There were two suns in the sky.
One gold.
One red.
Both hanging above a world that should not have held more than one.
Qinglua stood barefoot on a long, endless bridge of obsidian glass — a bridge that reflected the heavens like a mirror. The air was still, too still, as if this place existed outside breath, outside sound, outside time.
This was not Evalia.
This was not Tilbara.
This was not even a dream.
This was the Rift.
And Qinglua had no memory of walking into it.
A soft ripple passed over the glass beneath him. Something — a figure — stood ahead, its silhouette shaped exactly like his own… but taller, sharper, older.
The figure turned.
A man with Qinglua's face.
Another king wearing Qinglua's crown.
Eyes like molten silver.
And when he smiled, Qinglua felt his heart stutter.
"You again…" Qinglua whispered.
"Why do you keep appearing in my dreams?"
The figure walked toward him, perfectly smooth, not a sound made by his steps. When he spoke, his voice was layered — echoing like three people speaking at once.
"Because you did not dream me."
"You remembered me."
Qinglua's chest tightened.
"…Uhayyad," he breathed.
The name left his lips with familiar weight, like something carved into his blood long before he was born.
The man who claimed to be his imaginary twin…
The man who only appeared in dreams…
The man Qinglua never spoke of to anyone…was standing in front of him, as real as the two suns above.
Uhayyad tilted his head.
"You felt it, didn't you?"
"The Rewrite."
Qinglua clenched his fists.
"Something changed the world. But why didn't it change you? Why didn't I forget you?"
Uhayyad raised one hand.
The obsidian beneath them cracked — not breaking, but splitting open like a book of memories.
Fragments of Evalia floated upward:
A mother forgetting her child
Soldiers screaming as names vanished
Ken reaching for Kabe through a storm of silver ash
Reka and Azuma stabilizing collapsing identities
Lily watching from the shadows Arcana holding her crystal
And the second Trail burning red across the sky
Qinglua staggered as the vision passed through his skull.
He tasted iron.
His mark — the fractured sun — burned under his skin.
Uhayyad spoke softly, almost kindly:
"You were untouched."
"Because you are bound to the oldest Trail."
Qinglua shook his head, backing away.
"No… that can't be true. I'm just—"
"A king?"
Uhayyad finished for him.
"No. Not just that."
He stepped closer.
Qinglua couldn't breathe.
"You are the heir of the First Trailwalker."
"You carry a throne forgotten by history."
"And now, Qinglua…"
Uhayyad leaned in, whispering into his ear—
"The world remembers you."
The obsidian bridge shattered.
The two suns collided overhead.
A scream tore through the Rift — Qinglua's own voice? Or someone else's?
Everything split into light and shadow.
And then—
He fell.
Fell through memories.
Fell through time.
Fell through versions of himself that never lived.
Fell toward a voice calling his name.
"Your Majesty—wake up!"
Qinglua jolted upright in his bed, drenched in sweat, hand clamped over the burning mark on his palm.
Reka and Azuma stared at him in fear.
"Are you alright? The palace shook—something entered the Rift again—"
Qinglua shook his head.
"No… not entered," he whispered.
He remembered Uhayyad's final words.
His voice trembled.
"Something…
returned."
He didn't look at the window.
He didn't want to see it again.
But he couldn't help it.
Outside —
still burning across the sky —
two Trails glowed.
One gold.
One red.
Two suns
for a world that was only ever meant to have one.