Roman was now alone in the center of the war room.
And across from him stood one figure.
Himself.
Same face. Same armor.
But with no shadows, no tricks.
This Roman looked weary. Hollow. Strategic.
A blade with no handle.
The illusion spoke calmly.
"You built yourself to be irreplaceable. But that was a lie."
"They don't need you because you're the smartest. They need you because you're the only one who never looks away."
The real Roman raised his hand.
No weapon.
Just an open palm.
"Then maybe it's time I stopped standing behind everyone else."
"Time I stood with them."
The echo paused.
Then nodded.
And stepped into him.
A rush of memories and heat poured through him—centuries of mental simulations, counter-plans, and hesitations burned away.
Roman's eyes glowed a deep silver-blue.
He reached into the air—and summoned a long, shifting weapon: part spear, part whip, part tactical array of shifting nodes. A weapon that could adapt on the fly—just like his mind.
