In the shadowy depths of our existence, where the boundaries of idealism blur and converge with materialism without ever truly meeting, it should come as no surprise that we are not solitary wanderers, nor do we exist within the confines of an elaborated simulation. Reality is not a phantom drifting through some reel of shadows and echoes. Our universe, an entity vibrant and pulsating, surges with an undisclosed purpose in a manner that would leave your very soul trembling with awe and your eyes brimming with reverence. In its iconographic revelation, we do not stand as passive spectators relegated to the nosebleed seats of an enigmatic play. No, instead, we are akin to the staff members working in a cosmic opera, one that is still beyond the grasp of limited understanding.
When confronted with the staggering immensity of Elysian, the multidimensional goddess Aether’s womb-birthed universe, the frail conventional notions of space and time crumble into insignificance like faded wallpaper peeling off the walls of a long-abandoned, decaying manor, revealing a hidden chamber of knowledge that had eluded us for millennia. As a species, we resemble no more than dust motes suspended in the dimly lit attic of this timeless edifice, inching ever closer to the precipice of enlightenment.
Our existence as humenes is no more than a fleeting moment, a brief chapter in the epic sprawling of the cosmic narrative that unfolds in the heaven’s acetate film. Yet, while we ponder our own puniness in the mirror of an old bureau, it is essential to recognize the reflection of the unbreakable bonds that tether us to the very forces that breathe life into our spirits. Paradoxically, it is in our minuteness that we discover importance. Much like the microscopic pathogen in the blight, capable of unleashing devastation upon the delicate balance of our cells, so too do we hold the latent potential to disrupt even the most sacred order of the divine. From the infinitesimal subatomic particles comprising the building blocks of our bodies to the celestial puppet strings that tug at our emotions and shape our perceptions, we are but part of a superfluid entropy that transcends the fringes of time, space, and every dimension known to us thus far.
Consider, for instance, the moon, whose gravitational pull orchestrates not just the rise and fall of ocean tides but, in some intangible manner, exerts a mystical influence over the currents of our souls. Then there is the radiant Ambehros, the incandescent heart of our solar system. The sun bathes us in the nourishing energy our physical forms crave, like an artist’s brush, painting our days with hues of wakefulness and vitality. Meanwhile, let us not forget our cherished planet, Ivazmil, the canvas upon which Mother Earth, Prospera, crafted Her masterpiece in the backroom, capturing and cradling this boundless essence. With expert craftsmanship that only a Goddess can possess, She fashioned this potent energy into the most exquisite gems ever to grace our world: the legendary Ethernia stones.
Those entities are the very fibers woven into a larger, interconnected tapestry, where the mightiest forces influence the minutest aspects of existence, and, in turn, self-centered anthropic actions can mold and change the grandest designs at their whim. Within this eternal, unending cycle of life and death, an interplay of manipulation and submission, the age-old battle of good and evil rages on in every hidden corner of the universe. It’s enough to make you wonder: in this vast, tangled web, with its billions of galaxies each housing countless stars and worlds, where, exactly, do we, mere mortals, fit in? How many fertilized Aether ova brought different or even similar realities to life?
“What is our meaning?” The universal inquiry transcends the bounds of language. It journeyed over the centuries, tracing a path that led it to the collective consciousness of a world on the brink of annihilation, consumed by the voracious appetite of the blight’s omnipresence. It was not a question formed by words but one that emerged from the heart-wrenching wails of a dying realm, a planet in the throes of its last gasps. The core of Prospera seemed to tremble, as if savoring a final, desperate inhalation. In the dire moment of existential crisis, She sought answers in the convoluted carpet of existence, seeking unity among the threads sewn by the humenes, architects of both Her splendor and downfall.
At this conjecture, a tremor coursed through the vast expanse, imperceptible yet undeniable, as though the void itself had inhaled in anticipation. The ethereal words—This is your resonance—hung in the air, weighted with ancient purpose, reverberating within the young man’s chest, a lone, distressed figure adrift. It was not a sound but an intrusion, a pulse that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
He turned back, though the act felt futile. The whiteness pressed against his vision, unrelenting, infinite. The blank void was more than empty—it was sentient, an observer cloaked in impassivity. Its gaze bore down on him, invisible yet palpable, like the judgment of some omniscient entity. His breathing quickened, the oppressive silence amplifying the sound of his own pulse, a rhythm that now felt alien in its persistence.
