The void breach throbbed around Riven like a gaping wound hacked into the shadowed realm’s dying flesh, a cavern of shadow and violet chaos pulsing with a sick, erratic heartbeat, its walls slick with oozing tar, a living hell that crushed his lungs with every snarling, desperate breath he tore from its rancid maw. Black sand churned beneath his boots, a jagged tempest of glass and ash slashing his legs to ribbons, a ground that bucked and snarled like a beast in its death throes, a feral trap clawing at his flesh, starving to drag him into its festering guts. The air was a thick, toxic shroud—rot, blood, and a sour, metallic sting that seared his throat raw, a choking sludge that coated his lungs with every guttural roar, a stench that screamed of voidspawn gore and the abyss’s unending hunger, a warning of the slaughter he’d wade through to reach her.

  Riven faced the puppet-Lyra, the Archive Shard gripped in his left fist like a goddamn lifeline, its golden runes blazing with a feral, unhinged light, a wildfire scorching the dark, a searing heat that blistered his palm bloody, a beacon trembling with her voice—“Riven… you failed…”—a twisted taunt that ripped his soul apart, a lie he’d kill to silence, a vow etched into his breaking bones. His sword hung heavy in his right, its edge notched and dripping with black ichor, Shadow Strike smoldering along its length like a fucking inferno, a crescent of void energy pulsing with his rage, a blade forged in the furnace of his heart and baptized in the blood of this shithole, a weapon that screamed her name with every savage swing, a promise to tear her from this hell or die clawing its throat out. His cloak streamed behind him, a shredded rag soaked in sweat and gore, clinging to his back like flayed flesh, stained with the filth of every fight, every loss, every goddamn tear he’d bled for her, a weight he’d haul through this abyss to feel her light again.

  His life force roared inside him, a feral ember clawing against the void’s suffocating grip, a flame dimmed by grief and breaking under exhaustion, a wild spark fed by the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his torn shoulder, a dark pulse pounding through his veins like a war drum gone berserk, keeping him upright when his body begged to shatter into the dust. His stamina was ash, a ghost crushed to nothing, every move a snarl, his lungs a furnace of fire and blood, his chest heaving with raw, jagged will, a man running on the last scraps of his soul, fueled by her voice—real or not—alone. Black veins throbbed beneath his skin like a living storm, pulsing wild and untamed, shadow surging through him in violent, unrelenting waves, a power that steadied his trembling hands, a tide of wrath that drowned the dark, a beast he’d unleashed to reach her, fuck the consequences.

  The Veilborn Interface burned at the edge of his vision, its obsidian frame shuddering like a predator breaking its cage, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption shredding his soul, a warning screaming through his skull—Corruption Critical: Threshold Breached—a feral roar in his mind, a toll he’d pay in blood, bone, and fucking sanity to save her, a price he’d ram down the void’s throat, a man too shattered to care as long as her light still flickered somewhere in this chaos. Let it take him—let it rip him apart—he’d claw through this hell with his last breath for her, corruption be damned.

  The puppet-Lyra towered before him, a grotesque shadow-twist of her form, her face a hollow mockery—pale, eyeless sockets glowing violet like twin hellfires, her mouth a gaping maw of whispers—“Riven… weak…” “Riven… alone…” “Riven… dead…”—a hollow choir swelling from its depths, a flood of taunts that clawed his mind, a lie that stabbed his chest, a torment that broke his heart wide open. Its body writhed, a mass of tendrils and jagged spines, shadow dripping like tar, a void-born nightmare feeding on his despair, a predator laughing at his pain, a fucker he’d rip apart with his bare hands if he had to. Riven’s snarl ripped free—“You’re not her, you piece of shit!”—a roar of rage and heartbreak, his sword slashing blind, tears streaking his blood-soaked face, a warrior lost in the choir’s dirge, a man fighting to prove her real.

