The alley shattered.
Not physically.
Interpretively.
For one impossible moment, reality stopped agreeing on which version of the fight was occurring.
Then every version happened at once.
Eryndor ducked.
A blade passed through the space where his throat had been.
Or would be.
Or had already been.
The distinction was becoming increasingly annoying.
The regressor stepped sideways.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Every movement carried the confidence of someone who had died repeatedly and learned from every mistake.
Eryndor immediately hated fighting him.
A punch came from the left.
Eryndor blocked.
The regressor's elbow slammed into his ribs anyway.
Pain exploded through his side.
He staggered backward.
"What—"
The regressor moved again.
"You blocked the first attack."
Another strike.
"You forgot the second."
Impact.
Eryndor nearly lost his footing.
The man wasn't stronger.
That was the worst part.
He simply knew too much.
Every angle.
Every opening.
Every hesitation.
Every likely response.
It was like fighting someone who had already read the outcome.
Across the street, civilians continued moving.
Most couldn't see the fight properly.
Reality itself blurred around the confrontation.
A merchant suddenly frowned.
"...was there always an alley there?"
His friend looked up.
"What alley?"
The merchant blinked.
The alley disappeared briefly.
"...Never mind."
Back inside the fracture zone—
the regressor attacked again.
This time Eryndor anticipated it.
He twisted.
The blade missed.
His fist connected with the man's jaw.
A clean hit.
Physical.
Real.
The regressor stumbled.
Then smiled.
That was somehow more concerning than anger.
"Good."
Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
"You're adapting faster than before."
Eryndor froze.
"...Before."
The smile vanished.
The regressor immediately regretted speaking.
Silence stretched briefly.
Then Eryndor spoke.
"What do you mean before?"
The man's expression hardened.
"I mean nothing."
"You remembered something."
"No."
"You did."
"I didn't."
The argument lasted exactly three seconds.
Then both attacked simultaneously.
The impact sent them crashing through a market stall.
Wood exploded outward.
Fruit scattered across the road.
A woman screamed.
Two men immediately began stealing apples.
Priorities remained healthy in Velkaris Prime.
The regressor rolled across the ground and stood instantly.
No hesitation.
No wasted movement.
Years.
Decades.
Centuries.
Whatever his regression history was—
it showed.
Every motion had been practiced across impossible amounts of experience.
Eryndor stood more slowly.
Blood dripped from his shoulder.
His ribs hurt.
His head hurt.
Reality hurt.
And beneath all of that—
something else was happening.
The golden Threads were appearing again.
Not fully.
Not visibly.
But enough.
Enough for him to feel them.
The world slowed.
Not actually.
Perceptually.
The Threads stretched through everything around him.
Buildings.
People.
Roads.
Moments.
Connections.
For half a second—
he saw movement before it occurred.
Not prediction.
Origin.
A beginning glimpsed before completion.
The regressor attacked.
Eryndor moved.
The blade missed.
For the first time.
Not barely.
Cleanly.
The man's eyes widened.
Just slightly.
Enough.
"You..."
Another attack.
Eryndor avoided it again.
Then again.
Then again.
Not because he was faster.
Because he was seeing something.
Something the regressor didn't understand.
And that terrified him.
Far away—
inside the Scholar Tower—
multiple observation arrays suddenly activated simultaneously.
Scholars jumped from their desks.
"What happened?"
"Another fracture?"
"No."
A younger analyst stared at the readings.
"...something else."
The projections flickered.
Golden patterns appeared briefly throughout the instability zone.
Then vanished.
Lysandor Vehl slowly stood.
His expression darkened.
"...record everything."
Inside the Cathedral of Binding Light—
Seraphine abruptly stopped reading.
The sacred flame before her flickered gold.
Once.
Only once.
But enough.
Her eyes narrowed.
The room felt different.
Not unstable.
Awakening.
Back in the street—
the regressor stepped backward.
Breathing heavily now.
For the first time.
His eyes remained fixed on Eryndor.
Not with hostility.
Recognition.
And fear.
"...Who are you?" he asked quietly.
Eryndor laughed once.
Tired.
Confused.
In pain.
"If I knew, this conversation would be easier."
The regressor didn't smile.
Because something about that answer disturbed him.
Deeply.
For a brief moment—
multiple timelines overlapped around him.
And in every one of them—
he saw the same thing.
Not clearly.
Not completely.
Just enough.
A future.
A possibility.
A catastrophe.
And at the center of it—
Eryndor.
The regressor immediately stepped back.
Not strategically.
Instinctively.
Like prey realizing it had wandered too close to something it didn't understand.
"...No," he whispered.
Then louder:
"No."
Eryndor frowned.
"What?"
The man stared at him.
At the faint golden resonance appearing around the fracture.
At the impossible readings.
At the future fragments he shouldn't have seen.
And for the first time since the fight began—
the veteran regressor looked genuinely afraid.
"...You're not the problem."
The words came out quietly.
Almost unwillingly.
Eryndor's expression hardened.
"Then what is?"
The regressor looked toward the underground layers beneath the city.
Toward something older.
Something connected.
Something waiting.
His face lost color.
And when he spoke again—
his voice sounded like someone remembering a nightmare.
"...I think you're the warning."