What was once created can never truly be recreated.
It was a set of words, a phrase, a sentence… a knife through Leonel's heart.
He could vaguely feel what his father was trying to say. The path of Self Crafting might be as much his father's enlightenment as it was a lesson.
Maybe if his Dream Force was just the same he might have dismissed it. But right now it felt like a final nail was being driven into a coffin. Whether it was his own or his father's, Leonel barely had the wherewithal to tell the difference.
Did the difference even matter?
It shouldn't be true.
How could life not be reproducible? Couldn't Anastasia copy his methods and remake perfect treasures based on his template every time? Couldn't he do the same with just an extra bit of effort?
But he knew it was bullshit. He knew his own thoughts were ridiculous.
