In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where stars birthed worlds and voids cradled secrets, there existed a delicate balance guarded by the Eleven Gods. These divine beings were not mere myths whispered in temples but eternal sentinels woven into the fabric of reality itself. Each god embodied a fundamental aspect of existence: the God of Eternity, who wove the threads of time; the God of Warfare, forged in the fires of conflict; the God of Life, nurturer of all growth; the God of Death, balancer of endings; the God of Knowledge, keeper of truths; the God of Harmony, binder of souls; the God of Chaos, stirrer of change; the God of Light, banisher of shadows; the God of Shadow, embracer of mysteries; the God of Elements, commander of nature's fury; and the God of Fate, spinner of destinies. Together, they had shaped the world of Aetheria, a realm of sprawling continents, enchanted forests, towering mountains, and shimmering seas, where humanity flourished under their watchful gaze.
For eons, the Eleven Gods had defended Aetheria against incursions from beyond the veil—the Outer Gods, eleven ancient entities of pure malice and entropy, mirroring the Eleven in number but opposing them in every essence. These Outer Gods were not born of creation but of the primordial chaos that preceded it, formless horrors that hungered for order's dissolution. They existed in the abyssal rifts between dimensions, where light dared not tread, feeding on despair, suffering, and the fractures in mortal souls. Their goal was assimilation: each Outer God selected one specific vessel among humanity—a carefully chosen individual whose soul resonated with their particular domain of corruption—twisting them from within until the barriers between worlds shattered, unleashing an apocalypse of unimaginable scale. Only these eleven Outer Gods possessed the power to choose and empower such vessels; lesser demons were mere extensions of their will, swarming through rifts once a vessel fully assimilated. Their reasons for this relentless assault remained shrouded in the depths of chaos, inscrutable to mortals and gods alike, though the Eleven stood eternal vigil against whatever dark imperatives drove them.
The reason for the world's impending destruction was rooted in this eternal war. The Outer Gods sought to unmake Aetheria by corrupting these singular vessels. They whispered through dreams and shadows, preying on the chosen ones' deepest flaws—grief for one, ambition for another, rage for a third—until the vessel became a conduit. Once assimilated, it tore open a gateway aligned with that Outer God's essence: a vessel of the Outer God of Famine might wither entire continents, while one of Wrath could ignite global wars. The Eleven Gods, bound by cosmic laws, could not directly intervene in the mortal realm without risking their own essence's dilution. Instead, they granted blessings to humanity—pure gifts, devoid of catches or downsides—to empower champions who could stand against the tide. These blessings were bestowed at pivotal moments in a person's life, often during times of personal trial or revelation, manifesting as surges of divine power. Temples served not as the site of granting but as sanctuaries where priests, through rituals and divinations, could discern and reveal the nature of blessings already received, guiding the blessed toward their paths.
Amid this cosmic struggle stood Elarion Voss, the unwitting Guardian of humanity, the last bastion against oblivion. His story was one of endless cycles, a fever dream of repetition that blurred the lines between reality and nightmare. He had been chosen not for heroism's sake but out of necessity, bestowed with multiple blessings from the Eleven Gods. Most were subtle, invisible to outsiders—enhancements to his resilience, intuition, or luck that aided his eternal quest. But the most profound was the Blessing of Regression from the God of Eternity, a secret known only to him. It had been revealed in a moment frozen outside time: during a quiet evening in his youth, as he pondered his family's legacy in the estate's library, the world had stilled. Colors drained to gray, sounds hushed to silence, and the God of Eternity appeared—a towering figure of swirling hourglasses and ethereal threads, its voice echoing like the toll of ancient bells.
"You are the Guardian of humanity," the god intoned, its form shifting like sand in wind. "The last bastion, the last to stand. You will face a fate worse than death—you cannot turn back, you cannot claim defeat. You will confront the embodiments of despair and suffering." With those words, the blessing surged into him: the power to regress upon death, rewinding time to the dawn after his blessings' manifestation, carrying only his memories forward. No one else knew; even the priests at the temple could only detect his more overt blessing—the Blessing of Weapons from the God of Warfare, granting instinctive mastery over any armament. It was this visible gift that marked him as exceptional, earning him entry to the Arcane Academy, while his other blessings, including Regression, remained his hidden arsenal.
