The light settled. The space was still.
The figure before him — circled the easel with quiet reverence, like a priest preparing for a sacred rite. His robes moved like smoke, his steps measured, timeless.
Then, a voice. Deep, steady, ancient — but not aged. It rang within the chamber, and within Rex's chest.
"Let us begin from the very beginning.
You will begin with what mortals call 'the basics' — but here, there is no such thing as basic.
Each stroke you learn is a seed. Each principle, a pillar.
And without a true foundation, no art can stand.
Rex straightened unconsciously. Something in the air shifted — not pressure, but expectation.
The master raised his hand, and glowing glyphs formed around them — delicate strokes of light, symbols that pulsed with quiet wisdom.
"You will learn not tricks, but truths.
This is not imitation. This is understanding.
Not surface — but structure. Not decoration — but discipline."
