Ren stood still for a long time, breathing slow and steady.
The chamber didn't move. The shadows didn't shift. But the weight of the moment pressed in anyway, like the walls were waiting to see if he would flinch.
His hand throbbed. The wound hadn't stopped aching. The pain was dull and constant, like it had moved in and started nesting behind his joints. Every heartbeat stirred a twitch in the fingers. It reminded him that he was still alive. Still in a body that could bleed, that could burn, that could break again.
He glanced down at the Scripture of Knowledge one last time.
Gold-threaded. Elegant. Regal even now, untouched on the floor.
He crouched beside it and ran his fingers along the smooth cover.
"No tricks. Just power," he said under his breath. "Destruction. Elements. Control."
He paused.
"If I picked you, I'd be able to burn down anyone who stood in my way."
He meant it. And he knew it was true. The Law of Knowledge didn't beg or seduce. It offered. Direct and clean.
He imagined the power. Flames at his fingertips. Runes lighting up the ground. Lightning streaking out from his hands without warning. Ice wrapping around his enemies' legs before they even realized he was there. Spells cutting the air like razors. Ending things before they started.
But then he looked at his arms.
The scars were still there. The burns hadn't faded. The pain still lived underneath the skin, buried and waiting. The memory of the Soul Ocean clung to him. Not visually. Not audibly. Just something cold in his bones, like a weight that never left.
"I don't want to fight like that," he said.
He wasn't whispering. He wasn't uncertain. He was stating something final.
"I don't want to stand in the open. I don't want to throw fire or scream spells in broad daylight."
His fingers closed around the wound again. Blood crust broke under his grip.
"I don't want to die again."
The words carried farther than they should have. Across stone. Into corners that hadn't heard sound in years.
He stood, leaving the Scripture of Knowledge behind.
"You're not the problem," he said aloud. "You're powerful. Too powerful. That's the issue."
Then he turned to the last book.
The cracked one. The one bound in fractured glass. The cover shimmered as if caught between surfaces. Between reflections.
"I don't want to be seen," he said.
"I want to slip through lies. Hide inside truth. Twist things quietly. Leave nothing behind."
He stared into the book's cover. His face stared back in broken pieces. One eye tilted wrong. One mouth halfway open. The reflection wasn't wrong, just… incomplete.
"And that's the one thing I've always been good at."
He sat down in front of the Scripture.
There was no more weighing options. No more stalling. No more ifs.
Ren Ashvale had made his choice.
The Scripture of Fractured Truth rested before him. Its cover looked like a window that had been struck once and never repaired. Light caught on the cracks and scattered into lines that sliced across his face.
Each shard of his reflection looked like a different person.
He opened the book.
The page was still the same.
Choose a lie about yourself.
It must be something you know is false. A fact you have denied, a truth you have avoided, or a fantasy you wish were real.
Write this lie as if it were your absolute truth and swallow it.
Use your real name, and describe yourself entirely based on that lie. This becomes your "Fractured Identity."
Carve out all the skin on your face and burn it.
Live as your Fractured Identity for three days.
Speak, act, and believe as if the lie is your only truth. Deny anything that contradicts it, even if it causes harm, confusion, or collapse. The world must reflect your delusion.
At the end of the third day, stand before a mirror and say the vow without blinking or breaking character:
"I vow to walk the fracture where thought unravels and truth devours itself.
Let no name remain intact, no belief unbroken.
Where I step, logic weeps, and the Lie becomes God."
If you hesitate, forget your lie, or accidentally speak a truth, the Vow fails.
Ren squinted.
Below the final line, fresh ink had bloomed. New. Faint. Like it had been waiting.
The stronger the lie, the less chance of failure.
He stared at the line. His lips parted slightly.
"You weren't there before."
He didn't blink. He didn't shift his posture.
He just nodded.
"A weak lie falls apart. But a strong one," he said. "The kind that burns when you say it…"
"That's what you want."
He leaned back, resting against the cold stone.
"Fine."
"Let's find one."
The words on the page pulsed once.
Then another line appeared.
Current lie used: !@#$%^&!@#$%!@#$%
Success rate: 99%
He stared at it. The characters didn't look like language. They looked like something was trying to crawl off the page.
He didn't need to read them. He already knew what the line meant.
The Lie had already been written.
His Lie.
He had chosen it.
He had remembered it.
And now it was inside him.
The success rate blinked once, like a heartbeat.
That should have calmed him.
It didn't.
He looked down at his hand. The blood had dried. Then up again, at his reflection.
"This isn't a name," he murmured. "Not a mask. Not a disguise."
"This is personal."
The Lie wasn't something clever. It wasn't something borrowed from someone else's fantasy.
It belonged to him.
"Three days," he said. "Pretending I'm someone else. Denying everything I actually am."
He paused.
"How long before I stop remembering what's real?"
The question didn't echo.
It just stayed.
His hand curled into a fist, and the pain pulsed harder in response.
"If I pick this… there's no after. I don't just wake up and return to myself."
He reached up and ran a hand over his face. The cheek. The lips. The skin that would soon be gone.
"This lie… it's not something I made up. It's something I buried."
He nodded to himself.
"Maybe it breaks me."
"Maybe I don't come back."
Another pause. Long. Careful.
"But I'll still be breathing. Still walking."
He closed the book.
The sound it made wasn't loud, but it had weight.
He stood.
The air around him felt different. Not heavier. Not colder. Just… tighter.
The Scripture pressed against his ribs as he tucked it under one arm.
He walked.
The temple said nothing.
He walked to the back, past statues carved to resemble weeping things. Beneath them, the ground dipped into a shallow basin.
Old blood stained the edge.
Perfect.
He knelt.
He set the Scripture on the raised stone beside him. Then pulled the rest from his satchel.
A piece of hide. A stick of charcoal. The bone dagger.
He arranged them in a clean line.
Then he stood.
Turned toward the far end of the temple.
Dust clung to every step.
Behind a shattered lectern, he found what he was looking for.
Three books.
Real ones. Paper. Ink. Human.
He didn't read them.
He tore them apart, page by page, until the air was full of their shreds.
He carried them back.
Built the fire inside the basin, just beside the offering pit.
Flint. Spark. Smoke.
The pages caught.
The fire rose.
Ren sat again.
The dagger across his lap. The Scripture beside him.
He washed his hands. The water turned red.
He didn't speak.
The flames did not flicker. They consumed.
The temple did not answer. But it watched.
He stared into the fire. The orange light filled his eyes.
"One more step," he said quietly.
"And I don't come back the same."
He picked up the dagger.
And did not look away.