“Who is there?” he called out, his voice faltering. The sound fragmented in the air, a brittle question lost to the endless evidence of nothing. The echo ricocheted like shards of broken glass, scattering and then dissipating as if devoured by the void itself.
His tongue was heavy, coated with a bitter residue he couldn’t place—ash, decay, the memory of something scorched and forgotten. He swallowed against it, his throat as parched as an desiccated organ, his thoughts skittering like disturbed insects beneath a turned stone, struggling to navigate the necrotic chasm of his mind.
Intrigued by the origins of this place, he dared to wonder aloud about his dejected thoughts as if testing whether anyone would answer. “Is this how this shitty life ends?” His sense of finity scattered in all boundless directions, only to rebound with an almost mocking tone, unresolved. His inquisitive green eyes, bright against the colorless backdrop, scanned the featureless canvas of whiteness, searching for any semblance of meaning or purpose, but crafted with the artistry of the greatest illusionists, not a single line or shadow was revealed to the naked eye.
Soothing seemed to be trapped in oblivion for centuries. A game of questions clouded his head as he struggled to comprehend the nature of this enigmatic realm. How had he stumbled into this bewildering predicament? His memories were fragmented, distorted by the hand of fate that had callously brought him here. It was a narrative that clawed at the fringes of his mind, demanding a rational explanation to anchor his disoriented convictions. “Why now?” He mumbled, his voice trembling like a solitary candle flickering in the silence, to fend off the disturbing sense of encroaching darkness on a cloudy day.
A soft voice slipped through the murky veil of his consciousness, whispering like a tempting riddle: “Cipher”.
From the point of view of his invisible observer, he appeared anything but an ordinary young man, straddling the perilous precipice that separated righteousness from transgression. His hair, a striking auburn bordering on crimson—the shade of the flare orb in the firmament, the color of past life sin and ancient sacrifice, forbidden guilt and divine judgment whispered in forgotten scriptures. There was a subtle, indefinable quality in his gauntness countenance, a shadowy undertone imbued with a fragile humanity that suggested the labyrinthine secrets of his soul pirouetted just beyond the threshold of casual perception. These mysteries were veiled by the facade of a good-natured teenager, a visage projecting the aura of a benevolent samaritan with tremendous potential to alter the fates of not just one realm but both—the physical and the spiritual.
He surveyed the surroundings and could not point to any reference, but all that met his gaze upward was no discernible dimension or surface, only an unfathomable depth that seemed to swallow his conscience. "I can’t remember," he muttered, underscored by a feeling of frustration that amplified his unease, gnawing at his soul. He could not recall the events that led him into the fog of uncertainty. His memories eluded him like phantoms, slipping through his grasp each time he reached out for them.
“The present is no longer linear—the past was always a test,” the currents of fate played a siren song only he could hear, unfurling his existence like an ocean of conundrums. “Its talons had borne you, a fragment of its endless hymn, into this nascent cusp of becoming. You are neither before nor after, but precisely where the weave demands you. You belong, not because of choice, but because you are woven here.”
With a natural courage summoned from the depths of his being, he addressed the unseen presence that seemed to lurk just beyond the boundaries of his awareness. "What do you want from me?" he beseeched like a dagger, piercing the obscurity, hoping to grasp onto something tangible.
“You will move along the foreign path, the gates stand open, yet your hands remain bound,” came the solid yet strangely hollow response, “There is no sanctuary but within its weave. Stray, and the hungering, insidious desires will claim you.”
A majestic understory tree unfurled its branches, its verdant canopy adorned with clusters of stunning plea-like purplish-pink flowers, materializing from the edge of a thriving lake. Each petal shimmered in the twilight, casting a spellbinding glow that seemed to defy the dreary surroundings. As the vibrant blossoms danced in the breeze, their vivid colors contrasted against the somber backdrop of an orange sky that loomed overhead. The sky’s reflection was a warped mirror picture, a surreal and disorienting sight of the world below. Cipher squinted his eyes, shielding with his little palm from the dazzling spectacle, approaching the intense glare of its delicate petals, which threatened to enchant and overwhelm his senses. “Do I even know you?”
