Instinct.
All those times I had fought for my life, those moments when everything hung in the balance, when the edge between survival and death was razor-thin—that had honed something beyond my senses. A battlefield instinct, something primal that had guided me in the most dangerous moments. It wasn't about seeing the enemy, or even feeling them through mana. It was about trusting in the battle itself.
I took a deep breath, the pain in my body fading to the background. I closed my eyes.
Trust your instincts.
The world went dark, the sounds of Mazekar's claws scraping the ground blending with the illusionary whispers. But in the stillness of the dark, I could feel it—a faint pulse, a rhythm in the chaos. It was subtle, barely there, but it was real.
Mazekar's presence.
