Laxin's laughter rolled across the horizon like thunder made of flame. His sparks scattered into the wind, streaks of crimson arcing toward the farthest edges of creation. "Then let it grow," he roared, voice full of pride and defiance. "Let the world write its mistakes in fire and mend them in rain. Let it stumble until it learns to dance. Let it dream until the stars themselves take notes!"
The Fifth Path shimmered in response—no longer a single mosaic, but a million refracted echoes, each one alive with the pulse of living stories. In one corner of the world, a sculptor carved statues that breathed when touched by moonlight, each one a confession of her failures turned into beauty. In another, scholars debated the nature of consequence beneath living constellations that shifted to reflect their arguments. A civilization was no longer merely existing—it was conversing with its own heartbeat.
