The sounds of booms shook the endless Nebula as Mythara and the Simulacrum, blitzed through the space. Mythara's physical abilities have risen tremendously over the past 2 years. If he was allowed to use his abilities in the fight he was sure he could have taken down this Simulacrum multiple times at this point.

However, the same rules did not apply to his training partner. The nebula quaked with each thunderous impact. Mythara surged forward, the Nebula bending and warping around his frame. Light fractured in his wake, leaving behind shimmering silhouettes—half-formed echoes of himself that flickered like broken glass. Each afterimage seemed to stretch and dissolve, as though the space itself couldn't decide which version of him was real.

His fist crashed toward the simulacrum's midsection. The blow was met with a clang of steel-on-bone as the scythe intercepted, with its pole. The shockwave rippled outward. But with an elegant twist of its weight the construct parried. With merciless instinct it multiplied the pull of gravity around Mythara.

The polearm carved a diagonal arc. Mythara, ignoring the crushing weight on his body, seized the shaft, and launched a kick. His heel hammered the construct's midsection, hurling it across the void.

The Simulacrum spun through the nebula, steadying midair. Its head tilted unnaturally, eyes of starfire locked on its target. Still gripping the scythe, Mythara sneered.

"So many flaws… why didn't I see them before?"

The construct moved with echoes of Cefketa — the budding scythe-style Mythara remembered from the Fury of Dreams. Cefketa had once taken up a scythe as nothing more than a diversion, a curiosity to fill his endless repertoire. Yet even then, Cefketa's mind never stopped chiseling at perfection. Every flourish, every feint, every brutal hook of the blade was another line carved into a style uniquely his. But it was still in its infancy. It was still flawed.

Mythara could see it now—each motion of the simulacrum carried the echoes of Cefketa's hands. The precision unsettled him. To face this copy was to fight not merely an opponent, but the ghost of Cefketa himself. A flawed obsolete visage, of the creature who all but molded him. Mythara was tired of chasing ghosts, and would perfect what he had not.

Mythara shifted stance, weight coiled on his back leg, right hand raised near his ear. His left arm extended over his left leg. The scythe's pole balanced loosely in his palms.

"Come."

The Simulacrum conjured a second scythe from raw nebular energy and lunged.

The Tiny Tots lingered at the edge of the Nebula's training field, their faces lit by the strobing light of clashing weapons. The Hoarder gnawed absently at his thumb, eyes darting from strike to strike. Siren folded her arms but kept leaning forward unconsciously, the pull of the battle impossible to ignore. Shango stood loose and relaxed, though his smirk betrayed the spark of excitement in his chest.

Even Amaterasu's gaze lingered longer than she'd admit, her arms folded tight across her chest like a shield. They had been pouring themselves into Systems, into theory and practice—but compared to Mythara's raw clash, their own progress felt suddenly fragile.

"We'll never close the physical gap, will we?" Siren murmured.

"No," the Wanderer said, voice patient but heavy. "Nor should you try. Their bodies were forged indestructible, their knowledge infinite. But your minds… are malleable, untamed, endlessly creative. Lean into that."

"But Kenji…" Bloody Mary's eyes narrowed. "He has the mind of a human—yet the body of a dragon."

The Wanderer's gaze drifted toward Mythara, still locked in combat. A faint sigh escaped him. "Yes. Which is why, unfortunately, he remains my greatest masterpiece."

"Unfortunately?" The Conductor arched an eyebrow.

"He is the finest of my works, but only an echo of another's design." The Wanderer's eyes lost themselves in the stars as the clash intensified.

Amaterasu broke the silence. "Right now isn't the time to worry about that. We need to prepare for the U.N."

"A waste of time," The Conductor snapped. "You heard Selistar. Sensei will push for war regardless."

Shango smirked. "Since when do you take Devin at his word? Before stasis you were planning to overthrow him."

"And I still intend to. If I am to lead us into battle, I must command all our forces."

"You don't need control to command," Amaterasu countered sharply. "You need their respect."

For a moment the Conductor glared at her, irritation flashing in his eyes before he turned away. "We'll see."

The conversation shifted as the clash in the nebula thundered behind them.

"Whether you trust Selistar or not doesn't matter," the Conductor said flatly. "Do any of you really believe Sensei won't try for war?"

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Silence hung over the group.

Shango drummed his fingers against his thigh once, twice, before stilling them. Siren opened her mouth as if to answer, then bit down on the words and looked away.

Shango finally broke it. "Two years, mate. I don't think he's still holding a grudge against all humanity. Not like before."

Mirage shook his head. "Maybe not. But he'll search for a reason to justify it. If he truly does want war."

"Then we make sure he never finds one," Amaterasu declared, her voice firm.

"Easier said than done," the Conductor muttered.

"War's easy," Shango shot back. "Peace takes work. Especially when you don't have the firepower to enforce it."

"That's why strength matters more than politics," The Conductor growled.

"One year isn't enough to close the gap," Amaterasu pressed. "Do you think we're ready to face the Numbers of Veridahn? Or the Basilisks? The older monsters? Even the Seats?" Her voice rose with each name.

