But Max was not like the others. He had always walked paths that were deemed impossible. His heart was steady. His will was absolute.
The aura around him began to shift. A faint, ethereal light rose from his skin—silver and white, like the glow of countless stars collapsing and reforming. His heartbeat slowed, then steadied into a strange, rhythmic pulse that echoed in harmony with the world around him.
Old Man First observed quietly, his expression tense. The air was beginning to twist. The temperature dropped, and the golden lights of the River of Continuum trembled as cracks of shadow began to appear in the distance. He could feel it—the faint stirring of the Wraith's awareness.
"Steady," Old Man First murmured softly, his fingers moving in subtle patterns. Golden sigils appeared in the air, forming rings of light that revolved around him. They were not meant to attack but to defend—to shield Max from the retribution of the world itself.
