Far beyond the reach of mortal eyes, past the veil of magic and time, there existed a realm untouched by the decay of ages. Suspended high above the clouds—beyond even the skies known to gods themselves—a lone figure stood.
Its form was cloaked in an endless shimmer of ethereal light, an ever-shifting veil that defied any attempt to discern its true shape. The light rippled like liquid gold one moment, then like stardust scattered by an unseen wind the next. Its gender was indiscernible; its very essence felt as though it existed outside the boundaries of such mortal concepts.
It stood upon nothing, yet the air—if such a thing existed here—quivered under its presence. The figure's voice emerged, deep and resonant, yet layered with tones so ancient they seemed to carry the memory of creation itself. It spoke not to any visible audience, but as if the entire universe were its silent confidant.
"Long… long are gone the days when the Path of Godhood overflowed with the footsteps of the aspiring. The ascent was once crowded—brimming with those who sought the throne of eternity. Now…"
Its head inclined slightly, as though surveying the void around it.
"…now this realm has stood empty for far too long."
A faint chuckle slipped past its lips—quiet at first, but carrying a vibration that cracked the very void. The sound was neither cruel nor gentle, but filled with an unsettling knowingness.
"Perhaps…" The figure's voice softened, tinged with an almost nostalgic curiosity. "…perhaps one of those old fools still lingers somewhere in the great weave of worlds. Alive, against all odds."
The chuckle deepened into a laugh, low and echoing, before fading. Then, with deliberate calm, it raised one luminous hand. The gesture was small, but reality itself shuddered in response. The fabric of space quaked, as though the world—no, all worlds—were resisting the figure's will.
But resistance was meaningless here.
"Hah… after all these endless cycles, do you not feel it too, old friend?"
Its tone shifted, addressing something unseen—a presence hidden in the folds of existence.
"The pulse is returning. The old laws stir. The seeds of divinity are waking once more."
There was a pause, a moment heavy enough to be felt even by the void itself. Then—firm, absolute:
"Come. Let us mend what was broken. Let us welcome the next ascendants… to the Heavenly Realm of Gods."
At those words, the realm lost its colors. Blues, golds, silvers—all bled into pure monochrome, folding and reshaping under the silent command of the figure. Space rippled like water under an unseen storm, and for the briefest instant, creation itself seemed to hold its breath.
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In a world where the strong reshaped nations and the weak were swept aside, the figure's words echoed still—inaudible to most, yet woven into the fate of Eridoria itself.
The path to Godhood would open again.
And the world would never be the same.