  The Veilborn rallied behind him, their shadows a jagged, battered line against the void’s relentless madness, a band of survivors forged in fire and teetering on collapse, their blades slick with ichor, their cries ragged and fierce. The scarred warrior limped forward, blood pouring from his leg in thick, red rivers, his longsword trembling in his grip, its steel glinting cold and cruel, his growl a steady anchor—“Kill the fucker!”—a rock breaking but unbowed, a man clawing through the storm. The young Veilborn clutched his bleeding side, red soaking his torn cloth, his short blade shaking, his eyes wide with terror and defiance, his voice a cracked sob—“She’s real—I know it!”—a kid drowning in the dark, clinging to her light. The woman gripped her blade, her arm bruised and trembling, her scowl twisting into a feral grimace, her eyes burning with guilt and fury—“End this shit!”—a storm clawing her soul back, a warrior forged in blood and tears.

  The puppet lashed out, tendrils whipping through the air like black razors, shadow cracking against the sand, a strike aimed at Riven’s chest, a deathblow mocking his pain. He warped, shadow tearing through space, a flicker that shredded his last gasp, landing to its flank, his sword slashing Shadow Strike, a crescent of void ripping through its hide, ichor spraying hot and black across his face, a scream tearing from his throat—“Lyra’s mine, you fuck!”—a vow that shook the abyss, a man possessed by her call, his arms jolting with the strike, a brutal shock that cracked his bones, corruption surging wild, black veins throbbing like a heartbeat gone feral.

  The puppet shrieked, a hollow, echoing wail, its tendrils flailing, shadow whipping for the Veilborn, a predator feeding on their fear. Riven roared, warping again, shadow ripping him atop it, his stamina ash, his sword plunging Shadow Strike into its spine, a surge of void erupting in a cascade of black ichor, a critical blow that buckled it, a scream shaking his soul—“I’ll kill you!”—corruption flooding his veins, black veins pulsing thicker, a man breaking to kill the lie, his body trembling, blood and ichor mixing, a warrior teetering on collapse.

  The scarred warrior swung, his blade hacking a tendril mid-strike, ichor splashing his face, his growl fierce—“Die, you bastard!”—a rock holding the line, blood mixing with black ooze, a man fighting through the pain. The young Veilborn thrust wild, his blade piercing the puppet’s flank, red and ichor spilling, his cry raw—“For her!”—a kid breaking but unbowed, his shadow flickering with grit. The woman slashed, her blade severing a tendril, her snarl sharp—“Fuck you!”—a storm clawing back her soul, ichor streaking her hands, a warrior burning through the dark.

  The puppet thrashed, its shriek rising to a fevered pitch, tendrils flailing in a desperate frenzy, a dying beast clawing at its killers, its maw gaping wide—“Riven… die…”—a psychic lash that clawed their minds, a force that staggered the Veilborn, a nightmare feeding on their despair. Riven’s chest burned, corruption whispering—Take it, take it—a temptation surging through him, power flooding his veins, a dark tide he couldn’t fight. He roared, shadow exploding from him, Veil Resonance igniting, five spectral shadows bursting forth, their blades slashing with void-born fury, tearing into the puppet, ichor raining, a rush of experience fueling his breaking body, a man sacrificing his soul to end it.

  The shadows carved deep, their strikes a chorus of death, two shattering under tendrils, their essence scattering, but the rest pressed on, relentless, a legion born of his will. Riven swung again, Shadow Strike slashing its chest, ichor erupting, his scream feral—“Lyra, I’m here!”—his arms buckling, corruption surging thicker, black veins choking his heart, a man breaking apart, a warrior bleeding for her. The puppet staggered, its choir fracturing—“Riven… weak…”—a fading taunt, a lie crumbling under his rage.

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  The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that threw Riven back, sand and shadow blurring, his shoulder screaming, his body collapsing, corruption flooding him, a roar of agony and fury shaking his frame. The puppet fell, a plume of shadow rising, its form dissolving, Lyra’s real voice cutting through—“Riven… help…”—faint, pleading, a spark that dragged him from the edge, tears streaking his blood-soaked face, a man shattered but alive, a vow to reach her burning in his chest.

