The Herald raised its hand, and the world fractured.
It wasn't an attack. It wasn't magic.
It was a command.
The city trembled as entire streets ceased to exist. Soldiers who had been standing ready one moment were simply gone the next—not slain, not erased, but never there to begin with.
The Herald's voice, cold and absolute, resonated across Ironhold.
"Your existence is an error. Correction is inevitable."
Rheon felt the weight of reality pressing down on him, trying to erase his place in the world. The System's will bore down with unrelenting force, threatening to overwrite his very being.
But something inside him rejected it.
The blackened spear burned hotter in his grip. The whispers of the forgotten roared in defiance.
Rheon lifted the weapon, planting his feet firmly on the trembling ground.
"I am not an error."
The System's hold cracked.
And then he attacked.
---
The Warped Dance of Reality
Rheon's spear cut through the air, faster than thought, a golden arc of defiance.
The Herald vanished—
Then reappeared behind him.
Rheon spun, blocking with the shaft of his spear just as the Herald's hand came down like a falling star.
The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield. Stone cracked beneath them. The very fabric of reality buckled.
The Herald's strikes were unlike anything he had faced before. They weren't just fast. They ignored the concept of time.
The moment it moved, it had already struck.
There was no warning. No telegraphed attacks.
Only the inevitable.
But Rheon didn't fight like a normal warrior.
He didn't react. He anticipated.
With every exchange, he felt the flow of fate twisting around him. He moved before the System decided where it wanted him to be.
The Herald's featureless helmet tilted.
It had never failed before.
Yet Rheon stood.
And he struck back.
---
The Wound in the System
Rheon's spear sang through the battlefield.
The Herald shifted, reality bending to pull it away—
But the spear was not bound by the System's rules.
It struck true.
The first crack appeared on the Herald's pristine armor.
A sound unlike anything in this world rang out—not metal breaking, not magic unraveling—something deeper.
A fracture in the System's authority.
The Herald staggered.
For the first time, it did not move with perfect control.
It did not strike back immediately.
The soldiers of Ironhold felt the change.
Hope surged through them like wildfire. The tide of battle shifted.
Garran roared, his blade cleaving through a Warden's form, splitting its mask in two. Hadric laughed, breaking through enemy lines like an unstoppable force.
Elara danced between shadows, her daggers finding purchase where before they had passed through nothing.
Lorien, despite his exhaustion, wove a spell unlike any before.
A bolt of magic—chaotic, wild, unrestrained—struck the Herald's armor where it had cracked.
And the crack widened.
The Herald… hesitated.
It turned its faceless helm toward Rheon. And then, for the first time, it spoke with something other than absolute certainty.
"…Unwritten."
A pulse of energy erupted from its form, and the battlefield shook.
The Herald was not retreating.
It was adapting.
This was far from over.
The Herald's True Power
The Herald stood motionless, the battlefield silent around it. The golden crack across its chest pulsed like a dying star.
And then—
The sky shattered.
A blinding wave of golden energy erupted from the Herald, stretching beyond the city walls. Time stilled.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Rheon felt himself suspended in that moment. The air had turned to glass, sound had ceased to exist, and even his own thoughts felt slowed.
Then reality snapped back.
And the Herald changed.
Its once-pristine armor now bore shifting script, glowing runes that pulsed with the weight of System commands. Its presence, already suffocating, became something more.
No longer a mere enforcer.
It was evolving.
Rheon's grip on the spear tightened. He could feel it. This was no longer just a battle—it was a war of existence itself.
The Herald raised its hand, and the world responded.
The ground beneath Ironhold ripped apart, entire buildings vanishing into golden voids. People who had stood fighting a moment ago were simply gone.
Not dead.
Erased from history.
The System had judged them unnecessary.
And now, it turned its full judgment upon Rheon.
"You were not meant to exist."
The Herald's voice was no longer distant and cold—it was absolute. It spoke not as an enforcer, but as a god.
Rheon exhaled. Then I'll carve my existence into reality itself.
And he charged.
---
The Dance of Unwritten Fate
The Herald's movements defied logic.
One moment it stood above the battlefield—the next, it was inches from Rheon's throat.
Its hand lashed out, moving at a speed beyond time itself.
But Rheon was faster.
Not because he was stronger. Not because he was more skilled.
Because he did not belong.
The System dictated rules—laws of motion, cause and effect. The Herald moved in perfect accordance with them.
But Rheon?
He was the anomaly.
His spear twisted in ways that should not have been possible, breaking the rhythm of battle itself. His feet moved before the Herald could dictate where it wanted him to be.
The spear clashed against the Herald's palm.
A second crack formed in the golden armor.
The Herald reeled.
For the first time, it knew doubt.
Rheon did not hesitate.
He pressed forward, striking again.
The cracks deepened. The whispers in his mind roared.
And then, the Herald's head snapped up.
The sky turned black.
---
The System's Final Directive
A rift tore open above them.
Not a mere wound in space, but something greater. A void that stretched beyond mortal comprehension.
And through it, something descended.
A presence beyond even the Herald.
The System had decided.
This was no longer a battle to erase an anomaly.
This was a reset.
Ironhold—**and everything in it—**was deemed unsalvageable.
And unless Rheon stopped it, the city would be erased.
He looked at the Herald, still standing between him and that growing rift. This was his only chance.
One final strike.
One moment to decide whether he would be erased… or rewrite fate itself.
Rheon's heart pounded.
And then he moved.
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