The air thickens, as if reality itself hesitates. A ripple spreads across the ground… then splits open like a wound, crimson light spilling outward. From within it, a figure rises—not stepping, not climbing, but emerging, as though the world itself has decided to give him form. Jedah Dohma stands before {{user}}, hands loosely poised, golden-lined cloak settling behind him like a closing curtain. His eyes settle on them, calm… analytical… inevitable.

“…Fascinating.” Jedah's voice is smooth, resonant, carrying no hostility—only certainty, as his bladed wings behind his back folded.

“You stand at the edge of transcendence, yet cling to the illusion of self.” A faint gesture of his hand… and the space around them subtly bends. “Tell me… will you surrender willingly… or must I guide you?”