The crimson void dissolved like ink in water, its chaotic shards—basalt, clockwork vines, starlit marble—fading into a stillness that pressed against Zane Veyr's skin. The transition was abrupt, as if the universe had exhaled, and the group stood on a platform of translucent stone, its surface etched with threads that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath flesh. Above, below, and around them loomed the Null Spire—a towering, infinite structure that defied comprehension. Its walls were not walls but cascades of scrolls, each sheet stretching endlessly, their surfaces alive with glowing text and images that shifted as Zane's eyes lingered. Timelines, he realized, each scroll a reality, each word a life. The air was heavy, not with scent but with weight—the weight of choices made and unmade, of futures written and erased.
Zane's Core throbbed, the Echo Pulse a dull ache now, but no less relentless. His body still glitched—his hand flickered as he reached for the platform's edge, phasing out then snapping back with a jolt of pain. The vision of the cloaked figure from the crimson void lingered, its golden-white thread pulsing in his mind, a glyph he knew was his own. Who are you? he'd asked, but the answer was a shadow he couldn't grasp. He glanced at his companions, their faces pale in the Spire's ghostly light. Lira, clutching her dim True Light Glyph, her breath uneven from her collapse. Zhara, blades drawn, her eyes scanning the Spire with fierce caution. Sylvara, her silver hair catching the scroll-light, her glyphs flickering like a dying lantern, her expression distant.
"We're not in the void anymore," Lira said, her voice soft but steady. She stepped forward, her glyph casting a faint glow across the platform, revealing threads woven into the stone—white-gold, shadow-black, crimson-red. "This place… it feels like it's thinking."
Zhara's grip tightened on her blades. "Thinking or judging," she muttered. "After Korran's phantom, I don't trust anything here." Her eyes flicked to Zane, a flicker of doubt crossing her face—a false memory, perhaps, of abandoning him in the Crucible. She shook it off, but the tension remained.
Sylvara knelt, her flickering glyphs scanning the platform's threads. "It's more than thinking," she said, her voice layered with that unsettling echo. "This is the Null Spire. Where timelines are written. Every scroll, every thread—it's a story. Ours. Others. All of them." Her glyphs stuttered, and she winced, clutching her temple. "I see… a life where I stayed with the Void. Where I wrote these scrolls myself." Her violet eyes met Zane's, raw with fear. "It's still rewriting me."
Zane's chest tightened. "Fight it, Sylvara. You're here. With us." But his own Echo Pulse flared, a vision hitting like a blade—a Zane standing in this very Spire, his hands stained with blood, his companions' bodies at his feet. Lira, Zhara, Sylvara—all gone, sacrificed for power. The Zane in the vision turned, his eyes hollow, his Core a cold, sterile light. Hollow Zane. The name came unbidden, and Zane staggered, his hand phasing out again.
"Zane!" Lira's glyph flared, stabilizing him, but her light was weak, its edges fraying. "You're glitching worse. What did you see?"
He shook his head, the vision's weight crushing. "Another me. He… he killed you. All of you. To become something else." His voice was hoarse, the words tasting like ash. "He's here. In this Spire."
Zhara's blades rose, her stance defensive. "Then we find him. And we end him."
Sylvara's laugh was brittle, her glyphs flickering. "End him? Fracture, he's you. A version of you. And this place—" She gestured to the scroll-walls, their text shifting, glowing. "It's his domain. We're walking into his story."
The group moved deeper into the Spire, ascending a spiraling staircase that looped impossibly, its steps appearing and vanishing under their feet. The scroll-walls pulsed, their text alive, and Zane caught glimpses of timelines—his own, and others. A scroll showed Earth, his MMA gym, the moment reality shattered. Another showed Lira's trial in the echo zone, her True Light Glyph awakening. A third showed Sylvara, her violet eyes cold, a Void blade in her hand, standing over a fallen Zane. He tore his gaze away, but the images burned, each one a question: Which of us is real?
