The sky was breaking.
Not cracking.
Not shattering.
Breaking—like something far beyond it was forcing its way through.
Space folded in on itself again and again as Aarion ran.
Each step erased distance.
Each movement left dying stars in his wake.
Galaxies dimmed as he passed.
As if existence itself was struggling to keep up.
Blood streamed from his side—
but it never fell.
It burned away before it could exist.
In his arms, a child slept.
Peacefully.
As if the universe wasn't collapsing around him.
Aarion tightened his hold, shielding the child's head as space behind him caved in completely.
A voice echoed.
Calm. Cold. Everywhere.
"You are injured, Endwalker."
Aarion didn't look back.
"Injured," he said quietly.
"Not caught."
The void split open.
They emerged.
Outer Lords.
Their forms refused to stay still—shifting, dissolving, reforming—as if reality itself couldn't decide what they were supposed to be.
Their presence alone crushed stars into nothing.
One raised its hand.
Sound became force.
Thunder exploded forward—not lightning, but something heavier… something that locked space itself.
Aarion stopped.
For a fraction of a moment—
he was trapped.
Then—
He moved.
Flame erupted from his body.
Not fire.
Erasure.
The thunder vanished.
Not destroyed.
Forgotten.
Aarion appeared before the Outer Lord instantly—
—and drove his hand straight through its chest.
The creature screamed once.
Then ceased to exist.
No remains.
No trace.
Nothing.
Silence rippled through the void.
Another attacked.
Darkness swallowed everything—light, direction, meaning.
Aarion caught it by the throat mid-strike.
"You chose the wrong hunt."
His grip tightened.
The being didn't break—
It unraveled.
Concept by concept.
Until it was gone.
Two down.
The rest hesitated.
That was their mistake.
Aarion moved.
Like a falling world.
Space tore open with every strike. Creation and destruction collided as he fought, overwhelming everything in his path.
One fled—barely intact.
But Aarion slowed.
His breathing grew heavier.
Blood flowed freely now.
He looked down.
The child…
Still asleep.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Good," he whispered.
"Stay that way."
Then—
The world changed.
Not violently.
Not suddenly.
But absolutely.
Space didn't freeze.
It obeyed.
Three figures stood ahead.
Simple.
Unremarkable.
And yet—
Reality bent around them.
Careful not to resist.
Aarion's eyes narrowed.
"…The Three Arbiters."
One stepped forward.
Axiom.
"Endwalker," he said.
"Surrender the method."
Aarion laughed.
Softly.
"You don't even understand what you're asking for."
Another spoke.
Veyronis.
"It was never yours," he said.
"It belonged to the one you call… brother."
Aarion's grip on the child tightened.
The third moved.
Nyxar.
No warning.
Chains pierced through existence itself—
—and slammed into Aarion's body.
Spikes followed.
Needles.
Dozens.
Each one locking something deeper than flesh.
His body trembled.
But he didn't scream.
"Give us the path," Nyxar said.
Aarion exhaled slowly.
"…No."
Silence.
Then—
He moved.
Just enough.
One arm broke free.
Barely.
It was enough.
"Shyldra," he commanded.
The artifact awakened instantly.
It flowed around the child—layer after layer sealing him away, wrapping him in absolute protection.
Warmth replaced chaos.
Silence replaced destruction.
Aarion looked at him one last time.
For a moment—
He wasn't Endwalker.
He looked almost human.
"Live," he said softly.
"That is enough."
He threw the child into the void.
Not randomly.
Not blindly.
But somewhere beyond reach.
Beyond fate.
Beyond them.
The Arbiters moved.
Too late.
The prison formed.
A structure vast enough to consume universes collapsed around Aarion, sealing him completely.
Darkness closed in.
Chains tightened.
Existence itself locked.
And Aarion—
smiled.
---
Far away.
On a quiet world called Eryndel—
The sky trembled.
Just for a second.
No one noticed.
But something fell from it.
A streak of light tore through the heavens and crashed into a forest.
The earth split.
Flames rose.
Silence followed.
A couple arrived moments later.
At the center of the crater—
A child lay.
Wrapped in something… unnatural.
Breathing.
Alive.
And for the briefest moment—
The sky above them hesitated.
As if it had just made a mistake.