In the corridors of his mind, the melodic and rhythmic voice echoed, as if borne on the flapping wings of a celestial being. “I breathed you into existence.” It introduced with the weight of a stone into a still pond, deepening the scars of his soul and unearthing emotions long buried. The direct words spoke of maternal ties, of a connection severed by the wanton hands of tragedy.
“I can’t believe it.” Startled, he froze in his tracks, and his heart raced, skipping a beat, as he grappled with the impossible revelation. He was afraid to shatter the fragile truth he had built for himself, as if unsure how to respond to this upheaval he thought he knew. With a tremor of hope and disbelief coursing through his veins, he stammered, “My mother is no more,” his confusion cocktail evident in a voice tinged with a mix of unhealed wounds and longing.
“In the end, that is not even my true name,” he countered, carrying a sense of detachment that hinted at a life where identities were masks to be worn and discarded to never be recognized wherever he’d go.
“You have worn many names. Still, you don’t know your ascendant. Zamash. Sarya. Radahmas. Scourge of the offspring.” The words carried the weight of a lifetime’s wisdom, akin to a mother who had cradled her son in her arms throughout countless trials, tribulations, and precedences. “I do not weigh the choices you made, for they were forged by the myths you clung to—the stories that shaped you. Bound you. Consumed you.” The voice seemed to hold the key to the secrets he had futilely sought to bury in the depths of his soul. “There is no divergence. Trace the veins of your history, strike down those who oppose your will, for once felled, they shall not rise again. Accept what is real, and the Avexitius claymore shall become your truth.” The intonation came from a distant, ethereal whisper, injecting a note of suspicion into the frayed fabric of his wavering thoughts.
Cipher’s mind reeled, unable to reconcile the revelation. The voice dared to claim a truth that defied all reason. How could this be? His mother was gone, in a world beyond reach. A flicker of curiosity sparked, defying his resistance, as a deluge of questions waited at the tip of his tongue, eager to be set free into the wind. Could there be more to the story concealed beneath the constructed lies that had been spun by Uncle Issaq? After all, he had always been a steadfast pillar of trust. The impossible revelation challenged everything he believed, blurring the lines between loyalty and betrayal. The once-clear path meandered into the unknown, leaving him to grapple with the consequences of his startling discoveries. Frustration grew with the tantalizing possibility, threatening to overwhelm his unstable state. The ghostly presence, both captivating and unnerving, promised answers that lay just beyond his grasp.
“Why? Tell me, why did you leave me?” He cried out, his anguished voice echoing through the desolate expanse.
Stolen novel; please report.
“That is not the question, for it holds no meaning.” The reply came like a gentle caress but carried with it a haunting weight, resonating from the very walls of his mind. “What I carry is beyond your asking, and it must be heard.”
“Nineteen years later, it seems quite absurd for you to be here with nothing,” he retorted bitterly, his heart heavy with the profound burden of abandonment.
“Your essence is singular.” The velvety voice persisted with a sense of reassurance that bordered on the surreal. “I am the conduit to your true destiny.”
“I think it’s quite late for me,” his eyes got tears while remembering that those could be his final days in this dimension. “Your words hold no comfort,” he complained, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and despair.
“Through you, worlds shift, their axis upon which choice trembles. Comfort is a thread spun only by the frail,” its words like a cascade of stars colliding in slow motion. “Your kind are countless now but not equal. Embrace the legion of revenants and live to feast upon corrupted, heterogeneity broods. You have a purpose before your abject suffering wanes. It is a prelude, not its end,“ the words an enigmatic refrain, laced with an inscrutable intent. “One that holds the promise of happiness to claim,” they pleaded their case.
“I am insignificant,” he countered with the resentment of an unwanted child, his sense of self-worth eroded by the passage of time and the agony of a lifetime of solitude he had endured. “I am not the leader you seek.”
“You and I find ourselves marooned on the same shore, sailing across the treacherous waters of an unrelenting storm.” The voice began, “Our safe ports are disintegrating, and our refuge is dwindling fast. Listen to, for strange clouds are growing our time short,” it uttered, as if a lost soul in a haunted vessel, its tone taking on a prophetic quality. “The old world is collapsing, its foundations eroded by the very hands that sought to control it, a creation of deceivers like your uncle, whose malevolence inflicted your suffering.” The words slithered through the air with a venomous undercurrent, like a sinuous creature seeking to hunt its prey in the dead of the night.