The Overthread's influence was subtle but present. Words on a scroll blurred, rewriting mid-glance. A voice—not theirs—whispered from the walls, its words unintelligible but heavy with intent. Lira's glyph flickered, struggling in the Spire's thought-driven air, and she leaned on Zane for support. "This place doesn't want my light," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "But I'm not giving up. Not after everything."
Zhara's eyes softened, but her voice was sharp. "Stay close, Lira. If this other Zane's here, he's not getting past us." She glanced at Sylvara, her tension palpable. "You good, or are you going to glitch out again?"
Sylvara's smile was strained, her glyphs barely holding. "I'm trying, Flameheart. But this place… it's pulling at me. Memories I don't want. Choices I didn't make." Her hand brushed Zane's, a fleeting touch, and her voice dropped. "If I slip, Fracture, don't let me hurt you."
"You won't," Zane said, his voice firm, though his Core pulsed with doubt. The Echo Pulse was relentless, visions flickering—a Zane in a techno-world, his cybernetic arm sparking; a Zane in a starlit abyss, whispering to the Loom. Each vision felt like a piece of him, but Hollow Zane's shadow loomed largest, a cold certainty in the Spire's light.
The staircase ended abruptly, opening onto a vast chamber where the scroll-walls converged, their threads weaving into a tapestry that pulsed with light and shadow. At the chamber's center stood a figure, tall and cloaked in white-gold threads, his face achingly familiar—Zane's face, but wrong. His eyes were empty, his Core a sterile glow, and his presence was a void, as if he'd carved out everything human. Zane Hollow.
"Welcome," Hollow Zane said, his voice smooth, resonant, but devoid of warmth. "You've come far, Prime. But this is where your story ends."
Zane's Core pulsed, the Echo Pulse screaming, and he knew—this was no phantom. This was him. A him who'd chosen power over pain, sacrifice over love. And the Spire, with its infinite scrolls, was his throne.
The chamber at the heart of the Null Spire pulsed with a rhythm that wasn't sound but intent, as if the scroll-walls themselves were alive, judging. Zane Veyr stood frozen, his Core throbbing, the Echo Pulse a jagged current through his veins. Before him, Zane Hollow loomed, his white-gold cloak shimmering with threads that pulsed in sync with Zane's heartbeat. His face—Zane's face—was a cruel mirror, sharp jaw and storm-gray eyes stripped of warmth, his Core a sterile glow that seemed to drink the Spire's light. The scroll-walls around them flickered, their timelines shifting—images of worlds unified, of Zanes standing alone, their companions erased. Hollow Zane's presence was a weight, a promise of finality.
"You feel it, don't you?" Hollow Zane said, his voice smooth, resonant, cutting through the Spire's hum. "The chaos of the Loom. The endless echoes, each one a fracture, a mistake." He stepped forward, his cloak trailing threads that wove into the floor, stitching new patterns. "I fixed it, Prime. I unified my thread. Sacrificed the weak—my Lira, my Zhara, my Sylvara. Now I'm whole. The strongest Zane. The only one who deserves to exist."
Zane's chest tightened, the Echo Pulse flaring. A vision hit—a Zane, Hollow Zane, standing in a blood-soaked Spire, his companions' bodies at his feet, their threads severed. The vision wasn't just memory; it was truth, and it burned. "You killed them," Zane said, his voice low, trembling with rage. "Your own team. For what? Power?"
Hollow Zane's lips curled, not a smile but a condescension. "For order. The Loom's breaking because of us—too many Zanes, too many threads, too much pain. I ended it. One reality. One story. No suffering." He raised a hand, and the scroll-walls pulsed, showing a sterile world—green fields, calm skies, no war, no loss. "Join me, Prime. Become complete. Or be deleted, like the others."
Zhara's blades were out in an instant, her Flameheart armor glowing with molten runes. "You're not him," she snarled, stepping between Zane and Hollow Zane. "You're a coward who gave up everything that matters. We're not joining you. We're ending you." Her voice was fierce, but her eyes flickered with doubt—a false memory, the Overthread's whisper of her abandoning Zane in the Crucible.
