The Gate was alive.
It towered over them — made of moving fire, memories, and molten truth. At its center, a pulsing heart of light: the World-Flame, source of all vows, all warmth, all beginnings.
Before it stood the False Aran — cloaked in ash, armored in flame.
He turned, unsheathing his blade of burning certainty.
"This is the end," he said.
Aran stepped forward, the dagger from the Prime Self hidden in his cloak.
"No," he replied. "It's the beginning we choose."
They clashed — not in silence, not in fury — but in meaning. Each strike rippled across creation. Stars flared and died in rhythm with their blows.
The Gate began to crack.
Elira screamed as the World-Flame flared, threatening to consume them all.
But Aran stood firm.
He would make the final choice — and either save the multiverse…
Or destroy himself trying.