The chamber trembled—not with violence, but with pressure, like a storm caught in a breath. The armored figure stepped from the sarcophagus, every movement soundless. Though the helm hid their face, Haruto knew they were watching him.
Lucien's sword hand twitched. "Who the hell is that?"
The figure turned slightly. "I am what remains. What was sealed away so he could be born."
Serenya's eyes widened. "You're… another Haruto?"
"No," the figure said. "I am the first."
Haruto's heart pounded. "What does that mean?"
The Nullblade pulsed, resonating between the two of them. The figure extended a hand, and a shadow of the same sword formed in his grasp—identical, but inverted in light and presence. A blade made of memory and regret.
"I am what you discarded when you fell from the old world. Your rage. Your purpose. Your oath."
Images clawed at Haruto's mind—himself standing atop a battlefield soaked in black fire, swearing vengeance against gods that ruled unjustly. The Nullblade had been his, forged in rebellion… and it had been taken from him when the world was reset.
Lucien stepped forward. "He's lying. That thing's just a corrupted memory!"
"No," Serenya said softly, her voice trembling. "He's telling the truth. That's the Haruto who died… so ours could live."
The armored figure raised the shadow-blade.
"I do not wish to fight. But neither can you walk blindly anymore. If you are to reclaim what you are… you must face what you were."
Haruto swallowed hard, stepping forward. "Then I'll fight. Not to become who I was… but to decide who I'll be."
The air thickened. The Nullblade burned in his grip.
And the chamber lit up with the clash of mirrored steel—past and present, locked in a dance of fate.