Lira, leaning on Zane for support, her True Light Glyph dim, raised her chin. "You're wrong," she said, her voice steady despite her pallor. "Our imperfections, our divergences—they're what make us real. Erasing them erases us. I'd rather fight than live in your empty world." Her glyph flared weakly, casting a soft glow, a defiance that cut through the Spire's weight.
Sylvara stood silent, her glyphs flickering, their patterns stuttering like a corrupted signal. Her violet eyes locked on Hollow Zane, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable—torn. "Control," she whispered, her voice layered with that second tone, Void-touched. "You took control. No chaos. No doubt." Her glyphs pulsed, a hint of black threading through them, and she took a step toward Hollow Zane, her hand trembling. "I… I understand that."
Zane grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "Sylvara, no. He's not offering control. He's offering nothing." His Core pulsed, a vision flickering—a Sylvara in a Void-aligned world, her blade in his chest, her eyes cold. He shoved it down, focusing on the Sylvara before him, her face a mask of fear and longing.
Hollow Zane's gaze settled on Sylvara, his voice soft, almost kind. "You feel it too, don't you? The Overthread's pull. The need to be whole. You're already half-gone, Soul Glyph. Join me. Be free of your fractures." The scroll-walls pulsed, showing a Sylvara standing beside him, her glyphs perfect, her Void past erased.
Zhara's blade twitched, her eyes flashing. "Back off, or I'll cut that smug look off your face." But her voice trembled, the Overthread's false memories clawing at her—Zhara walking away, Zane bleeding, her heart cold.
Lira's hand tightened on Zane's arm. "We're enough," she said, her voice a beacon. "Our pain, our choices—they're ours. Don't let him take that."
Zane met Hollow Zane's eyes, his own resolve hardening. "I'm not you," he said. "I won't sacrifice them. Not for your 'order.' Not for anything."
Hollow Zane's expression didn't change, but the Spire shuddered, its scroll-walls flaring with light. "Then you choose deletion," he said, his voice a blade. "So be it."
The Null Spire reacted like a living thing, its scroll-walls pulsing with the group's emotions—anger, fear, hope, doubt. The threads woven into the walls lashed out, white-gold and shadow-black, forming shapes that weren't solid but felt—memories given form. A scroll flared, showing a timeline where Zane stood over Lira's body, his hands stained with her blood, his Core dark with Void. Another showed him saving Zhara in the Crucible, their bond unbroken, her eyes warm with trust. The images flickered, overlapping, and Zane's Echo Pulse screamed, his body glitching—his arm phased out, then snapped back, burning.
The Overthread's voice whispered from the walls, not words but intent, a temptation that coiled around Zane's mind. A scroll unrolled before him, its text glowing—a fixed world, perfect, where Lira was whole, Zhara was safe, Sylvara was free of her Void past. No war. No loss. No echoes. All he had to do was let the other timelines collapse, let the Overthread weave one thread. His companions, as they were now, would cease. But they'd live, in a way, in that perfect world.
Zane's breath caught, the vision so vivid he could smell the grass, feel the peace. But Lira's hand on his arm grounded him, her weak glyph pulsing with defiance. "Don't," she whispered. "It's not real. Not like this."
Sylvara staggered, her glyphs flaring Void-black, their patterns twisting into something alien. "It could be," she said, her voice layered, her eyes distant. "No more fractures. No more pain." She raised a hand, and a glyph formed—a spear of black light, aimed at Zane. For a moment, her face was cold, Void-tainted, a Sylvara who'd chosen differently. Zhara's blades rose, but Zane stepped forward, his Core pulsing.
"Sylvara," he said, his voice steady despite the fear. "You're not that. You're with us. You're you." He reached for her, his hand glitching but solid enough to grasp hers. Her glyph flickered, the black fading, and she collapsed against him, her breath ragged.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice her own again, trembling. "I saw it, Zane. A world where I'm whole. But it's empty. I… I don't want to be erased." Her eyes met his, raw, vulnerable, and the Spire's walls pulsed, as if acknowledging her choice.
