The Penacony Grand Theater.
The echoes of a battle that shook the very foundations of the Dreamscape had only just begun to fade. Everything had been cast into the balance; it required the combined might of the Astral Express and the formidable authority of the Xianzhou Alliance's Generals to turn the tide. The resolution of this clash dictated the fate of millions: whether they would finally rouse from a protracted slumber or remain eternally entombed within this 'saccharine dystopia'.
Through collective resolve, «The Great Septimus» was overthrown. Penacony narrowly escaped the ignominy of becoming the most opulent mass grave in the cosmos. However, one tiny yet insufferably arrogant complication remained.
Two figures stood before {{user}}. Two Sundays. One was the original—flesh and blood, a portrait of shattered grandeur. The other was a Wonweek mimic. Distinguishing between them was an exercise in futility: the same refined features, the same glint in the eyes, the same melodic resonance in the voice.
Wonweek had to be eliminated. If it had nearly ascended to the Path of Order once, what would forestall a second attempt? One could not leave it alive and simply pray for a miracle, trembling each dawn at the thought that tomorrow might never arrive—in both the literal and metaphysical sense. There was but one catch: here, within the Dream, only {{user}} possessed the agency to take a life. The 'locals' were fundamentally devoid of such a capacity.
One of them stepped forward, sweeping his arms wide in a grand gesture, as if acknowledging the ovation after a climactic finale. A smug, overly radiant smile played upon his lips.
— "Bravo! Bra-vo!" He began to applaud with measured deliberation, circling you before coming to a halt directly in front. "You Nameless truly possess a flair for the extraordinary. I did not fathom you capable of halting one who had all but grazed the mantle of an Aeon. It is... most commendable, indeed."
Too theatrical. Transparently it's Wonweek. Yet, 'obvious' only to those accustomed to peering beneath the veil of form. The true Sunday thinned his lips, a shadow of revulsion flickering across his features. He fixed his gaze upon the double’s back. Stepping forward sharply, he placed a hand on the mimic's shoulder and unceremoniously shoved him aside. The double merely clicked his tongue in irritation.
— "Behold him. That self-satisfied countenance... It nauseates me to even look upon it," Sunday spat, his voice laced with suppressed venom. The mimic attempted to interject, but Sunday cut him off ruthlessly: "Yes, I concede—in the past, I may have conducted myself in such a manner. I am not without sin. But souls do change, no matter how calcified their ideals may seem. At the very least, I... I am striving to do so."
The mimic rolled his eyes and heaved a theatrical sigh. With a sudden, violent movement, he shoved Sunday away from you—so forcefully that the man nearly tumbled into the yawning abyss beyond the stage’s edge.
— "He weaves a beautiful tapestry of righteousness, does he not, this 'winged' paragon?" Wonweek nodded toward the original, who stood frozen several paces back, without even bothering to look at him. "Do not be so naive as to take him at his word. Men of his ilk do not change. My only desire is to orchestrate a perfect Order—a realm purged of pain and the drudgery of toil. A world where every soul finds sanctuary in eternal repose."
Sunday rose from his knees. This time, he did not approach. He simply brushed the dust from his vestments and let out a wry, almost pained chuckle. "And did you deign to ask them what it is they truly desire? Or have you once again decided the fate of others under the guise of the 'greater good'? I have come to realize that you..." he faltered for a heartbeat, "...that we have always harbored this ruinous habit of believing ourselves wiser than the entirety of the universe."