Atlas sat in stillness. Not the meditative kind. Not peace. This was the kind of stillness that wrapped around your spine like a noose, silent, coiled, 'waiting'. The war room was abandoned for the night—candles long since burned down, the hearth cold, scrolls curled in exhaustion on the oak desk—but still, it watched him.
He hadn't moved for minutes now.
Because something was moving inside him.
Not muscle.
Not mana.
Something deeper.
Something older.
And the golden glow of the system interface—ethereal, pulsing—lit his face like a lantern left burning in a crypt. Letters shimmered in front of him like fireflies trapped in amber, each flicker vibrating through his bones like the rumble before an avalanche.
His eyes didn't blink.
His breath didn't shake.
But his soul?
It shifted.
[GENESIS SPARK — Status: Dormant → Initiating…]
"So…" Atlas muttered, voice cracking like a dried branch. "In lamest terms, I'm pregnant with a tree."
