Light engulfed Aion, swallowing both breath and thought. For a heartbeat, he felt himself spinning through the void, his mind unmoored, his body weightless. When his eyes opened, the world had changed.
He stood within a boundless, star-strewn expanse where unseen currents rippled through the dark, scattering tiny motes of luminescence that drifted like fireflies in an endless night.
At the heart of this strange space floated a solitary building—not vast, yet not small either—its presence bending perception itself. It hung suspended as though time had forgotten it, its curved roof fashioned from a timber older than memory, etched with runes of some ancient, nameless craft. Though simple in shape, the aura it exuded was sacred, solemn—like a relic that defied decay.
Above its entrance, a weathered plaque shimmered faintly, its words long eroded, veiled in silence. With quiet resolve, Aion pressed his hand against the door and stepped inside.
The shop was hollow, its air thick with the dust of centuries. Rows of wooden shelves stretched away into shadow, their surfaces bare, their purpose long abandoned. Empty jars and fractured enclosures lingered with ghostly outlines—remnants of beasts once caged within, now only whispers in the silence.
Yet the emptiness was not complete. At the far end, where no keeper stood, a lone pedestal awaited. Upon it rested a crystal sphere, faintly veiled in silver mist, pulsing as though with a heartbeat of its own.
As Aion's hand brushed the orb, a tremor rippled through his soul. A resonance—subtle at first, then overwhelming—echoed in every vein of his being. His talent, once dormant and fragile, shuddered awake. It was as if invisible shackles, long clamped upon his essence, shattered one by one. Chains of silence broke into a chorus of power, the fragments dissolving into light that coursed through him.
The sphere flared in response, its brilliance weaving into his marrow, binding itself with his Origin. Aion staggered, his breath caught between awe and dread—he could feel the change, raw and undeniable.
And yet… beneath the storm, he sensed no malice. Only clarity. Only release. It was transformation, not harm. Forcing his heart to steady, Aion exhaled and stilled himself, accepting the surge.
The shop stirred as if roused from eternal slumber. A low hum rolled through its beams; shelves trembled, their dust unraveling into silver motes that shimmered briefly before dissolving into nothingness. The air grew sharp, alive, as wood and stone shed their decay and gleamed as though reborn.
Though barren still, the shop no longer felt abandoned—it pulsed, awake, a vessel waiting to be filled.
The plaque above the entrance straightened with a resonant crack. Ancient runes flared to life, their glow searing through the gloom. Words, once long-erased by time, blazed anew, each letter forged in a light both sacred and ominous.
Then it came—a voice, vast and resonant, metallic yet timeless, as though spoken by both machine and eternity itself:
"Heir of the Bloom… Keeper of Origin… From this moment forth, the Origin Pet Shop is yours to command."
The words struck him like a brand upon his soul, binding and undeniable. The silence that followed was heavy, alive with expectation. Somewhere beyond sight, destiny stirred.