The corridor unfolded into a plane of suspended stone.
Walls dissolved. Ceiling vanished. The pit became a distant echo beneath layers of constructed reality.
The light-wrapped figure did not draw a weapon.
It extended one hand.
A sigil formed—complex, rotating, composed of intersecting lines that did not obey perspective. The mark on Aren's wrist reacted violently, burning with matching geometry.
"Transfer begins," the figure stated.
The sigil descended.
Aren felt something hook into him—not flesh, not bone.
Record.
They were not grabbing his body.
They were rewriting ownership inside the system itself.
He moved before the hook completed.
Instead of resisting the pull, he stepped toward it.
The sigil destabilized.
The figure paused. "Incorrect response."
Aren grabbed the descending construct with his bare hand.
Pain detonated through him.
Not physical.
Categorical.
His identity flickered—fighter, anomaly, registry mark—layers trying to detach and reorganize.
He did not try to hold them together.
He compressed.
The same way he had with force.
Instead of letting the system define him, he condensed the conflicting definitions inward.
The sigil cracked.
A shockwave rippled outward, distorting the artificial plane. The light-wrapped figure stepped back for the first time.
"Self-indexing detected," it said. "Unauthorized."
Aren exhaled through clenched teeth. "You don't own what you can't name correctly."
The sigil shattered.
Fragments dissolved into sparks.
The claim attempt failed.
Below, alarms screamed across unseen layers.
In the chamber of seven seats, several figures rose at once.
"First claimant rejected."
"Impossible."
"Escalation required."