The air in the Throne Room was not air; it was the pressurized weight of every second that had ever ticked in the history of the multiverse.
At the end of the hall of golden statues, Ohma Zi-O sat upon his throne.
His chin rested on a gauntleted hand, the dark, crimson-and-gold armor of the Demon King shimmering with the malevolent radiance of a collapsing star.
Behind him, the massive clock hands of the Apocalypse ground against each other with a sound like grinding mountains.
He didn't need a camera to see.
He didn't need a rift to travel. Every timeline was a vein in the back of his hand.
His golden visor glowed as his consciousness drifted toward a small, vibrant pocket of reality known as Teyvat.
"So," the Demon King's voice rumbled, a deep, resonant bass that vibrated through the floorboards of time itself.
"The boy has found the Magenta Destroyer's power."
In his mind's eye, he saw Leo.
He saw the Decadriver—that chaotic, unstable tool of the Great Decade—snapped onto the waist of a twenty-four-year-old who was currently arguing with a floating toddler over an expired train ticket.
A low, guttural chuckle escaped the golden mask.
"How small. How fragile. He plays with the shadows of riders as if they were toys, unaware that every 'Progrise' and 'Clock Up' is a debt written in the ledger of my reign."
Ohma Zi-O shifted slightly.
The golden chains draped across his chest clattered—a sound that, in another world, would have been the sound of a thousand cities falling.
He saw the Medajalibur in Leo's hand.
He saw the Flying Falcon key. He saw the way the boy's presence was beginning to knot the strings of fate around the "Honorary Knight"
"Leo... you are an anomaly in a world of elements. A gear in a clock made of magic. You think you are saving this world, yet with every transformation, you blur the lines between its 'Story' and my 'History'."
The Demon King raised a single finger. A golden spark flickered at the tip—a fragment of a timeline that shouldn't exist.
"The Photographer watches you because you are a beautiful subject for a tragedy.
The Prince of the Abyss watches you because you are a weapon he cannot grasp."
He closed his eyes, the massive clock behind him slowing to a rhythmic, heavy throb.
"But I watch you... because you are a seed. Grow, little Rider. Accumulate your points. Collect your trinkets. Reach for the 'Path of Heaven' or the 'Sky of the Dragon.' It matters not."
His voice dropped to a whisper that echoed across the Void.
"In the end, all paths lead back to the King. And your story... is already written in my past."
He went silent, the throne room plunging back into its eternal, golden stillness.
On the floor near the base of the throne, a single, glowing icon of a Yellow Lion flickered for a second, then turned a dark, scorched gold.