The touch of the Primordial Tear was not an experience of sight or sound. It was the experience of Is.
For a timeless moment, Echo was not a man, not a Sovereign. He was the state of being before "self" and "other." He was perfect, peaceful, boundless unity. There was no conflict, because there was no separation to conflict with. It was not bliss; it was completion.
And then the schism tore through him.
It was the most profound agony imaginable—the agony of a perfect thing breaking. The birth of loneliness, of fear, of desire, of ego. He felt the violent birth of Order (the desperate need to control, to structure the broken pieces) and Corruption (the rage at being broken, the hunger to consume other pieces to feel whole again).
He understood them both. He was them both.
And he understood his own anomaly core. It was a tiny, stable piece of the "Is" state that had somehow survived the shattering. His bloodline wasn't just command over life; it was an echo of the Primordial unity from which all life was born.
The vision lasted a nanosecond in reality. He gasped, stumbling back, the Tear snapping back into its null-field. His nose was bleeding, his eyes streaming tears of silver and black.
But he had it. The understanding.
He looked at the Inquisitor-General and saw not a villain, but a terrified child, building rigid walls of rules to keep out the terrifying chaos of the broken world.
He looked at Sybaris and saw not a monster, but a wounded animal, consuming others in a futile attempt to fill the void where its wholeness had been.
He saw the schism in them, and he felt the potential for Synthesis within himself.
The auction was in chaos. Security locked down the hall. They had to leave. Now.