For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then, in a surge of collective agitation, the illusions flickered. I sensed the heavy press of history trying to smother me—remnants of their final moments, the desperation and regret that once consumed them. It was like a wave of sorrow and anger threatening to bury me under centuries of longing. But I refused to budge. My reality was my own, and I would not have it rewritten by ghosts.
I locked eyes with the Betrayer, the figure who exuded the most raw malice of them all. His scornful grin twisted into something more feral, a wounded pride that recognized my defiance. Quietly, I said, "You believe I will fail as you did? Then watch me."
