---
---
There was no sky here.
Just layers of collapsing logic—gravity twisting in on itself, colors bleeding into each other, and time pulsing like a dying organ.
EXIN stood on a bridge made of silence.
Not stone.
Not light.
But a thread of pure memory—woven from every version of himself that almost was.
Behind him lay the world he had survived.
Ahead?
The end of all definitions.
The place the Tower didn't dare mark.
The edge of meaning itself.
Where Existence Ends.
---
Every step forward unmade something behind him.
Memories of footsteps vanished.
The weight of his body flickered—heavy one second, intangible the next.
Here, mana didn't obey.
It listened.
Listened for lies. For fear. For the faintest whisper of hesitation.
EXIN gave it none.
Only silence.
Only purpose.
Only truth carved into flesh.
---
He reached the center.
No monument.
No light.
Just a single black flame, hovering above an altar of bone and crystal.
And beneath it, the Mark.
The final one.
Burning with a hunger that didn't feed on power—
—but on identity.
---
He reached for it—
And the world screamed.
---
The flame surged.
A figure rose from it.
No body.
No gender.
Just a distortion.
A concept wearing a face.
His own.
---
> "I am the version of you that never broke," it said.
> "The one that embraced godhood. That rejected pain. That became perfect."
Its voice warped reality.
Its presence collapsed all doubt.
It was Perfection Without Humanity.
And it moved like inevitability.
---
EXIN barely blocked the first strike.
No blade.
No mana.
Just… erasure.
A punch that deleted the idea of his defense.
His Spiral shattered.
The Hollow Eye cracked.
The Machine's Dream screamed in static.
---
EXIN was flung backward across a thousand broken moments—falling through echoes of himself being defeated in countless forgotten timelines.
But he held on.
He gritted his teeth.
And bled possibility.
---
> "You're not real," he growled. "You're what I could've been if I'd killed the part of me that feels."
The Perfect EXIN smiled.
> "Exactly."
> "Which is why I must erase you."
---
They clashed again.
This time, the battlefield wasn't space.
It was meaning.
Words burned around them.
Memories turned into swords.
Essences collided like collapsing stars.
---
EXIN invoked the Thread Between Stars.
Split the moment.
Tried a future where he dodged.
Died.
Rewound.
Tried again.
Each timeline bought him one heartbeat closer to understanding.
To adapting.
To remembering.
---
> "You think perfection is strength," he whispered, dodging a fatal thought-construct hurled like a blade.
> "But perfection can't learn."
> "Perfection… can't change."
---
He used the Mark of Collapsed Faith—
Unraveled the worship that fed the Perfect version's divinity.
The echo wavered.
Cracked.
---
And EXIN stabbed forward with a blade forged from his own regret—
The first memory of the first time he chose mercy over victory.
It wasn't sharp.
But it cut deeper than any sword.
Because it carried all his guilt.
---
The false EXIN screamed.
Crumbled.
And as it vanished, it whispered:
> "You're not the strongest version of yourself…"
> "You're just the one that chose to carry the pain."
---
EXIN stood alone again.
Wounded.
Breathing.
Whole.
---
The final Mark burned across his back.
No symbol.
Just absence.
The shape of silence carved into him like a scar.
> The Seventh Mark: The Hollow Crown
> Not a power.
> A curse.
> Those who bear it can't be worshipped.
> Can't be saved.
> Can't be remembered… once they leave the world.
EXIN closed his eyes.
The Tower.
The gods.
The wars.
The losses.
They all led here.
To a man—
who chose to be forgotten…
so the world could survive remembering itself.
---
And as the ground beneath him collapsed into stars—
EXIN took a step forward.
Toward whatever came next.
Not as a god.
Not as a savior.
But as the last truth.
---