Fenrir lay back on the smooth stone surface of the tower, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed. He wasn't trying to sleep—not really. But habit was hard to kill.
For a while, he simply listened to the faint, melodic rustle of mana in the air, like a song too old for memory. He exhaled slowly and allowed his mind to drift.
Yet sleep never came.
His body didn't tire. His breath remained even, his pulse steady. No muscle cramped, no fatigue settled in his bones.
After nearly an hour of silence, he opened his eyes again and frowned.
"System."
He muttered.
[Yes, Creator?]
"Why can't I sleep?"
A flicker of light danced before his eyes as the system answered, its voice as even and calm as always.
[Your body has transcended human biology. You no longer require rest, food, or water. Your vessel now operates as a divine construct, sustained by pure mana and bound to your world's core. Sleep is obsolete.]
Fenrir sat up, scoffing.
