Noah was done giving THE Riven any more room to talk, to threaten, to offer, to do anything at all. He clapped his hands, once, and the whole of the area blazed alight with his identity.
Everything became his. The fragments of the shattered record, the swirling cerulean rivers, the bound manifestation at their center, all of it bathed in the truth of THE Osmontian Source Infinity, and the refinement began in earnest.
THE Riven hung trapped in the middle of the surging rivers as they spun around it in their slow circular formation, and piece by piece it came apart, flakes of it flicking away one after another and dissolving into the cerulean flow, drawn into Noah, broken down into the raw stuff of his own elevation.
And as it happened, the prompts came.
