The whispers spread like a contagion through the cube.

"Your Weave is intricate," Phanthom said, his voice echoing as though a thousand mouths spoke in unison, "but every web is meant to be seen. And I am the shadow on the spotlight, the scandal in the applause"

At his words, some of Rattan's constructs faltered. Their glowing eyes dimmed, their frames trembling as whispers of scorn echoed through them. The more elaborate the construct, the quicker it buckled, vanity feeding into collapse.

Rattan's jaw tightened. His Aetherium Weave was strong, but he realized Phanthom was not attacking his machines directly. He was targeting pieces of himself left in the construct to give them life.

Phantom leaned forward on the throne that had reformed beneath him, his eyes glinting with cruel mirth "Weaving makes you a strategist, yes. But I…" His face shifted again, momentarily wearing Rattan's likeness twisted in mocking grandeur. "…I am the lie your Weave cannot defend against."

The cube's inner world trembled as the Aetherium Weave spread wider, constructs rising higher, their designs growing ever more intricate cathedrals of magi-tech gears and luminous threads controlled them, Rattan learned his lesson as he no longer put his will on the construct.

Rattan's laughter echoed as his machines advanced, overwhelming Phanthom's ghostly form with fire power. Phantom flickered, splintered, distorted as if unraveling beneath the pressure. Chains wrapped tighter, pinning him, while machines stomped forward, their cores blazing with raw power.

"Yes!" Rattan roared, his eyes wild with triumph. "Do you see it now? The Weave answers me, me! With this gift, I can build and unbuild empires! Even you cannot stand against my design!"

Phantom sagged against the chains, his voice faint, almost breaking.

"So strong… so unstoppable…"

The words only fanned the flames of Rattan's ambition. His constructs grew more as they began to tear Phanthom to pieces with each construct swallwing and breaking down the part of phanthom they swallowed.

But he didn't notice the cracks. Not in the constructs. In himself.

The whispers began subtly, echoes behind his triumph.

"A thief of glory, Pretender, Your machines are hollow."

Rattan gritted his teeth, ignoring them, driving his Weave harder. Phanthom's form shattered again, pieces scattering like broken glass. Victory was his, he could feel it. He was winning. He had won.

Phanthom gift and recent clash gave him a greater idea if he could merge his construct with Phanthom's gift, his construct could taken on the form of warriors.

Until the moment the last of Phanthom's fragments was swallowed up at the foot of the throne.

Chains crumbled into smoke. The grand constructs flickered, their light sputtering as though smothered by unseen hands. And there, seated once more on high, was Phanthom. Whole. Untouched.

Rattan staggered. His hands trembled. The glow of the Weave dimmed, the threads retreating like dying embers. He tried to summon them again but nothing came. His reserves were gone, siphoned dry.

Phanthom's eyes met his, cold and utterly unimpressed "All that noise, all that spectacle… and yet you never noticed I was only feeding you rope."

He leaned forward, his voice a whisper that filled the cube "You drowned yourself in your own ambition. Every ounce of strength you thought was cutting me down, was mine from the start. You never overwhelmed me, Rattan."

A cruel smile curved across his lips "You only exhausted yourself for my amusement."

But as the last word faded, Phanthom's figure blurred, unraveling like mist. Rattan's eyes widened, realization dawning at him. The throne was empty. The whispers gone. The battlefield around him, silent.

He was alone.

He had always been alone. Every blow, every triumph, every desperate surge of ambition… all of it had been nothing more than him lashing against shadows of his own making. Phanthom had never truly been there.

Meanwhile, moments earlier…

After Ikenga's hand withdrew with the fruit, Zadkiel had stared at it quietly. He said nothing, though the weight of his gaze lingered. It was then that Zarvok's impish figure emerged from the void, his presence a distortion that bent the air. He cast the angel a brief, dismissive glance before addressing Ikenga.

"You are not going to help your creation?"

Ikenga studied the fruit in his palm, its surface glowing faintly as he answered "If his path ends here, then so be it."

Zarvok smirked, but said no more.

