Chaos.
Utter, seething, bone-deep chaos.
The kind that didn't roar or scream but pressed—a crushing, suffocating pressure that settled into the marrow of every living and unliving thing across the layers. Chaos so thick that even sound seemed to shatter when it moved through it.
Atlas felt it first as a tremor beneath his ribs. A small convulsion, barely noticeable to anyone else—yet unmistakable to him. It felt like the fourth layer itself was breathing too fast, panicking, unraveling.
A low hum vibrated through his bones, through the infinite darkness, and through the strange, watery substance that passed for "air" in this part of creation.
He blinked—and the world quaked again.
The shaking didn't stop.
It deepened.
It multiplied.
He tasted iron on his tongue. Not blood—mana. Chaotic, volatile, warped mana that burned like rust and ozone.
Something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
He barely had time to register the shift before a figure slammed into existence before him.