  The Veilborn stood, their shadows battered but fierce, blades dripping with ichor, their breaths ragged snarls, their trust in Riven a weight that steadied his trembling hands, a bond bleeding but unbroken, a team forged in blood and fire, ready to follow him into the abyss.

  The void breach shuddered around Riven like a dying beast gutted and left to rot, its walls of shadow and violet chaos pulsing with a sick, faltering rhythm, a cavernous maw oozing with tar and despair, a living hell that clawed at his soul with every ragged, snarling breath he ripped from its rancid jaws. Black sand churned beneath him, a jagged sea of glass and ash slashing his crumpled form, a ground that writhed and snapped like a corpse in its final throes, a feral trap clawing at his flesh, ravenous to drag him into its festering depths and bury him forever. The air was a thick, toxic shroud—rot, blood, and a sour, metallic sting that burned his throat raw, a choking sludge that coated his lungs with every guttural gasp, a stench that screamed of voidspawn gore and the abyss’s endless hunger, a testament to the slaughter he’d carved and the price he’d paid in blood and bone.

  Riven lay sprawled in the sand, the Archive Shard slipping from his left fist, its golden runes flickering like a dying flame, a feral light guttering in the dark, a searing heat that had blistered his palm bloody, a beacon trembling with Lyra’s voice—“Riven… help…”—a faint, pleading cry that pierced the chaos, a spark that dragged his breaking soul from the edge. His sword lay beside him, its edge notched and slick with black ichor, Shadow Strike smoldering faintly along its length like a dying ember, a crescent of void energy fading with his strength, a blade forged in the furnace of his rage and baptized in the blood of this shithole, a weapon that had screamed her name with every savage swing, a vow to rip her from this hell now trembling in the dust. His cloak pooled around him, a shredded rag soaked in sweat and gore, clinging to his back like flayed flesh, stained with the filth of every fight, every loss, every goddamn tear he’d bled for her, a weight that pinned him to this abyss as his body gave out.

  His life force flickered inside him, a feral ember clawing against the void’s suffocating grip, a flame dimmed by grief and shattered by exhaustion, a wild spark drowning in the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his torn shoulder, a dark pulse pounding through his veins like a war drum gone silent, barely keeping him alive as his body screamed to die. His stamina was ash, a ghost crushed to nothing, every breath a snarl, his lungs a furnace of fire and blood, his chest heaving with raw, jagged will, a man broken on the last scraps of his soul, fueled by her voice—real, fragile, alive—alone. Black veins throbbed beneath his skin like a living storm unleashed, pulsing wild and untamed, shadow surging through him in violent, unrelenting waves, a power that had steadied his hands now choking his heart, a tide of wrath that drowned him in the dark, a beast he’d fed to kill the lie.

  The Veilborn Interface burned at the edge of his vision, its obsidian frame shuddering like a predator clawing free, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption shredding his soul, a warning screaming through his skull—Corruption Overload: System Failure Imminent—a feral roar in his mind, a toll he’d paid in blood, bone, and fucking sanity to destroy the puppet, a price he’d ram down the void’s throat, a man too shattered to care as long as her light still flickered somewhere in this chaos. Corruption flooded him, black veins pulsing thicker, a dark tide whispering—Take it, take it—a promise of power, a seduction he couldn’t fight, a beast clawing his mind, his body, his soul, a man teetering on the edge of ruin.

