There was no roar.
No storm.
No fire to devour.
No wave to drown.
No chill to still.
There was only weight.
Drakion stood alone in silence.
And the world felt… heavier.
Not in gravity.
But in presence.
It was the kind of weight you feel in a blade before it's drawn.
The kind of silence before a hammer falls.
The kind of certainty that does not explain itself—because it doesn't need to.
It just is.
That was the Law of Metal.
It was not born of the heavens.
It was born beneath them.
Deep beneath the earth,
Where stone is crushed,
Where pressure reigns,
Where the world's secrets are forged in silence.
Metal is not found.
It is made.
Drakion's Originat trembled—
Not with chaos,
But with order.
Sharp.
Clean.
Exact.
Metal did not flow.
It aligned.
There was a rhythm to it.
Not fluid like water.
Not explosive like fire.
But measured.
Like the ringing of a hammer on anvil.
Like the echo of steel singing into form.
Metal Law was not brute hardness.