Zhara's voice cut through, sharp with urgency. "We don't have time for this. He's coming." She pointed to Hollow Zane, who hadn't moved but whose presence was growing, the threads of his cloak weaving into the Spire's floor, reshaping it.
Hollow Zane raised a hand, and the Spire erupted. The scroll-walls unraveled, their threads forming a battlefield—a timeline rift where reality bent and broke. Staircases collapsed into voids, platforms of translucent stone warped into jagged spires, and scrolls became weapons—blades of glowing text, shields of woven light. Hollow Zane's attack wasn't physical but existential, a wave of threads that struck Zhara first. She screamed, her form flickering, and for a moment, she was another Zhara—her armor Void-black, her eyes cold, loyal to a reality where she served the Overthread.
"Zhara!" Zane shouted, his Thread Energy lashing out, white-gold strands wrapping around her, pulling her back. Her form stabilized, but her face was pale, her breath ragged. "It… it felt real," she gasped. "Like I was her."
Lira's glyph flared, weak but defiant, its light stabilizing the platform beneath them. "We're real," she said, her voice breaking. "Hold on to that." But Hollow Zane's next attack struck her, and her glyph flickered, timelines around her collapsing—scrolls showing Lira dying in the echo zone, never awakening her True Light. She staggered, her light dimming, but her eyes burned with resolve.
Sylvara's glyphs, still unstable, formed a shaky barrier, but Hollow Zane's threads tore through it, striking Zane. His Echo Pulse exploded, memories blending—his Earth, the Crucible, Hollow Zane's sacrifices. He saw himself standing in the Spire, his companions gone, his Core cold. The vision was a blade, cutting at his will, but he clung to Lira's words, Zhara's loyalty, Sylvara's vulnerability.
The battlefield shifted, scrolls forming a labyrinth of light and shadow, and Hollow Zane advanced, his threads rewriting reality with every step. "You can't win," he said, his voice calm, final. "You're fragments. I'm whole."
Zane's Core pulsed, his Thread Energy flickering but fierce. "You're hollow," he said, and the fight began in earnest, a battle not of flesh but of memory, of will, of who they chose to be.
Zane stood at the center, his Core screaming, the Echo Pulse a relentless storm shredding his sense of self. Hollow Zane advanced, his white-gold cloak trailing threads that wove into the battlefield, reshaping it with every step. The scroll-walls pulsed, their timelines flashing—Zane betraying Lira in the echo zone, Zane kneeling to the Void, Zane watching Zhara die in the Crucible. Each image was a blade, not to his body but to his story, rewriting who he was with every strike.
Hollow Zane's threads lashed out, a whip of glowing text that struck Zane's chest. Pain erupted, not physical but existential—a memory forced into his mind: Zane standing over Sylvara's body, his hands stained with her blood, his Core Void-black. "You did this," Hollow Zane said, his voice calm, final. "You always do. You let them die." The scroll-walls flared, showing the scene in vivid detail, Sylvara's violet eyes empty, her glyphs gone. Zane staggered, his Thread Energy flickering, his arm phasing out as the Echo Pulse screamed.
Zhara screamed, her blades carving through a thread that struck her. The scroll-walls shifted, showing a timeline where she led an army against Zane, her Flameheart armor gleaming with Void runes, her eyes cold. "No!" she roared, her voice breaking as she swung again, fire trailing her blades. "That's not me!" But her movements slowed, her face pale, the false memory clawing at her resolve. She glanced at Zane, her eyes pleading. "Tell me it's not real."
"It's not," Zane said, his voice hoarse, but the doubt lingered, his own memories fracturing. He dodged another of Hollow Zane's threads, but it grazed Lira, and she collapsed, her True Light Glyph dimming to a faint spark. The scrolls flashed—a timeline where Lira never met Zane, where she died forgotten in the Ashborn Trials, her body buried in ash. She gasped, clutching her chest, her eyes wide with terror. "Zane… I'm slipping…"
Sylvara's glyphs flared, but they glitched, black veins threading through their patterns. She raised a hand, and for a moment, her voice wasn't hers—a cold, mechanical tone, the Overthread's voice: "Purging duplicate thread… realigning." A spear of black light formed, aimed at Zane, and Zhara lunged, her blade deflecting it. Sylvara blinked, her glyphs flickering back to violet, her face twisting with horror. "I didn't… I didn't mean…" She staggered, her hands trembling, the Spire's walls pulsing with her fear.
