—
In the twisted mirror of Tokyo—the in-between realm—Hoshiro walked on fractured glass, beneath a sky stitched together by lightning and memory. The Voidweaver's Mask burned against his skin, its whispers constant.
*"You are not meant to be here."*
*"You are the broken variable."*
*"You will shatter."*
He pushed forward.
The godkiller loomed ahead, still and patient. Around it, echoes of other timelines swirled—other Hoshiros, other versions of the world. In one, he was never born. In another, he *was* the Syndicate.
"You think showing me what could've been will stop me?" Hoshiro growled, aura flaring.
The godkiller moved—finally.
Its hand swept through the space between them, not physically but conceptually. A blow that erased reality instead of damaging it.
Hoshiro blinked to the side, but time didn't follow. He was slower here… unless—
He gripped the First Blade and *willed* it to remember. To remember every moment it had ever existed across every reality.
It lit up.
He vanished, reappearing behind the godkiller in a burst of blue and violet flames. He slashed—not to destroy, but to *mark*.
One strike. One symbol: *Hope.*
The creature reeled back—not in pain, but confusion. In the real Tokyo, Ayame and Kazuki fought through summoned horrors, struggling to hold the line. Ayame staggered, bleeding, but still standing.
"Hoshiro," she whispered. "Come back."
In the in-between world, Hoshiro raised his blade again.
"Let's see if even void-born gods," he said, "can bleed twice."
—