It wasn't his first awakening in this loop; far from it. Elarion had regressed countless times, so many that his accumulated lifetimes surpassed the ancient elder dragons, those colossal beings said to have slumbered since the world's forging. In his earliest regressions, he had approached the crisis with naive optimism, believing kindness and alliances could stave off doom. He recalled the first cycle vividly: the blessings had come to him in a storm-swept night on the estate's grounds, a divine light piercing the clouds as he aided a wounded traveler. The surge of power had left him dazed, and the next day, at the local temple, the priests revealed only the Blessing of Weapons, hailing him as a prodigy. His other gifts, including Regression, unfolded privately over time.
Back then, he was a timid youth from a countryside noble family, the Voss lineage—respected but obscure, built on the valor of his grandfather, Lord Harlan, a hero of forgotten wars, and his father, Sir Galen, a steadfast steward of their estates. Elarion's kindness shone like a beacon; he was easily liked, his gentle demeanor drawing friends and mentors alike. With the revealed Blessing of Weapons, he enrolled in the Arcane Academy, excelling as his hidden blessings amplified his talents. He formed bonds: with fellow students who shared laughs over training mishaps, with instructors who saw in him a prodigy, and even with fleeting lovers whose touches promised normalcy in a fracturing world. His younger sister, Selene, had been his constant companion in those early days—a bright-eyed girl of fourteen with a sharp wit and a love for stories, often tagging along on his adventures around the estate, her laughter a reminder of simpler times.
But the apocalypse's harbingers soon emerged. The Outer Gods' vessels were singular and precise—each of the eleven targeting one key individual whose corruption would align with their domain. In that first loop, the vessel of the Outer God of Despair manifested in a border noble, a man broken by loss, his assimilation birthing shadows that devoured hope from armies. Elarion confronted him, blade in hand, but hesitated, his kindness faltering at the sight of the man's tormented eyes. The vessel fully assimilated, ripping open a rift that spewed lesser demons: grotesque amalgamations of tentacles, fangs, and void essence that ravaged lands, twisted life into monstrosities, and sowed seeds of eternal night. Battles raged; allies fell, including echoes of Selene's fate in later visions—her potential involvement always a haunting variable he couldn't quite pin down. Elarion died impaled on jagged claws, his last breath a gasp of regret, triggering his first regression.
Regression pulled him back. Again and again. In subsequent loops, he adapted. He prevented that vessel's rise by isolating the noble early, but new ones emerged: the vessel of the Outer God of Wrath, an ambitious general whose rage ignited wars; the vessel of Envy, a scholar twisted into a swarm of jealous illusions. Each failure unveiled more layers of the Outer Gods' strategy—they targeted societal linchpins, amplifying global fractures to ensure their eleven vessels could synchronize, collapsing the barriers in unison.
Glimpses of past regressions haunted him like fragmented nightmares. In one cycle, he infiltrated the royal court, posing as an advisor to root out the vessel of the Outer God of Greed—a merchant prince whose corruption turned gold into devouring slime. The confrontation unfolded in opulent halls, Elarion's blessed sword clashing against tendrils of molten wealth. But the vessel's psychic assault forced him to relive every past death in agonizing detail, his hidden blessings straining to shield his mind. Fleeting thoughts of Selene flashed through—her role in that loop as a court attendant, her warnings ignored until too late. He perished, soul frayed, only to regress.
Another loop saw him ally with elder dragons in their mountain lairs, their scales shimmering like ancient jewels. These beasts, wise beyond eons, shared lore of the Outer Gods' mirrored nature: each opposing one of the Eleven, their vessels chosen to counter divine domains. Together, they assaulted the vessel of the Outer God of Chaos—a nomadic shaman whose assimilation unleashed storms of random destruction. Firestorms clashed with void tendrils; roars drowned in eldritch wails. But betrayal struck—the shaman's whispers corrupted a dragon ally, turning it into a secondary conduit. Elarion's blade pierced its heart, his invisible blessings granting him the strength to endure the backlash, but the explosion of chaotic energy consumed him in cosmic fire. In that dying moment, a vision of Selene appeared, her face twisted in sorrow, hinting at connections he hadn't yet unraveled.
Countless deaths followed: drowned in seas roiled by the vessel of the Outer God of Elements, a corrupted druid summoning tidal horrors; buried under avalanches triggered by the vessel of Shadow, a thief-lord blending with darkness; poisoned by the subtle infiltrations of the vessel of Knowledge, a librarian whose twisted tomes spread madness. Each regression hardened him. Kindness eroded into cold calculation; he became emotionless, a machine of prevention. In darker loops, he preempted threats with ruthless efficiency—slaughtering potential vessels before confirmation, manipulating friends into sacrifices, forging empires of control only to watch them crumble under the synchronized assault of the eleven vessels. Selene's shadow loomed in many: sometimes an ally, sometimes a victim, her presence a recurring thread that tugged at his fraying humanity.
