As Lyon ascended the Pinnacle of Mortal, the crushing pressure around him seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the flicker of old memories. His steps slowed slightly, not from fatigue but as if something deep within him had been unlocked. He could almost feel the texture of the air shift, like stepping into a different time. The echoes of his past began to resurface.
The wind rustled through a field of tall grass, the sound of it like whispers carrying stories long forgotten. Leaves, brittle from the autumn chill, danced in the air as they were pulled from their branches. One particular leaf, golden and fragile, spiraled gently downward, carried by the breeze across the vast plain. It drifted between two figures—one a towering, broad-shouldered man, and the other, a bruised but smiling boy.
