He opened the book. The text shimmered, not with ink, but with lines of living light—scenes from a thousand of his previous loops. He saw himself slaughtering the same guards, breaking the same seals, absorbing the same dark QIP into his blade. Over and over. A prison of progress.
“What trickery is this?” Sirid whispered, his gauntleted hand still tight on the blade. He opened the book
Then Sirid drove it point-first into the marble floor. The blade screamed—a chorus of a thousand trapped warriors—and shattered into shards of white light. The QIP within him dissolved like morning frost. Over and over
He read on. Page 15 described a ritual. Not of combat, but of release . To shatter the Infinity Blade not on an enemy’s neck, but on the ground. To refuse to absorb the QIP. To let the last Deathless live. Then Sirid drove it point-first into the marble floor