"When the storm chooses its target, it does not care for who remains in its wake."
Lengaza stood in the center of the storm, the real one.
The winds howled around him. The sky churned.
The Collector's form flickered in and out of the chaos—his mask cracking more with each flicker.
"You should not exist, Lengaza," the Collector growled. "You are a mistake. An anomaly."
Lengaza clenched his fists. The memories—the truth—were flooding his mind.
"You're the mistake," he said, his voice steady. "You erased everything. Every piece of me."
The Collector's eyes flashed with anger.
"You were never supposed to be remembered."
A wave of energy pulsed through the air. The sky cracked open with a deafening roar.
Lengaza felt his body lock into place, the storm pushing against him, threatening to break him apart.
Nyra appeared beside him—a ghostly figure, her face set with determination.
"We have to break the cycle, Lengaza," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos. "This is what the world has tried to bury."
The Collector's form flickered again. His eyes turned to Nyra, his anger building.
"You are complicit in this, Nyra," he hissed. "You helped create him. You allowed him to wake."
Nyra stood her ground. "I didn't create him. I helped him find the truth."
Lengaza's vision blurred. The ground trembled beneath him, but he could feel the force rising within him. The storm, the chaos—it all felt like a mirror of the battle inside him. His memories, his purpose, everything was crashing together.
"I don't need you to erase me again," Lengaza said, his voice growing stronger. "I'm not afraid of you."
A pulse of energy shot from his chest—blinding and raw.
The Collector stepped back, his form flickering violently.
"You are afraid of me, Lengaza," the Collector sneered. "Because you don't even know who you really are."
Suddenly, the storm shifted.
Lengaza felt the weight of the world pressing down on him. The sky turned black, and in the distance, he saw the village from his memories—the place where it all began.
"Nyra, what is that place?" Lengaza asked, his voice shaky.
Nyra's face softened, and she looked away, her eyes haunted.
"It's where you were born. The place they tried to erase. The place that should've never existed."
Lengaza's heart raced. That village—the boy with the crown of feathers—the broken mirror. It was all connected.
"The truth is in there, isn't it?" he whispered.
Nyra nodded.
"It's where you'll find yourself… but it's also where everything will either break or heal."
The storm intensified.
But now, Lengaza knew what he had to do.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"I'm ready," he said.
With a surge of energy, Lengaza ripped through the storm—the ground beneath him cracking open, his power surging forward like a tidal wave. The Collector reached out in desperation, his form cracking like glass.
As Lengaza moved forward, a final truth echoed in his mind:
"You can't erase me anymore."
The storm collapsed.
Lengaza stood at the heart of it, breath heavy, chest burning.
And in the distance, he saw the village.
The place that never should have been erased.