“There’s too much confusion,” his voice had a razor edge, poised to sever the predatory hypnotic power.
“We shall cleanse the blood of those who've trespassed and part the seas for a new genesis,” came the response. A mythical entrapment dropped like honey that exhaled timeless secrets, a promise of change in the fires of transformation. “Let the message be heard and let justice be served. Grant them eternal rest, and underneath are the everlasting arms that will shield them from servitude.”
His gaze drifted downward, and the turmoil in his soul lay bare. "I’m done with this,” his tone a reflection of the inner conflicting emotions mingling like a dangerous potion. The only remembrance of his corporeal form was a savage, persistent hunger that refused to be satiated, a craving for fresh cruor, both alien and achingly familiar. “I’m ready to find peace,” he surrendered, ready to be enfolded by the loving embrace of Mother Prospera.
“A dawn of renewal awaits behind the horizon,” the seductive balm persisted, reaching out to soothe the turbulent storm that was brewing within him. The patient words carried a weight of assurance, an invitation to trust, as if they held the key to unlocking the secrets beneath the veneer of comfort. Yet, within their mellifluous cadence, there lingered a trace of caution. A subtle suggestion to tread carefully sprouted, leaving him to question the true intentions behind the otherness. The same strange sensation when danger permeated the surroundings.
“Reveal yourself!” his voice ordered in a mediocre attempt to allay the fears that clawed at his sanity. The shadowy remnants of skepticism in his mind refused to be silenced. “Stop playing with my head!” In a world that had taught him to question every motive and to fear the hidden agendas that lurked beneath the surface, he couldn’t help but suspect deception. His self-proclaimed mother remained silent, intensifying the chilling dance of doubt. He was drawn into a battle of wits, where trust was a scarce commodity and deciphering truth from falsehood was an arduous task.
The tree claimed his attention with an otherworldly resonance, its glow intensifying to a blinding brightness that seemed to pierce through reality itself. Cipher could feel the curly hair on the back of his neck stand on edge as the air crackled with electric energy. There was something unsettling about its luminous radiance, as if it held a power that surpassed the boundaries of the natural world. His apprehension began to waver, replaced by curiosity and revelations that lay hidden in the depths of its inviting aura. And yet, a dichotomy between growing fascination and emblematic mysteries battled at his core, a primal instinct warning him of the unknown things that awaited on the other side of that brilliant glow. An unnatural darkness dormant in the recesses of his consciousness ready to awake and free him from the spell.
“Only when light confronts decay does the chance of controlling the surge within arise. If it seizes upon you, there may be no turning back,” the voice cautioned.
As he took hesitant steps closer, his heart thrummed against his ribcage in a dreadful rhythm that resembled the impending doom that hovered over his wretched existence. The ache grew more pronounced with each tentative stride, a cruel reminder of the inescapable fate that awaited him outside this idyllic fantasy. His uncle’s well-intentioned words about turning weakness into strength were lost in the discordant melody of his mind, a counterpoint to his own convictions—their perspectives were at odds, forever dividing their beliefs. Only a young man teetering on the edge of ruin could understand that his existence was a prelude to a catastrophic climax.
Compressed with suspicion, the ethereal buoyancy dissipated like a mirage, replaced by an invisible force that anchored his feet to the ground. The very air had turned dense and oppressive, conspiring against his escape as if a cruel hand sought to impede him, ensuring he remained compliant with what fate had decreed. The overwhelming force mocked his feeble attempts at defiance, condemning him as a prisoner of his own tragic story. The voice, once beckoning, emerged from the shrouded murkiness, dripping with ominous purpose. "Your life is in grave danger," a call anticipated with unwavering resolve like a foreboding prophecy.
Cipher screamed with a palpable sense of distrust, "Is that really you?" His words lashed out like a desperate cry for release from the clutches of this torturous ordeal. "Giving me nightmares?" The boundaries of his perceptions were warped and distorted, the very fabric of reality bending to its breaking point. With each ounce of resistance, the world around him shifted, becoming a volatile kaleidoscope of twisted sceneries.
“Embrace me, and I shall protect you from harm,” the voice announced, its origin concealed within the iridescence of the latest petals landing on the shifting ground to be completely ignored and dismissed.
