Then he turned to page 15.

“Heresy,” he breathed. But his sword arm ached. He was so tired of the grind.

Instead of the throne room of the God King, Sirid found himself standing in a library. Not a digital archive of QIP tech, but a real library: paper, dust, the scent of forgotten leather. On a pedestal before him rested not a weapon, but a book. Its cover was a mosaic of three symbols: a stylized , a folded page ( M ), and a mountain peak ( P ). The spine read Infinity Blade Redemption and beneath it, in smaller gold leaf: Brandon Sanderson . And finally, the number 15 .

…or is it? The cycle will resume in: 14… 13… 12…

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.

He waited for the reset. The hum in his blood. The click of the universe folding back onto itself.