For a long moment, the only sound was the distant chime of the respawn timer, ready to yank him back to the beginning.
Sirid looked at the Infinity Blade. It hummed with the stored souls of a thousand past Sirids, each one convinced he was the original, each one feeding the endless war.
“Heresy,” he breathed. But his sword arm ached. He was so tired of the grind.
As he read, the world around him pixelated at the edges. The arena became a page. The throne became a paragraph. And Sirid, the last warrior, became a footnote.