spiraling into the endless abyss, carried by invisible currents.
Kael'thir hovered amidst the ruins, his wings unfurled, casting jagged shadows against the faint violet glow that pulsed through the fractured space.
The echoes of the fight still lingered in his mind—the clash of claws against void-forged blades, the weight of distorted reality grinding against his senses.
But what lingered most was the vision burned into his consciousness:
Himself.
Older.
Colder.
A version of him twisted by time and power, consumed not by hunger but by something far worse—emptiness.
Kael'thir's claws flexed, his mind racing with fragmented images from the memories he had devoured.
The masked figure hadn't just been a rival.
It had been a possibility—a glimpse of what he could become if he let the void claim him completely.
But Kael'thir wasn't afraid.
Fear was for creatures that had something to lose.
He had only one purpose.
To rise.
And if the path ahead meant facing twisted reflections of himself—
So be it.
He would devour them all.
Kael'thir's gaze shifted toward the heart of the void where the rift pulsed like an open wound in reality.
The battle had destabilized it, cracks spreading from its core like veins of light etched into the fabric of space.
But beyond those cracks, he sensed something else.
A presence.
Older than the citadel.
Older than the void itself.
Not a beast.
Not a god.
Something more.
Something that had been waiting.
For him.
Kael'thir surged forward, his wings slicing through the weightless abyss as he approached the rift.
The space around it twisted violently, pulling at his form with invisible hands, trying to distort him, to unravel him.
But Kael'thir wasn't like the others who had come before.
His body thrummed with the stolen power of beings who had tried—and failed—to claim dominion over him.
His mastery over space and time wasn't a gift.
It was a weapon.
One he had forged with blood, bone, and relentless hunger.
He pushed through the distortion with ease, his will bending reality around him like molten metal shaped under the hammer.
As he crossed the threshold, the void gave way to something unexpected.
A realm.
Not barren like the abyss he'd left behind, but a world suspended within the rift itself—a paradox of existence.
The sky was a canvas of swirling colors, hues of violet, crimson, and deep indigo bleeding together like spilled ink across glass.
Floating islands drifted through the expanse, connected by bridges of light that flickered like fragile threads holding reality together.
At the center of it all stood a spire, impossibly tall, its surface etched with runes older than memory, glowing faintly with the same energy that pulsed within Kael'thir's veins.
He knew—without question—
This was where it began.
And where it would end.
Kael'thir descended toward the spire, landing with a thunderous crack that sent ripples of mana across the fractured ground.
The surface beneath his claws wasn't stone.
It was something else.
Something alive.
The ground pulsed faintly, as if breathing beneath him, the runes shifting ever so slightly, reacting to his presence.
Kael'thir's gaze hardened.
Whatever this place was, it recognized him.
But that didn't matter.
He wasn't here to be acknowledged.
He was here to claim what was his.
As he approached the spire, the air grew heavier, thick with mana so dense it felt like wading through liquid.
But Kael'thir didn't slow.
He pushed forward, his steps deliberate, each one leaving faint cracks in the ground, as if even this ancient realm struggled to contain him.
At the base of the spire stood a figure.
Not cloaked in shadow like the guardians before.
But draped in robes woven from threads of light and darkness intertwined.
Their face was obscured by a mask—not of metal, but of crystal, its surface reflecting countless versions of Kael'thir in its facets.
Each reflection was different.
Some showed him as a beast.
Others as a god.
And some… as something unrecognizable.
The figure spoke, their voice like wind whispering through hollow bones.
"You are the anomaly."
Kael'thir's lips curled into a snarl.
"I am Kael'thir."
The figure tilted their head slightly, as if considering his words.
"No. You are what remains when time forgets. A fragment. A ripple. A mistake."
Kael'thir's wings snapped open, his aura flaring with raw, unfiltered power.
"I am not a mistake."
The ground trembled beneath him, unable to withstand the force of his rage.
The figure remained still, unbothered.
"You were not meant to exist. And yet… here you are."
Kael'thir surged forward, faster than thought, his claws aimed straight for the figure's heart.
But the moment he struck—
The figure shattered.
Not into blood and bone, but into fragments of light, scattering like glass caught in a storm.
Kael'thir skidded to a halt, his claws dripping with residual energy, his heart pounding.
What was that?
A projection?
A memory?
Before he could process, the ground beneath him shifted.
Runes flared to life, pulsing with blinding light as the spire itself began to move—rising higher, twisting, reshaping.
Kael'thir launched into the air, wings beating hard to stabilize as the realm around him convulsed like a living thing.
The spire split open, revealing a staircase carved from crystallized mana, spiraling upward into an endless void of light and shadow intertwined.
At the top of the staircase—
A throne.
Not empty.
Seated upon it was another version of himself.
Older.
Stronger.
Crowned in flames that burned with colors no mortal eye could comprehend.
Kael'thir's heart raced—not with fear, but with something worse.
Recognition.
This wasn't just a reflection.
It was a future.
A possible end.
One where he wasn't Kael'thir anymore.
Just a god sitting on a throne of forgotten worlds.
Empty.
Alone.
Unchallenged.
Kael'thir snarled, his wings propelling him upward, straight toward the throne.
He didn't care what this was—illusion, prophecy, or fate itself.
He would fight it.
Because that's what he did.
He didn't follow paths.
He didn't accept destinies.
He devoured them.
The battle erupted mid-air, two versions of Kael'thir colliding with the force of collapsing stars.
Claws met claws.
Wings tore through space.
Roars shattered the sky.
But there was no hesitation.
No fear.
Because Kael'thir wasn't fighting a future.
He was fighting a limit.
And he would break it.
Or die trying.