“Do not lie to me.” Mistrust crept into his weary soul, seeping into the cracks of his torn mentality. The ever-shifting backdrop of the surroundings only added to the mounting nausea, amplifying his sense of disorientation. “Leave me be!” he shouted, filled with a raw desperation to escape the bewildering circumstances that held him captive. In the blink of an eye, the illusions at play coalesced into a reality he knew all too well—a desolated landscape of dunes and dust sprouted before his eyes in response to forces beyond his control.
From the alkaline soil, a liquid as white as virgin snow oozed, possessing the captivating allure of a valuable transition metal. As it cascaded with an almost sentient awareness, its lustrous touch encased him from his bare feet to his shoulders. A chill crept up his spine as the ductile substance coldly gripped his senses. As he attempted to move a leg, astonishment washed over him. “How is this possible?” he mused, grappling with the inexplicable nature of his circumstances. The voice, ever enigmatic, offered cryptic reassurance. “It is for your benefit,” plunging him further into the mazy depths of his inexorable destiny.
From the mire of damp earth, a grotesque and deformed figure emerged at a safe distance, contorting and transforming into a towering man. His smooth, polished sheen skin, a fusion of sun-kissed amber and molten honey, reflected light and radiated a scorching heat, as if each gleaming atom had been forged in the crucible of a distant star itself. With each step he took, an unholy miracle unfolded—wherever his feet touched the dirt, a profusion of delicate stems erupted from the ground and bloomed into vibrant red petals armed with wicked thorns. The path they formed, a trail of enticement, seemed to beckon the young man, as if luring him into a nest impossible to resist.
A sinister whisper brushed against Cipher’s ear, carrying a tone of warning. “It’s the devil that feasts upon your essence.” Those creepy words sent shivers down his spine and squeezed his heart with an agonizing grip, as if an invisible parasite were siphoning his innermost being. He held up his hands in defense while unbidden memories surfaced, conjured by one disquieting story his cousin Declan Ewing had once recounted. An eerie yarn about hybrid creatures that fed on unsuspecting living beings. His eyes widened in a paroxysm of dread as the bleak truth of his predicament became uncomfortably clear. Revenants.
The once-malleable metal shell began to crumble, leaving him exposed to the searing heat, its decay mirroring the disintegration of his own miserable existence. Each fragment scattered like fallen small, round, sour fruits, staining the ground with a macabre trail of crimson. “It senses your emotions,” said the uncanny voice hanging heavy in the air. There was no escape from the all-encompassing horror that permeated every crevice of the unbelievable scene. What was real and what was merely a product of his tortured mind left him unsure.
In the face of such imposing stature, he felt his essence unspool in slow drip from a leaky faucet, melting away in never-ending pieces like a shattered mirror reflecting portions of his fragmented self. A plea for help escaped his lips, laced with desperation but it was too late. The sumptuous flames emanating from the living opulence only deepened his despair, casting flickering shadows that seemed to move with malevolence. The man stood before him, embedded in brandy, a volatile aroma that clung to the air like a lingering specter. As the embers receded and relieved him in time, the features of the figure revealed themselves more distinctly: a striking diamond-shaped face obscured by a luxuriant red beard, more fiery than silver strands, with etched lines upon his furrowed brow that bore the weight of experience. The intensity of those piercing eyes reflected a familiar soul drowning in a churning sea of glistening tears, an ocean of anger and sorrow entwined, a tempest the freed man had inflicted upon his victim. It was a face Cipher recognized—a drowning face that held a profound connection to his own troubled existence—but a person he could never name, like a whisper carried away by the capricious winds of fate, forever beyond reach or rescue.
“We are one,” the deep voice boomed, with each syllable falling upon Cipher’s ears like a terrifying revelation. Above the slicked-back cascade of light brown hair was a halo of the same metal that self-constructed the burglar’s body, aflame with an irresistible allure that tugged at the off-guard young man's senses, his dejected heart mimicking the unsettling cadence of the stranger’s voice.
Captured by the irresistible gravitational pull, Cipher stopped succumbing to the sand, his fragile form at the mercy of an authoritative hand that grabbed him with an uncompromising grip. The right hand held his infected heart within a sturdy cage of solid reddish metal, but something else was there—something unnatural, a dark, glistening creature, its ebony skin affixed to the organ, greedily siphoning his very lifeblood from its veins.
