Atlas felt his essence stretching across a veil thinner than breath, until the pulse of another life became his own.
The sensation was not foreign—it was familiar, hauntingly so. The mana flowing through this new vessel matched the rhythm of his own being.
Each strand of energy thrummed with resonance, not borrowed or stolen, but born of him.
He blinked, and the world reassembled itself in slow motion: the snow of the Second Layer still fell, soft and soundless, swallowing the battlefield's screams beneath its heavy hush. His paws—small, delicate things—pressed into the frost, leaving perfect impressions that steamed faintly as mana seeped from his body into the frozen earth.
He should not have been able to do this. Possession through his [POV Shift] skill was a mental bridge, not incarnation.
His consciousness could move, observe, but never become. Yet here he was—alive through the eyes of the Seed.