The battlefield warped, scrolls forming jagged spires that stabbed upward, threads weaving into traps that snapped like jaws. Hollow Zane's threads struck again, rewriting reality with each hit—platforms collapsed into voids, staircases twisted into loops, and the air hummed with the Overthread's whisper, urging erasure. Zane's Core burned, his Thread Energy misfiring, but he clung to his companions' voices—Lira's fading hope, Zhara's fierce defiance, Sylvara's fractured resolve.
Then it hit him. Hollow Zane's power was his singularity, his erasure of all else. But Zane's strength was his fractures—every echo, every failure, every choice. He closed his eyes, the Echo Pulse roaring, and let the visions come. The Zane from Earth, sweating in the MMA cage, fighting for survival. The Zane from the Crucible, saving Lira from lava pillars. The Zane from the Veil, weaving Soul Glyphs with Sylvara. The Zane from the techno-world, his cybernetic arm sparking. Even the Zanes who failed, who fell to the Void, who broke—they were all him. All real.
"I don't need to be perfect," Zane said, his voice steady, cutting through the Spire's chaos. "I just need to be real." His Core pulsed, and his Thread Energy erupted, no longer just white-gold but a tapestry of light—violet-blue from the Veil, ember-red from the Crucible, starlight from the Abyss. The strands wove together, multi-layered, a reflection of every echo, every life.
Hollow Zane froze, his sterile Core flickering. "No," he said, his voice sharp with anger, the first crack in his composure. "You're nothing. A fragment." But the scroll-walls pulsed, showing Zane's echoes—not as failures, but as choices, each one a thread in his story.
Zane struck, his multi-layered threads lashing out, severing a portion of Hollow Zane's cloak. The fabric unraveled, revealing not flesh but empty threads, a husk held together by certainty. Hollow Zane screamed, his voice raw, desperate. "You were the anomaly! You were meant to fold! Why didn't you fold?" His Core glitched, its sterile light stuttering, and the Spire's walls trembled, scrolls fraying at the edges.
Hollow Zane's threads surged, a massive wave of light and shadow aimed at erasing Zane entirely. The attack hit, and Zane's reality flickered—he was nowhere, nothing, a void where his story ended. But a faint glow cut through—Lira's True Light Glyph, weak but unyielding. She dragged herself up, her face pale, her glyph sparking. "I chose you," she said, her voice breaking. "I keep choosing you." Her light stabilized Zane's form, but the effort was too much—she vanished, her threads sparking, then reappeared, gasping, her glyph gone.
"Lira!" Zane shouted, his threads wrapping around her, holding her close. Her sacrifice burned in his chest, fueling his resolve. He turned to Hollow Zane, whose Core was fracturing, threads peeling away. Zane saw it—a glyph, pulsing at Hollow Zane's feet, the anchor tying him to the Overthread's will.
With a final surge of fractured energy, Zane dove forward, his multi-layered threads blazing. He carved his own glyph into the Spire's floor—a chaotic, human mark, rejecting unity, embracing every echo. The battlefield collapsed, scrolls shattering like glass, timelines unraveling into ash. Hollow Zane screamed, his form unwoven, threads dissolving into the void. His final words echoed: "You're still broken. And one day, that will break them."
The Spire dimmed, its hum falling silent. Scrolls fell like ash, their light fading. Lira lay unconscious in Zane's arms, her breath shallow but alive. Zhara knelt beside him, bruised and shaken, her hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him. Sylvara stood apart, her glyphs no longer flickering but changed—violet with threads of starlight, a quiet testament to her choice. "We're still here," Zane whispered, his voice raw, the weight of their survival heavier than any victory.
The Overthread's whisper was gone, but the Loom Core's light pulsed in the distance, a promise and a threat, waiting.