"Two months ago," I say, "this fortress bled."
No one moves.
"It bled," I repeat, "because the strongest wards in the world were treated as sacred, not as systems."
"I am not here to shame," I tell them. "I am here to prove a method."
Then I do what I came to do.
I overlay the hall.
A transparent mana-map blooms outward from the dais like a second skin. The amphitheater becomes a living diagram—blue-white veins running through walls, bridges, platforms, the dome. Nodes pulse. Currents spiral. Layered dampening fields appear as faint fogs. The heartbeat lanterns above are suddenly not decorations.
They are organs.
Gasps rise and die.
Even the dignitaries look up in involuntary awe.
It is intimate, this view. Like showing someone their skeleton while they're still alive.
"I can do this," I say calmly, "because Aetherion is built on rules."
I point to a conduit cluster near the western archway. A small flicker shows—barely visible until I highlight it.
