Its shell is opalescent, veined with iridescent waves and bluish striations, undulating with countless facets that rise skyward—toward clouds and storm. They distort its reflection, multiplying its image into a thousand furious echoes. Beneath the crystallized bark, polished by the elements, death, and time, it hisses like a caged cobra, writhes like an eel in a tank. Its rage rekindled after years of slumber, the earth quakes beneath its yoke, the skies rumble, while cold currents—polar rain, snow, and hail—seep from the dead world-tree in mist-laden sheets.

Frozen streams spiral around the trunk, entwined whirlwinds pulsing like the breath of some colossal being. They lash against the mountain’s walls, slicing rock and ice, while white lightning braids through fossilized branches, drifting like the sensual arms of a sea anemone.

Atsadi suddenly leaps from the snow-swept ledge, leaving a plume of powder in his wake. Surge coils around his blade, shrouding it in electricity and saturating the air with ozone. For a heartbeat, he hovers midair. Then, like lightning, he plummets, warping gravity to drag him downward. His jian cleaves the trunk from top to bottom in a flash of brilliance, followed by an explosion of sparks and snow as his feet crash to the earth. Shockwave and quake.

Oddball descends like a comet from the heights, charged with Mana. He grazes the cliff’s edge, weaving through tumbling ice and rock, streaking through banks of mist without braking. Toward the tree. Toward his Alterer. On a jagged ledge, Sierra siphons energy from her Alter Ego. Around her, vast gears, pistons, and struts materialize in midair; towering cogs, armored plates, and intricate chassis take shape like a machine assembling itself. The colossal puppet—nearly thirty meters tall—lands in a burst of snow. Like a puppeteer, she pulls its strings, and the Automaton slams down its fist.

As the mineral world-tree trembles at its roots and its branches sway, the Mana Moths—once mimicking its foliage—take flight in a sudden swarm. Their movement is a waltz, a whirlwind of ethereal wings. Specters, fluttering in thick schools, like violet petals caught in the wind.

Crowbar strolls through the illusions without a care in the world, as if they were cigar smoke. The scarecrow trudges on, unfazed by the blasts pocking his frost-dappled leather jacket. In his pumpkin-eyes burn both Fen’s flame and his own. He grabs his guitar, slung carelessly across his back, and strikes the strings with a gloved hand. The sound bursts outward, clearing the snow like a sheet flung over a bed, like a sail billowing in the wind. His riffs fill the air with a terrible resonance that swells into tremors.

With a sweep of her raptorial limb, Orchid slices a boulder in two before it hits Rin. The latter sits cross-legged, eyes closed. But beneath her lids, her pupils dart, tracing the vines of the Skein. She weaves into the dead tree's essence the ideas of fragility, erosion. In the still pond of her mind, she conjures soft, green wood to replace the hard opal and crystal. As a profound sorrow tightens her brow, tears gather at the corners of her eyes—immediately freezing into tiny pearls. Reluctantly, she summons the Eidolon of the Woodsman, who brandishes his axe without delay.

Gulrang circles the tree with slow, steady strides. She removes her gauntlets, letting them fall so her fingers can shape Signs. In the storm-lit gloom, her cerulean eyes glow with near-incandescence as other Alterers inhabit her through the Gestalt. They share her thoughts, divide her focus to act in unison. Debris rains down, but she pays it no mind. Someone inside her—Nimlesh, probably—marks approaching threats with Heka sigils of disintegration. Siong analyzes the Nilam’s structural weaknesses, while Marek, Akboru, and Gulrang herself etch Glyphs across its fossilized surface. She calls for Tocsin and drops to her knees at the tree’s base. The Chimera crashes down behind her, stone-splitting, shielding her as their explosive Glyphs detonate in chorus.

The Nilam shudders, keels under Kuraokami’s hammering blows, its influence radiating outward in rippling pulses. The world-tree reels and groans under the synchronized onslaught of the Exalts. Sunisa clings on as best she can, petrified by the sheer magnitude of rage and ruin around her. She can only bear witness, powerless, as the maelstrom of Mana vitrifies the glacier’s foothills and crumbles the peaks. Overhead, Alter Egos continue their relentless dance. They dive into the Tumult circling the mountain, drawing its energy to feed their Alterers like bees ferrying pollen.

It is a storm within a hurricane: kelonic plasma blasts and gnarled roots, ruptured Mana bonds and searing javelins. Ideas, briefly made manifest, surge in torrents only to vanish back into the Tumult. Supporting Alterers divert some, ensuring they don’t spiral out of control. Others they harvest, recycle, and return to the Exalts in need. For those that slip through, Maw watches—and devours them before they can escape. Slowly, a white veil drapes the summit, a mix of blizzard and vapor.

