Elius stared at Keith, eyes glowing faintly beneath the darkened lights of the fractured dome.
Then, without warning, he leaned back and spoke—not with force, but with a strange softness, like someone whispering to a reflection on water.
"Let me tell you a story," he said.
Keith furrowed his brows but remained silent.
"It starts with a boy," Elius continued. "Just a boy. No powers. No legacy. No cult of followers whispering about divine blood. No system screens blinking in front of his eyes. Just… a boy. And his mother."
His voice took on a nostalgic lilt.
"They lived in a tiny apartment. The walls were cracked. The ceilings leaked. The lights flickered when the rain was heavy. They didn't have much, but the boy didn't care.
"He had warm rice in his bowl and warm arms wrapped around him every night. His mom always smiled. She sang off-key while cleaning, she danced while folding clothes, and she always, always, looked at her son like he was the whole damn universe."