"She's right," Mythara said, his steps dragging as he rejoined them. Mythara's clothing hung in tatters. Yet despite the battered state of his body, his eyes burned with focus. The Simulacrum, though already beginning to knit its wounds back together, bore dents and gouges across its frame—a silent testament that Mythara had forced it to "bleed".

He continued, voice steady. "Firmatha Sangaur crawls with ancients—monsters even the Seats whisper about. I once glimpsed the Basilisk King and his Gorgon consort; their gaze alone nearly drowned me in stone. The Leviathan commander moves like the tide itself, more terrible than his wife who already rules as the strongest Seat. And Vaerros… Titan Orc, Third Seat… I've felt his blows. They shook the marrow in my bones. Even Cefketa and I can't topple him. Not yet."

His words landed like lead. The group fell quiet, the weight of Mythara's reminder crushing their earlier bravado. The Seats alone were enough to send shivers, but there were even greater threats, who sought not power, but simply survival.

The Conductor's jaw tightened. "So we just roll over? Do nothing?"

"No," Mythara snapped. "But we don't rush headlong into a war we can't win. Focus, Watabe."

Mythara shouted, and The Conductor stared at him. The rage in his eyes slowly faded away.

"I get it. I went through the same thing when I… changed. The only difference was I had an outlet… Cefketa, and Nina helped me to understand myself at least a little." Mythara explained.

The Trinity's evolution was not uniform—it had etched itself differently into each of them.

Amaterasu's change had birthed a paternal instinct, a love so deep it sought to shield and guide, even at the cost of herself. Shango's awakening had given him sacrifice—the will to bleed so others would not, to be the pillar on which his people leaned.

But Watabe, the Conductor, was the most dangerous. His instinct was protection, yes—but twisted into its most ruthless form: domination. To him, safety meant subjugation, control, the crushing of all external threats before they could ever reach his own. In calmer times, his cold logic could have tempered it. But the stress of a coming war had stripped that restraint away. Now instinct was steering him, and instinct was merciless.

"Think Watabe! What the hell do you think you're going to accomplish fighting an unwinnable war?"

"We can win!" The Conductor shouted.

"A year isn't enough time." Mythara barked back.

"It's plenty if we don't waste our time trying to convince the U.N."

"So what do you want to do instead?" Mythara asked.

"Bring them to heel. Make them answer to us, not the other way around. Let them know they are not the ones in control." The Conductor's voice dripped with certainty. Mythara's eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat, he saw not Watabe standing there, but Aron—towering, cruel, demanding obedience from all beneath him. The comparison seared through him like acid. His chest tightened at the memory of battles fought because of that fool.

The only difference? Aron was incompetent. Watabe's competence was not up for debate, his authority could not be questioned. But this made the situation even more dire. He needed to reign The Conductor in. Even if it meant fighting all of them.

Mythara's eyes narrowed. "So you want to be Aron?"

"How dare you compare me to him!" The Conductor's aura flared, lightning crackling in the nebula. Space itself trembled.

"You're acting like him," Mythara said coldly. "In over your head, ready to throw everyone into the fire against enemies you can't beat."

"I don't hide in the back like that coward. I lead from the front, lizard." The Conductor stepped closer, voice low and venomous.

"Then you'll die at the front, mud-monkey," Mythara spat back. The void between them quivered under their clashing wills.

"You've been an obstacle since the day you became a Zero," the Conductor growled.

"And you've been a pain in my ass since the first time we met."

The air crackled as tensions grew, the space between them vibrating with the clash of will alone. Mythara's knuckles popped as he made a tight fist. The Conductor's aura sparked, each crackle of lightning whispering that his control was slipping.

"You hold us back," Watabe snarled. "You were born chained... Afraid of what you could be. And now trying to stop what we can be."

Mythara stepped forward, his eyes blazing rose-gold. "And you were born hollow. Desperate to matter, even if it means ruling ashes." His words hit like a lash, but the Conductor only leaned in closer, sparks dancing across his jaw. They teetered there on the edge, a single breath away from violence—until Shango finally raised his voice, trying to cut through the storm.

Shango lifted a hand, trying to cut the tension. "Alright, you two, how about we—"

The Conductor struck first. Lightning wreathed his fist as it crashed across Mythara's jaw. The nebula ruptured with a thunderclap, stars rippling like water as Mythara's body streaked away.

"Bloody hell!" Shango cursed, launching after them. Amaterasu and the others followed.

In the shadows of the nebula, the Wanderer watched, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His smile was a knife's edge—half pride, half cruelty.

He had not merely expected this clash; he had engineered it. From the moment they had awakened, planting seeds of doubt and conflict like a rot.

Amaterasu was the Soul of the True Persequions. Shango, its Heart. The Conductor—its swollen, dangerous Ego. And Egos… must be shattered.

The hammer was already in place. His Masterpiece would do the work for him. For if this Ego was not broken, it would break everything else in turn.

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