Asher hadn't time to acclimatize before the world changed again. The battlefield broke into an infinite, featureless plane of mirrored images, each one twisting reality into something unrecognizable. The Architect stood at the center, their face inscrutable.
"You see now," they said. "Power is not what you have—it is what you withhold."
Asher balled his fists. "If you're attempting to enlighten me on some great revelation, do get on with it."
The Architect smiled.
And the mirrors sprang to life.
All of Asher's thoughts emerged out of his frame, complete and fully realized doppelgängers. They were present there with him in a moment—versions of himself at various points along the journey. Some of them had the pinched aspect of the child who first went into the Trial, some had the weight of authority that he had gained. And some. some were versions of himself who had failed—distorted, corrupted by the void, contaminated beyond their original similarities.
"You are your enemy," the Architect stated coldly. "And only one of you will survive."
The first adversary struck back.
Asher didn't even have a moment to prepare when his own former self attacked him, with the same empty power that he'd always feared wielding. The second followed, faster, stronger. They attacked as a unit, fueled by the same memories, the same habits.
He swatted away a cut at his throat and was caught instead by another strike from behind. A whiplash of darkness lashed out at him, so he backed away.
His head spun. How did he battle himself?
And then, his gaze drifted to the other pictures—the ones who were devoured by power.
One of them grinned—a duplicate of himself with darkened eyes, a being who drew breath only for destruction. Another stood motionless, void and hollow, as if having given up on everything.
It was not a fight. It was a threat.
All the decisions, all the roads he could have forsworn—he was being met with them all.
And the only way forward was to decide.
The tainted Asher attacked first, a maelstrom of null energy bursting forth from his hands. The lesser creatures succumbed first, helpless to defend against it. But the greater ones—those who had asserted dominance and corrupted it—did not give up so easily.
Asher clashed with his own mirror.
"I won't be you," he snarled.
He launched himself forward. Not to annihilate, but to deny.
With each blow, he concentrated—not on destruction, but on comprehension. The shadowy duplicates of himself needed him to rage on their own terms. He did not.
They exploded one at a time, the twisted mirrors.
The sole survivor was himself—the true him.
The Architect remained silent.
"You pass," they finally uttered.
The mirrors disappeared. The battlefield was again in darkness.
And then, quietly, the Architect reached out their hand—
And reality shattered once more.