Leon stared at the brilliance before him.
The Origin defied understanding.
It was infinitely vast and impossibly small, expanding and contracting in a rhythm that made mockery of time.
One couldn't grasp its full form, yet the mind somehow knew what it looked like; the paradox of perfection.
It was creation and destruction.
Beginning and end.
Chaos and order intertwined.
Every art, every soul, every world, all came from Origin.
Leon drifted closer, unable to resist its pull.
The light wasn't blinding, but consuming; it reached into his very essence, peeling back layers of self until he was nothing but awareness. Then, something deep within him stirred, a faint tug, but not from [Attack].
He knew that sensation.
It was his Overlord Talent.
"Mark," he murmured, and the realm responded.
A flood of knowledge tore through him.
Words that weren't words, truths beyond translation.
