The ash withdrew just enough for the survivors to gasp, their bodies heaving in ragged unison. The rhythm still pulsed through them—raw, fractured, but theirs. The boy's glow, though faint, flickered steady against Elara's chest.

Kael forced himself upright, driving his fused blade into the ground like a banner. "We've broken its beat once. If we strike harder, faster, we can drive it back."

The scarred woman wiped blood from her mouth, gripping her spear with trembling hands. "Then let's not give it time to answer."

She slammed her weapon down, igniting sparks. Kael followed with steel, the farmer with his fists, the widow with her voice. Together they forged a new cadence—irregular, jagged, impossible to mimic. A song of scars made rhythm.

For a moment, the fissure recoiled, its shadow twisting uneasily at the chaotic beat.

Then it shifted.

The ground beneath the survivors quivered. From the ash rose figures—parodies of themselves. A farmer with hollow eyes, a widow with a mouth torn wide, a scarred woman whose spear was made of bone. Each moved in time with the survivors' rhythm, every strike mirrored, every beat stolen.

The widow screamed, stumbling back as her hollow reflection raised its hands in perfect mimicry. "It's us—it's using us!"

The rhythm faltered as doubt spread. Every beat they struck now came back doubled, twisted into mockery. Their scars had become instruments for the abyss.

The Unborn's voice slithered through the false choir. "You hand me your chaos, and I give it form. You bleed into rhythm, and I bleed with you. Your scars are mine now."

The boy convulsed, his chant splintering as the echoes pressed in. His glow dimmed, every note torn between the survivors and their reflections.

Elara cradled him tighter, her voice breaking as she pressed her song against his ear. "Do not follow them. You are not their rhythm. You are ours."

Kael staggered forward, locking eyes with his own echo—a hollow soldier, blade fused like his, face charred and empty. The sight drove a knife of terror into his chest. For a heartbeat, his grip faltered.

Then he roared, slamming his blade down with everything left in him. The rhythm cracked—but this time he struck off-beat, deliberately jagged. The echo mirrored the motion but stumbled, its blade striking too late.

Kael's eyes burned. "That's it. Not perfect rhythm. Not a march. Ours is broken, uneven. No echo can follow what was never whole!"

The farmer bellowed, pounding his chest in erratic bursts. The widow screamed, her voice sharp and shattering, refusing harmony. The scarred woman struck wild, her spear's cadence shifting with each breath.

The boy gasped, his chant fracturing into uneven pulses. But the lattice surged with it, jagged light weaving in unpredictable bursts.

The echoes faltered, their mimicry collapsing. The fissure writhed, shadows convulsing in frustration.

The Unborn howled, its voice cracking with fury. "Scarred vermin! You weaponize imperfection? You make discord your shield?"

Kael stood tall, his body shaking, his blade blazing faintly. "Yes. Discord is ours. And you cannot steal what was never whole."

The battlefield shook with fractured rhythm, a storm of scars turned into defiance.

For now, the discord held.