The scent of a perennial herb permeated the air, and Cipher could taste a somewhat minty flavor with his tongue—a potent harbinger of concealed promises and hidden truths that his lungs could not inhale. The intangible essence yanked his mind back to a distant time and place, as if extending an uncertain lifeline to disrupt the burgeoning connection they were forging. His thoughts drifted into a reverie, attempting to discern what the time was when that man responsible for his ordeal appeared. He yearned to return to the warmth of his prior state, seeking comfort within that determined grasp that had seized him.
Suspended in a moment of stillness between the two figures, in a silent battle of opposing will, the perpetrator’s massive, glowing hand made the first move, an unhurried movement that belied the destructive force it held. In a deliberate effort, his fingers reached out to make contact with its wiry branches, setting it ablaze. Its fiery movements consumed each branch and slender, lanceolate leaves, disrupting the fragments of a lost innocence. A swirl of smoldering petals hung in the air, their delicate essence releasing a peculiar aroma that seemed to dull Cipher’s emotions in the face of the assailant. Resilient evergreen shrubs with needle-like leaves sprouted from the damp surface beneath their feet. But they flourished for a short time before withering in the arid, ringed portion around them, for they too succumbed to the relentless assault.
In the middle of his weeping, Cipher came back from that brief ride of visions and longing with a strange and paradoxical happiness, as if the very tears that streamed down his face harbored the clandestine dreams of a close, attainable danger. He felt drawn deeper into a precipice of uncovering secrets that could reshape his destiny forever, dancing to the haunting tune of the unknown, right on top of the groove. "I need you," he uttered, his voice a fragile murmur, seeking refuge in the proximity of the astute man. The amalgamated visage revealed no discernible expression, leaving him to wonder about the depths of emotion hidden beneath the inscrutable exterior and what might have impaired his proclaimed decision.
Wisps of thick smoke curled from the half-finished, slender column’s rolled form that was clenched between the criminal’s lips. An acrid haze enveloped them, intoxicating with the woodsy fragrance of an outlaw perfume of ages past. It was then that everything began to coalesce, unraveling the tangled threads of existence as he surrendered himself to the clasp of the unbreakable arms that encircled him. The cold touch of the burgundy leather jacket against his skin offered a cozy sensation of rebellion, like a subservient act of defiance supplanting something divine—a submissive transgression. Their motions were languid, imparting a mutually enticing appeal, deliberate and unhurried, evoking a magnetic sense of protection from his lack of belonging.
Undeniably convinced, the loyal one swore near feral, "You belong to me," a promise to never depart that reverberated deep in the chamber of the orphan’s core. In that ephemeral moment, Cipher longed for time to cease its march, to remain forever ensconced within the sanctuary they had built together—a heady concoction symphony that ensnared him in an entangled web where the line separating salvation from damnation grew increasingly faint. It felt like the pinnacle of everything they could ever become together. Even the opposing force couldn’t save him from what he wanted so much—to be a piece plucked from a long-lost game, a vital pawn of his own desires. The robust scent of a melange of earthy richness wafted, and the smoldering intensity of the smoke revealed secrets, penetrating his bloodstream and hitting at the presence of an ancient power that lay dormant, waiting to be unleashed against the world.
"I shall be your guardian." The man bent and their lips were in front of each other, aching for a touch that never materialized. A connection was formed and bound by an eternity of time-lapsing days recorded in celluloid frames of countless films, each frame imbued with numerous changing, outdated digital filters of a global civilization linked through social media. Their bodies remained riveted in the encroaching darkness, steeped in the decadent sensation of a swirling camera that ebbed and flowed with the turning of the seasons. But within the maelstrom of chaos, a singular feeling took hold: the ongoing extraction of Cipher’s heart, absorbed by the physical form whose soul was as black as tar, owned a morality irreversibly tainted.
The guiltiness found himself helpless and drained, his essence devoured by the insidious force that coiled him, a voracious beast driven by an infernal appetite for blood, its skin relumed with flames, blistering his every fiber. And just when the nightmare was about to consume him whole, it ended the same way it started, dissipating into the abyss of oblivion, leaving a lingering chill and a trail of forgotten fear.
"Nemesis." The velvet voice pierced the void, its tone filled with urgency. "Wake up."
