Silence lingered.
Nine archways pulsed across the wall, crimson and gold, each a gateway into the next unknowable fold of the Labyrinth.
All eyes stared.
Master Hannibal stepped forward, his golden armor catching the layered glow of Authority as his footsteps echoed through the ruins of the shattered arena.
But instead of entering any of the arches, he turned.
Slowly.
His gaze didn't land on the drinking Master Shen.
Not on the Primarchs.
But directly on Noah.
And then… Sigrid.
His stare wasn't curious.
It was cold.
Heavy.
Disdainful.
To Hannibal, power had shape. Power had gravity. Power was earned through blood, through battle, through sacrifice.
So when he looked at Noah- at the calm smile, the easy posture, the flicker of amusement dancing in those crimson-gold eyes, something inside him ignited.
He hated those who wore confidence like armor but hadn't bled enough to earn it.
False entitlement.
Empty bravado.
Was this man an Originus Venerant? No.
