The sky didn't tear.
It was being ripped.
The crack widened — slowly, steadily — as if something beyond the world was peeling reality apart with its bare hands.
And it was.
Because now, in the widening slit in the heavens, you could see it.
A hand.
Clawed.
Humanoid.
Digging into the sky's edge like it was fabric — dragging it apart, thread by thread.
The pressure doubled. Then tripled.
Everything else stilled.
Even the pink mist — bold and ethereal until now — curled back, shivering like prey.
The clouds scrambled.
The wind shrank.
Then—
RIIIIIP.
The tear opened fully.
And through it stepped a figure, calm as silence.
Sion.
He hovered just above the crack, the morning light framing his form like a myth caught mid-breath.
He wore black — simple, sleeveless, wind-clinged. The Gatebreaker sword rested by his left hip, sleeping like a beast after slaughter. Above it, strapped horizontally to his lower back, sat a dagger that wasn't a dagger. The Nigrate Seal.
