The Curator descended like an apocalyptic hymn given shape. Its body was not flesh, nor metal, but an amalgamation of concepts—towers of knowledge, wings of rewritten scripture, a thousand rotating heads whispering in forgotten tongues. The sky broke around it, not with violence, but with reverence. Reality bowed as if honoring a god too ancient to name.
Valerian stood firm.
His newly-forged blade—a fusion of rebellion and remembrance—glowed in his grip, pulsing with rhythm instead of heat. Each thump was in time with his heartbeat. He was no longer wielding a sword; he was wielding a decision.
Selene's runes twisted midair, rewriting her protective logic shields into self-learning fractals. "If we fight this thing here, we lose the entire sector of this realm. It consumes stability. It makes the ground under us forget it exists."
Kael flared beside her, his flames burning blue now—compressed fury fused with fractured time. "What's the plan, boss?"
