The vision shifted again.
Kael found himself in a quiet chamber, far simpler than the Nexus. Walls of unadorned stone. A memory console humming softly in the center. Rain fell outside in a slow rhythm, visible through a glass wall that shimmered with protective wards.
And there—Rin.
Not a projection. Not a fragment.
The real Rin, in the moments before he chose to forget.
He stood before the console, sleeves rolled, eyes dim with exhaustion. His movements were precise, careful. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't hesitating.
He was resolute.
Kael watched as Rin input the final sequence, sealing the memory lattice from external access. The glyphs flared gold, then faded to black.
Behind him, a familiar voice spoke—Lira, younger, uncertain.
"You don't have to do this."
Rin turned slowly. His face was pale but peaceful.
"I do."
"But you found the answer," she said. "You won. You could make them see."
Rin shook his head.
"No one sees what they're not ready to believe. If I force the truth, I become what I sought to dismantle. And they'll only destroy it all again."
He stepped forward, placing something small into her hand.
"If someone returns," he said, "it has to be someone who carries truth without using it as a sword."
Lira's voice cracked. "How will you know if they're ready?"
Rin smiled faintly.
"I won't. But the world will."
Kael felt something shift.
A thread of memory extended toward him—from Rin, from that final act, into the present.
Rin's choice hadn't been surrender.
It had been trust.
Trust in the future.
Trust in Kael.