The gate pulsed with power, creating tremors between the tectonic plates of the two continents it resided in.
Solidifying its stable form even further, the void gate sank its claws into Adramadeus, its influence spreading into the world like a cancer—or perhaps like the roots of a tree. It gained strength as it dug deep, seeking earth and sustenance, splintering the spatial structure of the world and its foundation, yet equally filling it back in, stabilizing the world once more. When it finally stopped, the gate had not grown much larger; it had simply fused with the deepest parts of the world.
A few miles away, Nekeili's sleeping form was forcefully awakened, his weak heart hammering with anxiety, beating unmistakably fast as adrenaline surged through him.
The land around him trembled again, the aftershocks from earlier causing the ground where he lay to crumble.
His eyes snapped open, immediately watering as intense light struck his sensitive vision. He tried to stand, but the dirt beneath him had loosened.
Losing both strength and footing, he fell back into the soil. He lay there dry heaving, exhausted—such simple movements were punishing to his frail body.
He forced himself upright once more, hurriedly wiping at his eyes, desperate to understand where he was.
Fear seized him the moment he felt the ground loosen further. The earth shifted, and he began to slide, slowly at first, then with growing momentum.
When his vision finally cleared, he realized—too late—that he was in a truly shitty situation.
A pit stretched beneath him, plunging far beyond his sight. He twisted his weak frame at once, rolling from his back onto his stomach, one trembling hand reaching for anything that might slow his descent.
His body slid faster.
He clawed desperately at the ground, grasping for any support, anything that would stop him from slipping to his death. In that moment of blind panic, something impossible appeared before him—a series of words burning themselves into his vision.
Would you like to begin mantling your guardian god's essence?
Y / N
What is that? Is that— Panic screamed through his mind. He had no time to think, no space to process. He flailed wildly, wasting precious strength.
As he continued to slide, more words manifested at the edges of his vision. With one last desperate motion, Nekeili lunged for a protruding rock. His fingers caught, his arm nearly dislocating as the sudden stop sent agony tearing through his frail body.
He cried out, clinging to the stone as pain radiated through him. Fighting to calm himself, he forced his gaze back to the words.
His grip was slipping.
He read.
Time seemed to halt. The world froze around him, motionless, while his mind accelerated beyond anything he had ever known.
"To mantle your god is to become them. To become a god is the wish of many beings, for if one possesses the power to enforce their wishes, nothing shall halt their rise."
The text shifted, deepened, growing heavier.
"To mantle your god is not to borrow power, nor to serve it—it is to overwrite yourself. Memory, flesh, name, and fate will be consumed and reforged. What you were shall persist only as an echo, if it persists at all.
Godhood is not ascent; it is succession. Your guardian has reached its end. You are the vessel chosen to continue its existence. Refusal guarantees erasure upon impact. Acceptance guarantees survival… at a cost that cannot be reversed.
Warning: Your current form is incompatible with divinity. Restructuring will be immediate and irreversible. Pain is certain. Identity loss is probable. Failure is fatal.
Would you like to mantle your god?
Y / N"
Before he could react, the runes and symbols that had burned into his soul in the void began to thrum once more.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
They resonated.
That resonance flowed through Nekeili and then beyond him, bleeding into the hidden systems that governed Adramadeus itself. Laws bent—not shattered—but reinterpreted, as though reality had been forced to reread a clause it had hoped would never be invoked.
The pressure around him shifted. The world no longer felt indifferent.
It felt… attentive.
Light folded in on itself before his eyes, symbols emerging that were neither wholly foreign nor wholly native. They carried the rigid structure of Adramadeus' system, yet their meaning was unmistakably void-born, layered with intent rather than language.
A new prompt formed—slower this time, deliberate.
Due to external influence, standard mantling protocols have been altered.
Divinity detected within mortal constraints.
Stability: unacceptable.
Continuation requires specification.
Define the nature of your ascension.
The words lingered, unmoving, as though waiting was no longer the system's choice—but his.
How do I define the nature of my ascension?
The thought tore through him, his neural pathways firing faster and faster, every instinct screaming for an answer. How—how do I choose?
The response did not arrive as words at first.
It came as pressure.
The runes etched into his soul flared, not with heat but with direction, aligning themselves like unseen circuitry. He felt pathways opening in his mind—conceptual channels, not thoughts, but definitions. The system did not want a description.
It wanted a constraint.
Meaning flooded him all at once, ruthless in its clarity.
He did not define what he would become.
He defined what he would never be.
What parts of himself would be preserved.
What laws he would embody.
What price he was willing—or unwilling—to pay.
The realization struck him like a blade.
Ascension was not a choice between forms. It was a declaration of principle.
The system stirred, waiting.
Not for a plea.
Not for a wish.
For a line drawn in reality.
Whatever he defined would become immutable.
Whatever he failed to define would be decided for him.
And far beneath him, the pit seemed to deepen—as if the world itself leaned closer, eager to hear his answer.