The blade sang.
No longer just steel and code, but a voice of its own—humming with echoes of what had been lost.
Each strike tore not just through walls, but through reality's fabric, exposing lies buried in the foundation.
Kira watched with unease. "It's waking up."
"It's not a weapon," Echo said. "It's memory. A key."
The world around them warped. Streets looped. Signs reappeared where they shouldn't. Conversations repeated in stutters.
He slashed through a corrupted doorway—and a staircase unfolded, spiraling into a violet mist.
"You forged the blade from your first memory," Kira said, descending behind him. "From a truth you refused to forget. That's why it cuts lies."
At the bottom stood a door—not locked, but breathing. In its center, a handprint—his own.
"Will it kill me?"
"No. It will show you what they feared you'd become."
He pressed his palm against it.
And stepped through.