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Braydon Neal's eyes flickered back to their normal state, and the imposing figure behind him seamlessly merged back into his form. 

Yet, the space within the 8th ruin had already collapsed across tens of thousands of miles, leaving half of the world in ruins.

An inexplicable equilibrium settled in; the destruction ceased, yet no automatic restoration followed. 

It resembled the human body itself, resilient enough to endure grievous wounds yet unable to heal on its own.

Half of the 8th ruin lay in ruins, all thanks to the figure's intervention.

"Thirteen, are you okay?" Jaromir Neal approached, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine," assured Braydon, his mind now teeming with additional memories.

Memories of the Thirteenth Master.

Memories of his bloodline heritage.

The former comprised a mere 10% of the total, while the latter claimed the lion's share of 90%.