The silence after the battle was not peace.
It was 'preparation'.
Not even the dead sky dared to breathe.
The GUIDE stood alone atop the last flickering shard of Dream-real estate—a trembling bubble of what once might have been a mountain or a memory. The structure shifted beneath his feet with every thought. Clouds drifted like regrets, and the light above pulsed dimly, as if ashamed to still exist.
Atlas's body clung to him like wet silk.
Elegant. Human. Breaking.
The seams were fraying. He felt it in his spine, in the ache behind the eyes, in the glitch that trembled along the nerves—not pain, no. Just the soft tickle of inevitability.
A 'system whisper', gentle and cruel.
[Soul Resonance Reaching Limit Threshold – Host Reclamation Imminent]
The Guide didn't flinch.
He merely sighed.
Not with anger. Not with urgency.
But with the hollow exhale of a being who had seen every cycle end the same way.
