Ethan stood suspended in the sky, the winds of the Labyrinth Grove whispering through his blazer as his golden eyes stared into the distance. The weight of the memories he'd absorbed swirled within him like gravity—dense, endless, and overwhelming. These weren't tales of victory and honor. No. They were the truths behind creation, war, failure, and transcendence. They were the legacies of the Primordials—the ones who had come before him. His ancestors.
And through these memories, one thing had become glaringly clear:
The power system of the world... was flawed.
Weak. Obsolete.
Compared to what the Primordials once wielded, what the Chosen had awakened into, this world—his world—was fighting with wooden swords against cannons.
Of course, there were outliers. Himself. Those linked to him through blood or spirit. He'd bent the system for them, helped them evolve. But the rest of the world?
"They won't survive what's coming," he muttered.
