The center of the Multiverse was not a place of grand architecture or celestial fire. As The Echo of Wood pierced the final veil of reality, the Guild didn't find a throne room or a cosmic engine. They found a Study.
It was a room of infinite proportions that somehow felt small and cramped. Shelves made of solidified light stretched into a golden haze, packed with millions of journals, scrolls, and loose-leaf papers. The floor was a mosaic of every language ever spoken, the tiles shifting as new dialects were born in distant Shards.
The air smelled of old paper, cedarwood, and the faint, metallic tang of drying ink.
"The Primal Current," Vahn whispered, his form stabilizing into a brilliant, perfect sphere. "It’s not flowing through here. It’s being born here. Every time a thought occur