He grew older than time itself, his mind a repository of lost histories. He had witnessed civilizations rise in one loop only to prevent their founding in another, altering timelines in desperate bids. The elder dragons, once peers in age to him now, seemed infantile. Yet, the cycle persisted. The Eleven Gods bought time, their barriers weakening with each incursion, but ultimate victory eluded him—preventing all eleven vessels simultaneously proved Sisyphean. The Outer Gods' embodiments taunted him in visions, promising a fate worse than death: eternal looping without end.
In his most recent regression, triggered by a cataclysm where the vessel of the Outer God of Fate unraveled reality itself, synchronizing with the others to weave a web of inevitable doom, Elarion had decided to abandon his cold detachment. He grew accustomed to being more cold and emotionless through the repetitions, but because of that recent regression, he chose to stop embracing that version of himself. This time, he would reclaim his original warmth, though the precise catalyst remained buried in the haze of his memories.
The world stirred around him as consciousness returned. The sun filtered through thin curtains, casting golden motes in the air of his room. Elarion Voss lay in his bed, body young and unscarred, but soul ancient. This was the starting point: his family's estate in Eldoria's countryside, a haven of rolling hills and whispering winds, the morning after his blessings had manifested in that fateful storm. The room was lightly decorated, a reflection of his once-simple tastes—pots of climbing ivy and blooming herbs on shelves, stacks of books on history and mythology that now held ironic truths, and three pet beds at the foot of his four-poster.
He raised his hands to the familiar sight, flexing fingers that had gripped weapons through millennia. A faint smile curved his lips, unpracticed but genuine. For the next month—the first of three before the initial omens of the vessels' stirrings—this would be peace, a joyous interlude in a dying world. The remaining two months would bring preparations for the Academy, but for now, he would immerse in the calm, rebuilding his spirit. Thorne, his massive black hound, snored softly in the largest bed, tail twitching in dreams. Mira, the calico cat, perched on the windowsill, her tail flicking at birds outside. Lir, the fluffy white tom, was absent, likely prowling the halls for imaginary prey.
Elarion sat up, the wooden floor creaking under his feet as he stood. He was eighteen again, chestnut hair tousled, gray eyes stormy with hidden depths. The estate hummed with morning life: distant clatter from kitchens, birdsong weaving through open windows. His family awaited below—Mother with her warm embraces, Father with proud lectures on legacy, and Selene, his younger sister, with her endless curiosity and playful jabs. The temple visit to reveal his visible blessing loomed later that day, but he knew what they would say: only the Blessing of Weapons, the others his secret guardians.
Descending the creaking stairs, he entered the family dining hall, bathed in morning light. The long oak table was set with fresh bread, fruits, and cheeses from the estate's orchards. His mother, Lady Elara Voss, was already there, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun, her eyes lighting up at his approach. She was the heart of the household, a woman of quiet strength who had raised him and Selene with stories of the gods and lessons in compassion.
"Elarion, my dear! You're up early," she said, rising to embrace him. Her hug was warm, familiar, a balm against the cold memories. In countless loops, he had lost her to the vessels' chaos—sometimes collateral in a rift's opening, sometimes targeted by lesser demons. This time, he held her a moment longer, inhaling the scent of lavender from her gardens.
"Just couldn't sleep, Mother," he replied with a genuine smile. It felt foreign after eons of detachment, but he forced it, determined to reclaim his warmth. "The birds were singing too loudly."
She laughed, a melodic sound that echoed through the hall. "Always the poet. Your father is in the study; he's eager for the temple visit today. Whatever blessing you've received, it's already making you glow. And Selene—oh, she's been pestering me all morning about joining us."
As if summoned, Selene bounded into the room, her dark curls bouncing, her dress a whirl of blue fabric. At fourteen, she was a bundle of energy, her gray eyes—mirroring Elarion's—sparkling with mischief. "Brother! Finally awake? I bet your blessing is something amazing, like flying or turning invisible. Tell me, did you feel it last night during the storm? I was up reading, and the whole house shook!"