  The Veilborn surged around him, their shadows a jagged, battered line against the void’s relentless madness, a band of survivors forged in fire and scrambling to hold what was left, their blades slick with ichor, their cries ragged and fierce. The scarred warrior dropped to his knees beside Riven, blood pouring from his leg in thick, red rivers, his longsword clattering to the sand, its steel glinting cold and cruel, his growl a steady anchor—“Get the fuck up, Riven!”—a rock breaking but unbowed, a man clawing through the storm to drag him back. The young Veilborn stumbled forward, red soaking his torn cloth, his short blade trembling in his grip, his eyes wide with terror and defiance, his voice a cracked sob—“She’s calling—don’t stop now!”—a kid drowning in the dark, clinging to her light, his hands shaking as he grabbed Riven’s arm. The woman knelt at his side, her arm bruised and trembling, her blade sheathed but stained, her scowl twisting into a feral grimace, her eyes burning with guilt and fury—“You don’t die here, you bastard!”—a storm clawing her soul back, a warrior forged in blood and tears, her hands pulling at his cloak.

  The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that staggered the Veilborn, sand and shadow blurring, a hell trembling with the puppet’s death, Lyra’s voice cutting through—“Riven… help…”—faint, pleading, a thread pulling his heart, a spark that reignited his fire. His chest burned, corruption surging wild, black veins throbbing like a heartbeat gone berserk, a roar of agony and fury shaking his frame—“I’m not done!”—a man clawing back from the edge, tears streaking his blood-soaked face, his hand grasping the shard, its light flaring anew, a warrior breaking but alive.

  The scarred warrior hauled him up, blood dripping from his leg, his growl fierce—“She’s close—move your ass!”—a rock steadying him, his grip iron, a bond forged in blood holding fast. The young Veilborn clung to his arm, red spilling from his side, his voice a cracked yell—“We’re with you—for her!”—a kid fighting through the pain, his shadow flickering with grit, a spark of hope burning bright. The woman yanked his cloak, her snarl sharp—“Get up or I’ll drag you!”—a storm burning through her guilt, her eyes blazing, a warrior pulling him from the abyss, a team refusing to let him fall.

  Riven staggered to his feet, the shard’s light searing his palm, Lyra’s voice—“Riven… now…”—a desperate scream that tore his chest open, a call he’d kill for, a vow etched into his soul. His sword trembled in his grip, Shadow Strike reigniting along its edge, a crescent of void flaring with his rage, a blade that roared her name, a weapon to carve her freedom from this hell. Corruption surged thicker, black veins pulsing wild, a dark tide flooding his body, whispering power—Take it, take it—a temptation he spat at, his snarl feral—“Not yet—she’s mine!”—a man breaking but unbowed, a warrior fueled by her light.

  The breach warped around them, walls pulsing like a dying organ, a tunnel stretching deeper, the hum faltering, Lyra’s voice a beacon in the chaos, a thread pulling them forward. Voidspawn stirred in the haze, twisted fucks of shadow and claw, their violet eyes gleaming hunger, a pack clawing from the dark to feast on their despair. Riven roared, shadow tearing through him, Shadow Strike slashing blind, ichor spraying, a rush of experience fueling his breaking body—“I’ll reach you!”—a man possessed, his team’s blades flashing behind him, a band of survivors clawing through hell, their cries raw and fierce.

  The scarred warrior swung, his blade hacking a voidspawn’s maw, ichor splashing his face, his growl steady—“Keep going!”—a rock holding the line, blood mixing with black ooze, a man fighting through the storm. The young Veilborn thrust wild, his blade piercing a voidspawn’s flank, red and ichor spilling, his cry jagged—“For Lyra!”—a kid breaking but alive, his shadow burning with defiance. The woman slashed, her blade severing a tendril, her snarl fierce—“Fuck this place!”—a storm clawing back her fire, ichor streaking her hands, a warrior forged anew.

  The breach pulsed, a tunnel narrowing ahead, Lyra’s voice—“Riven… please…”—a desperate scream, the void’s whispers fading, a trap tightening, a hell they’d conquer or die in. Riven’s crimson eyes blazed through tears, the shard’s light a spear in the dark, corruption surging, a warrior rising from ruin, a vow to reach her or die screaming her name, a man bleeding for blood, for love, for her.