The sky of World Six remained unchanged.
Still pale. Still silent. Still hanging without direction.
But beneath it, something began to move.
Not wind. Not troops.
Form.
Adrasteia, once a dweller, now stepped out.
Without symbol.
Without permission.
Without asking for acknowledgement.
The five neutral territories that had once been silent lands began to ripple.
Vectors—structures of meaning that had once been soft and silent—rose.
No longer to spread.
No longer to dialogue.
Now, they moved to dismantle.
Not to seduce.
Not to open up space for discussion.
Only one goal:
to split the dull spots that had remained directionless for too long.
And when the people asked,
"This is… Adrasteia?"
the answer came, not in a whisper.
But in a blow.
"We did not come to stay.
We came to remind:
the form you buried—still lives."
Reed called out to all the Bearers.
His voice was flat, no longer inviting.
"Choose now.
Do you wish to continue to be the guardian of the roots—