Suddenly, through the pallid fog, a violet lightning bolt strikes the tree’s crown, radiating down its trunk and limbs. A gust sweeps the fog away in swirling fumes as the world-tree sways like a ship’s mast in a storm... but still it endures.

Sigismar, dazed, sinks to one knee, breath ragged. He stands on a ridge, buffeted by wind. Below, the other Exalts battle on. He lifts his gaze toward the horizon, toward Wingspan riding the Tumult—just as a figure lands beside him. Afanas, of course.

The old mage is stooped, as though shouldering some unbearable weight. His face is as pale as snow, his eyes—sunken, glassy, rimmed with shadows. Residual electricity crackles across his skin, lavender arcs that make his hands tremble erratically after the recent blast.

Sig offers a wan smile. Despite his exhaustion, the elder mage returns it. But the knight’s grin fades as he notices purple blotches marring the Initiate’s skin—like creeping gangrene. He begins tracing a Glyph to halt the spread, but Afanas stills his hand.

‘Save your strength if you still can… I think I’ve pushed mine too far.’

‘It’s the Remanence’, the Aegis soldier says bluntly.

The sorcerer focuses on his labored breath, saying nothing. He doesn’t confirm nor deny.

‘I can’t cast anymore’, he admits at last, nodding at the other Alterer. ‘But let me give you what remains of my power.’

He glances past Sig to his diving griffon, then extends a hand to help him get back on his feet. Sig takes it without hesitation, feeling Mana and Aether seep between their palms.

‘Don’t waste it’, Afanas warns as he lets go. ‘And don’t expect this to become a habit.’

Sig grabs his own wrist, reeling from the raw pain and power now surging through him—untainted Aether from the Empyrean itself. How did the Yzmir endure this? He clenches his jaw, struggling to suppress the forming idea. Suddenly, with a dull crackle, a figure materializes beside him: an old woman with a raptor’s gaze.

‘Fie fie. Tell me, brave boy, do you seek the trial or flee it?’

Baba Yaga grins, all teeth.

‘Let me lend you one last hand’, she says at last. ‘For the true trials are yet to come, and I’ll be needed elsewhere.’

Eyes crackling with power, the paladin raises his hand. He looks back at Wingspan, now folding its wings in a halo of bustling Mana.

Be my spear.

The griffin suddenly transmutes according to the will of its Alter Ego: it becomes a spear, forged from pure, vibrating Kelon. Its beak becomes the spearhead; its feathers and talons, the vamplate and shaft. Sig lets out a roar and summons a sequence of Glyphs along the path of his Chimera: "acceleration," "power," "impact," "discharge"... Every idea he can conjure to turn the strike into a world-ending crash.

The spear hurtles over him, sending snow swirling at his feet. White noise. An incandescent explosion.

Sig collapses face-first, too drained to see if his shot hit its mark. His face sinks into the snow, and he feels the cold kiss against his cheek. He closes his eyes.

In the heart of the valley, the Exalts blink. Some have been thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the collision. Others stare at the trunk now wrapped in blue flames... Suddenly, it begins to crack, fractures snaking like spiderwebs across the surface of the world-tree.

Then, in a shower of sparkling fragments, the bark bursts apart and shatters. Entire sections collapse, sending snow and ice billowing into the air, splintering the glacier. The shockwave buries everything in its path, muffling all sound, blanketing the shattered peak in a pristine white shroud. Like a ghostly veil slowly lifting.

Teija, half-buried in the snow, struggles to catch her breath. Arjun drapes a coat over Rin’s shoulders as Bash slumps onto a floating slab of ice. Basira grabs Kaizaimon’s shoulder to steady her trembling legs, while Akesha digs through the powder to pull Taru free. They all keep their eyes fixed on the tree, whose base now emerges from the fog...

A slender figure suddenly pierces the misty veil, and they all see the dragon — an alabaster serpent — streak through the crevasse in a flash of white light. It rises skyward like an arrow loosed from a bow, like a bird finally freed from its cage.

Auraq smiles, patting Waru’s back before turning away with all the flair of the diva she is. Nevenka, already moving on, hurls a snowball straight at Fen’s face.

Kojo lets himself fall into the snow, utterly exhausted. He didn’t have the strength to stay on his feet anyway. Relieved, he gazes up at the black sky streaked with lightning. Among them, a ribbon of iridescent white dances across the clouds, tracing graceful arcs steeped in freedom. It feels like an invitation to celebrate—but all he can do, in his current state, is make snow angels.