Talus remembers when he trained on Planet Cotala in the Spirit Realm:
Talus closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, allowing the cool air of the Spirit Realm to fill his lungs. The ground beneath him was smooth, polished stone, radiating an ancient energy that pulsed with life. He stood atop the Celestial Spire of Cotala, a sacred mountain where the spirits of warriors past whispered their wisdom to those willing to listen.
Master Orin, his mentor, observed him in silence. The elder spirit was clad in robes of flowing white, his translucent form shifting ever so slightly with the wind. "Talus," he called, his voice like a distant echo, "do you remember the first lesson of the Spirit Realm?" Talus opened his eyes. "Strength is not just of the body but of the mind and soul," he recited. Orin nodded approvingly. "Good. And yet, you still fight with hesitation." The words stung, but Talus knew them to be true. He had fought countless battles in the material world, yet here, where willpower shaped reality, his movements felt sluggish, uncertain.
Orin gestured toward the sky. "Your power is not drawn from mere muscle but from the balance within. Show me—strike!" Talus focused, summoning his energy. A golden aura flared around his fists as he stepped forward, channeling his strength into a single punch. The air rippled, and a burst of force shot outward. The mountain trembled slightly. Orin sighed. "Still bound by mortal limitations." Before Talus could react, the elder spirit moved—his form blurring like mist. In an instant, he was behind Talus. A single tap to his back sent Talus hurtling forward, tumbling across the stone floor. "Again," Orin commanded. Talus gritted his teeth and stood. The training had been relentless, yet he had learned more here in days than in years of battle elsewhere. Cotala was unlike any world he had known—a realm where thoughts shaped reality, where the true measure of a warrior was not in strength alone but in mastery over oneself.
This was where he would become more than just a warrior. Here, he would ascend. When Talus had completed his training on Planet Cotala, the spirit realm resonated with celestial harmony. The winds carried whispers of ancient sages, and the mountains gleamed with divine light. The spirit masters gathered at the Summit of Reflection, where the trials of the realm had come to an end, and balance had been restored.
Master Orin stood at the center of the celestial court, his robes flowing like liquid starlight. He raised his hand, and the assembled spirits fell silent. "Talus," he declared, his voice echoing across the sacred land, "your journey has been long, and your trials have tested the depths of your soul. You have fought illusions and conquered your fears. You have tempered your spirit and mastered the will of the realm. Now, your fate shall be revealed." Talus stepped forward, his heart steady, yet his mind brimming with anticipation. The great spirits turned their eyes toward him, their forms shimmering like ethereal flames.
"In your past life, you walked the path of war," Orin continued. "You were a blade in the hands of fate, a warrior unchained. But you were reckless, untempered by wisdom. Because of this, the cosmos cast you into the mortal realm, where you would learn the balance of power and restraint. Now, through discipline and understanding, you have reclaimed your true self."
He raised his staff, and a radiant sigil formed in the air. "You shall be known henceforth as the Spirit Guardian of Equilibrium. You are no longer bound by the weight of your past sins but uplifted by the wisdom you have gained." Talus lowered his head in reverence as the sigil descended upon him, merging with his soul. A rush of energy surged through him, illuminating his being. He could feel the realm itself welcoming him as a protector, no longer an exile.
"And you, Aedra," Orin turned to his companion, the fierce and loyal warrior who had fought beside him in the trials, "once you were a wandering spirit, lost between worlds. Through courage and devotion, you found your purpose. You shall be known as the Keeper of Celestial Gates." Aedra bowed deeply, her fiery gaze unwavering. "I accept this honor with gratitude, Master Orin."
"As for you, Draxus," Orin said, his voice carrying a hint of mirth, "you have fulfilled your duties as a guide, though your heart still clings to the indulgences of the material world. Your efforts shall not go unrewarded—you will be named the Guardian of the Hidden Archives, where you may forever explore the mysteries of existence." Draxus smirked, scratching his head. "Well, I suppose I could live with that." The ceremony concluded as the celestial bells rang, marking the ascension of the warriors who had passed the trials. Talus looked around, his soul at peace. The journey through Cotala had ended, but a new path lay ahead—a path not of exile, but of purpose. Thus, the Spirit Realm embraced its new guardian, and Talus, once a warrior without direction, became a legend among the stars.
Hermes [the Prophet] has a strange dream:
Hermes drifted in the tides of the Unseen.
Time unraveled before her—not as a river, but as a great and shifting sea. The currents carried her across centuries, across epochs of dust and fire. A voice, neither male nor female, neither young nor old, whispered in the depths of her mind.
"You see, but do not see. You know, but do not know." And then, the visions came. A wooden beam, rough against bleeding hands. A desert wind blowing through an ancient city, its streets thronged with the sick, the lost, the desperate. A man walked among them, his robe heavy with dust, his words soft yet unyielding. His face was obscured by light, but she knew. He who spoke in parables. He who bore the sins of the world. The scene shifted. A prince in golden silk sat beneath the bodhi tree, his eyes half-closed, yet seeing beyond sight. Around him, the world trembled, the fabric of existence bending under the weight of realization. The illusion of self, the turning of the wheel—he had awoken. Another shift. A cave, cold and dark, where a man knelt in solitude. A voice, not of this world, but of something vast, infinite, beyond the veil of perception. He trembled, yet he listened. And then, he spoke. Words that would shape empires. The seal of the prophets, the bearer of the final call. The visions surged forward, unrelenting.
Red banners unfurled in the streets of Petrograd, fire gleamed in the eyes of those who had cast down kings. The Tsar's palace lay in ruin, the people's voice had become a hammer. But behind the fervor, behind the cries of revolution, Hermes saw shadows moving—the machinery of history grinding forward, indifferent to those it consumed. Then—war. Men climbed from trenches, bayonets fixed, their bodies swallowed by mud and gas. A great war, the first of its kind, but not the last. The Earth drank the blood of millions. The world reshaped itself in fire.
And then—another war. Cities burned. The sky wept black smoke. A man in a dark uniform raised his arm, his voice commanding legions. His words, once mere rhetoric, had become scripture to the damned. His name would echo through eternity as a warning. Adolf Hitler. A hammer and sickle cast their shadow over half the world. A mustached figure, his hands dripping with unseen blood, watched from a podium. His eyes, dark and bottomless, held no remorse. Stalin. The world burned again. And then cosmic wars in other realms who burned under the rule of unknown tyrants.
And then—something else. And then a mysterious voice cried out: "I was a treasure that wished to be known, so I created the world so that I could be known." And then the voice stated further: "So I came to that world, so that I would be known." A glimpse of a future unseen. Vague, terrible. Machines towering like gods, their forms wreathed in iron and fire. Armies of nameless soldiers, their faces obscured by helms of steel, fighting wars without end. A crusade across the stars. The voice returned, deep and unfathomable. "The wheel turns. The path repeats. You stand upon the precipice of eternity, Prophet of God." She saw herself. Her hands, open, trembling. A hundred, a thousand faces looking to her for guidance. Her descendants—shadowed, uncertain, but there. A lineage of prophets, warriors, dreamers. And at the center of it all—Him. A presence vast, unfathomable, radiant beyond measure. Not merely an entity, not merely a god, but something greater. The dream shuddered as His words filled the void, deep as the abyss and bright as the newborn sun.
"I am a treasure that wishes to be known."