Not long after, Phanthom materialized once more. His ghostly presence drifted into view, and every gaze turned upon him. To the shock of some, he did not gloat, nor strut in triumph. He sank to his knees before Ikenga.

Without a word, Ikenga tossed him the fruit. Phanthom caught it, his hands trembling faintly as his eyes flicked upward to meet his creator's. No words were exchanged, none were needed. He pressed the fruit close, then quietly melted back into Ikenga's shadow, vanishing into the darkness that had birthed him.

Zadkiel and Zarvok now stood across from one another, their eyes locked, glares sharp as blades. It was the old, endless rivalry of angel and demon, played out yet again in this strange theater. Neither moved, neither yielded, both waiting for the other to break first.

It was Zadkiel who finally turned away. His wings unfurled with a sudden brilliance, feathers of light casting their glow upon the ruined moon surface. He looked over to Ikenga and Keles, who sat nearby, the air around them still trembling faintly from the abyssal maw.

With a calmness that belied the tension just moments before, Zadkiel spoke.

"It's about time I take my leave," Zadkiel said, his tone light yet carrying the weight of finality. "There is much to be done… and many yet to punish and judge."

Ikenga inclined his head in acknowledgment. "It has been good, for the short while that I have known you." He extended his arm, an uncommon gesture from one such as him.

Zadkiel hesitated, his gaze lingering on the hand offered to him. After a brief pause, he smiled and clasped it firmly. As their hands met, a single feather of purest light loosened from his wing and drifted down. Zadkiel caught it and, with deliberate care, placed it into Ikenga's palm.

"If you do not mind," Zadkiel said, "I would like to keep in contact with you. In our long immortal lives, it is rare to find one worth meeting. I believe you are such."

Ikenga looked at the feather, its glow soft yet eternal, then closed his hand over it with a silent nod.

Zadkiel's steps carried him next to Keles. Her smile greeted him before he reached out, his hand resting gently upon her stomach. His voice softened "My blessing to the young god within you. May his path be illuminated by light and his grace"

At his touch, Keles felt her son stir and kick, a ripple of life moving within her. She rose, overcome, and wrapped Zadkiel in a warm embrace. He returned it briefly, his eyes softening.

His eyes flicked once toward Zarvok, the faintest glint of challenge in them, before his wings unfurled in full brilliance. With a single motion, he launched skyward. His wings unfurled with a radiant sweep, light spilling across the desolate moon. He beat them once, and as he ascended, reality itself trembled.

For a brief heartbeat, a golden gate manifested high above towering, resplendent, flanked by cherubic figures of light whose faces shone without features. The gate opened with silent grace. Zadkiel rose into its brilliance, his form fading as he passed through.

In the blink of an eye, it was gone. Gate, cherubs, and angel alike. Only the faint shimmer of feathers drifting down lingered, leaving those who had witnessed it to wonder if it had been real at all or merely a vision meant to remind them that heaven's eyes still watched.

Zarvok turned toward him, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips "You sure know how to leave an impression."

Ikenga gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

"I have a likable face, maybe."

Zarvok snorted softly but said nothing more. His gaze shifted downward, to the dying planet below. The abyss had nearly completed its work; what remained of mountains, seas, and cities drifted like scattered ash into the gaping void.

After a moment, his eyes flicked to the moon beneath their feet, the place Ikenga had claimed and shaped with his presence "What do you plan to do with this moon?" Zarvok asked. "With its world gone, it's nothing more than a floating rock."

Ikenga's expression grew thoughtful, his gaze lingering on the barren expanse.

It was then that the plant, the one that had his missing eye, detached itself from where it was and fluttered toward him. Its tiny leaves trembled as though carried by an unseen wind, and the little eye embedded within its stem blinked at him fondly.

Ikenga's face softened, a rare smile curving his lips. He raised his hand, letting the plant drift into his palm. It bent toward him as if in greeting.

Carefully, he plucked the eye and guided it back into place, pressing it into the hollow where it belonged. The eye blinked once, twice, as Ikenga adjusted from the plant's vantage to his own.