Elarion chuckled, ruffling her hair as she hugged him. "Patience, little one. We'll find out at the temple. But yes, it was... intense." In past loops, Selene's enthusiasm had been a light in the darkness; he wondered now, with his renewed resolve, how her path might intertwine with his burdens this time.
Father entered then, a sturdy man with a beard flecked in gray, his presence commanding yet kind. "Ah, the blessed one awakens—and his shadow follows!" Sir Galen boomed, clapping Elarion on the shoulder and winking at Selene. "The priests will confirm it soon. With our family's legacy, it's bound to be something grand. Selene, stop badgering your brother; you'll have plenty of time to quiz him later."
Selene stuck out her tongue playfully. "But Father, if Elarion's going to the Academy, who'll tell me stories? You and Mother are too busy with the estate."
Breakfast passed in pleasant conversation, Selene dominating with questions about the gods and blessings, her imagination running wild. Mother spoke of the upcoming village market, where they could gather supplies. Father discussed border tensions, subtle hints of unrest that Elarion knew would tie into the first vessel's emergence in two months. He listened, interjecting with thoughtful comments, his kindness drawing smiles from them all—especially Selene, who beamed when he promised to bring her a new book from the market.
After the meal, the family set out for the temple—a quaint stone building nestled in the nearby village, its spires etched with symbols of the Eleven. The journey was short, along winding paths lined with wildflowers, Selene skipping ahead and pointing out butterflies. Villagers nodded respectfully; the Voss name carried weight here. Inside, the air was thick with incense, altars glowing with soft light. Father Thorne, the elderly priest, greeted them warmly. "Young Elarion, the divine aura clings to you. Let us divine what gifts the gods have bestowed. And little Selene—always a joy to see your curiosity."
The ritual was simple: Elarion knelt, palms up, as the priest chanted and sprinkled holy water. Visions swirled in a basin—images of swords dancing, battles won. "The Blessing of Weapons!" the priest exclaimed. "From the God of Warfare himself. You are proficient beyond measure, a prospect for the Arcane Academy."
His parents beamed, Selene gasping in excitement. "See? I knew it! You'll be the best warrior ever, brother!" Unaware of the hidden layers, they celebrated. Elarion smiled modestly, thanking the gods silently for the secrecy. Regression was his burden alone.
The afternoon brought family time in the gardens. The estate's grounds were a paradise of blooming flowers, winding paths, and a small pond where koi swam lazily. Elarion walked among the roses, Thorne trotting beside him, Mira and Lir darting ahead. Selene joined, linking arms with him. "Tell me more about the Academy. Will there be magic? Dragons? I wish I could go too." Her innocence tugged at him; in some loops, her fate had been tragic, a vessel's ripple claiming her young life.
Training followed in the yard. He selected a longsword, its balance perfect under the Blessing of Weapons. Movements flowed: slashes against dummies, parries against phantoms. Selene watched from the fence, cheering. "You're so fast! Teach me sometime?" His hidden blessings amplified it—intuition guiding strikes, resilience ignoring fatigue. Sweat beaded as he recalled a regression where he dueled the vessel of Warfare's counterpart, a blade-master twisted into a multi-armed horror.
Evenings were for family. Games of chess with Father, where Elarion's strategic mind won gently, Selene providing commentary. Mother taught embroidery, her needles flashing, Selene's attempts comically tangled. Pets curled near, anchors to his sanity.
Days blended: market visits yielding fresh goods and village gossip—subtle undercurrents of strange dreams that hinted at Outer whispers, but too faint yet. Selene haggled for trinkets, her laughter infectious. He helped harvest orchards, hands callusing, Selene stealing apples. Temple returns for guidance, priests praising his visible blessing, Selene asking endless questions.
A week in, a minor festival lit the village. Bonfires crackled; dances swirled. Elarion joined, his kindness drawing partners, Selene twirling beside him. Laughter echoed, a shield against memories.
Nightmares came: reliving deaths to vessels—choked by the Outer God of Death's conduit, a necromancer raising undead legions, Selene's screams in one vision haunting him. He woke, pets comforting.
Mid-month, letters from the Academy arrived, but preparations waited. He focused on the present: riding Shadow through fields with Selene perched behind, feeling wind's freedom.
As the month waned, resolve grew. One month of peace had mended fractures, Selene's presence a reminder of what he fought for. The next two would build for the storm.
In his room that final night, hands raised to the sight then he smiled. The Guardian was renewed.