The knives weren't real.
But they cut like they were.
Each blade Solenne hurled carried a memory—his own, twisted and sharpened. They didn't pierce flesh; they lacerated certainty.
One struck him in the shoulder—and suddenly he was ten again, holding the hands of a mother he never remembered having, watching her eyes fade to dust in a burning sky.
Another slashed his thigh—and he was kneeling before a golden throne, blood on his lips, whispering an oath he'd one day betray.
The third hit his chest.
And he saw her.
Solenne.
In a different life.
Smiling, holding his hand. Not as enemies. Not as rivals.
As something else.
All that could have been.
He collapsed to one knee.
The knives embedded in nothing—but echoed everywhere.
The city around him shimmered, its walls made of unsaid regrets. The faceless citizens of the Black Pattern halted in their shuffling silence, turning toward the battle. No eyes. No mouths. Just presence. Judgment.
❖ System Alert:
– Psychological Overload Detected
– Memory Loop Incoming
– Stabilizing through [Anchor: Self-Will]
The Thronebreaker gritted his teeth and pulled the knives out.
Not with rage.
With discipline.
He stood.
And stared at the woman—or the thing—that had Solenne's voice, Solenne's eyes, but none of her warmth.
"You're not her."
She tilted her head.
"I am every possibility she discarded."
The skies above howled.
A halo of knives swirled around her now—each glowing faintly with moments of his life he hadn't even remembered until now.
His first breath.
The first time he killed.
The moment he stopped believing in gods.
"You walk through realms as if your will is absolute," she said. "But you never healed. You only rewrote."
She stepped forward.
And the city screamed with her.
"You left pieces of yourself behind in every realm you conquered. You are a mosaic of trauma, stitched together by arrogance."
He said nothing.
Because in the Black Pattern, words carried weight. Lies became blades. And truth could unravel you.
So he didn't speak.
He charged.
Nullfang ignited mid-swing, blazing with violet entropy. Not steel. Not light. Authority.
The first strike shattered three of the orbiting knives. Not with force—with rejection.
❖ Ability Activated: [Untruth Engine]
– Incoming Concept: "You were always weak."
– Counterforce: "I was forged in collapse."
– Effect: Energy Surge x3
He moved faster than sound. Faster than regret.
The false Solenne ducked, spun, and unleashed a wall of knives from her fingertips. They didn't fly straight—they danced. They curled through time, slipping between heartbeats.
Two pierced his shadow.
One sliced through his name.
He bled identity.
Still, he advanced.
They collided at the heart of the city.
Knives and entropy.
Whispers and will.
She fought with elegance. Every move a poem of sorrow. Every strike a memory rejected.
But the Thronebreaker fought with choice.
He was no longer a slave to possibility.
He had chosen to break the Throne. To rewrite fate on his own terms.
He kicked her backward through a column of memory-light, and the air rippled with screams.
She landed in a crouch, panting.
"You think this is victory?"
"No," he said. "This is step twenty-one."
She blinked.
"What?"
He grinned, blood dripping from his jaw.
"You're not the first nightmare I've killed."
She screamed.
The knives turned inward—stabbed her.
And suddenly, she wore his face.
She was him.
Every scar. Every failure.
Every shame.
They stood across from each other.
Mirror selves.
Then the entire Black Pattern shattered like glass—
And they were back on the battlefield. The first battlefield. The one he woke up in.
Rusted swords.
Fallen trees.
The bones of old wars.
But nothing was what it had been.
Now, every sword hummed with the echoes of a realm he had crossed. Every tree bore the sigil of a fallen throne. And the wind carried whispers of gods who watched in silence.
The false self raised a blade shaped like a throne's armrest.
He raised Nullfang.
They ran.
Clashed.
And this time, it wasn't about power.
It was about truth.
Every blow the false version landed came with a sentence.
"You let her die."
"You enjoyed the kill."
"You don't want to break the throne. You want to sit on it."
And every time—
He answered.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"…Maybe."
And each time, the system trembled—but held.
Because the truth wasn't a weakness.
It was his core.
They locked blades.
Face to face.
Breath ragged.
The false Thronebreaker whispered, "You'll become me."
And he said—
"No. I'll become worse."
Then headbutted the bastard.
Drove Nullfang through his gut.
And let the mirror version fall.
The city didn't cheer. The Sovereign didn't return.
There was no music.
Just silence.
And a light.
A white flame hovered in the air.
Pulsing.
Flickering.
Then it spoke.
Not in words.
In a feeling.
The feeling of a promise made before you were born.
❖ [Pattern Core] Absorbed
– New Realm Unlocked: [First Lie]
– New Ability Gained: [Oathfire]
– Effect: Burn through illusions, deceptions, and false narratives in all realms
– Throne Progression: 17%
He walked toward it.
Touched the flame.
And suddenly—he remembered.
Not everything.
But enough.
Solenne's voice.
A war that shouldn't have happened.
And a betrayal not by gods…
But by himself.
The Black Pattern collapsed.
No explosion.
Just absence.
And then—
He was somewhere else.
Standing in a realm of white.
A throne ahead.
Empty.
Waiting.
And at its base…
A crown of broken chains.