At the edges of the cosmos, where light reaches only as faint traces and where time loses its usual sharpness, the realms settled into a balance not built on rigidity, but on habituation. That balance was not the result of perfection, but of the absence of alternatives. And when I appeared, I did not break it deliberately, but revealed its fragility.
The power I carried was not meant to be used in moderation. It exceeded necessity, preceding the very system that tried to contain it. Over time, it transformed from a tool of confrontation into a burden of existence.
I could no longer distinguish between action and its consequence, nor between decision and impulse. And when I faced the higher entities, it was not a struggle between tyranny and justice, but between a force that had gone beyond its framework and a system incapable of containing it.
Their decision to divide my power across thirty realms was not mere revenge. It was an attempt to redistribute the imbalance rather than correct it. They left me half of what I once had—not out of mercy, but as a constant reminder that deficiency had become my new state.
The remaining half was sealed within a mask, fractured into thirty fragments, each entrusted to a chosen champion across the thirty realms.
Not to protect the realms from me—
but to protect that power from ever becoming whole again.
My first destination was the world of Nirvana.
Nirvana was not a perfect world, but it appeared so from afar. Its serenity was not the absence of conflict, but the success of becoming invisible. Everything in it was calculated: the light, the nature, even the silence.
A world that had learned how to conceal tension behind precise equilibrium.
I did not go to Nirvana out of curiosity, but because a portion of my power had settled there, bound to the existence of a guardian of that world. The guardian was not merely a fighter, but an active component in maintaining that balance. Seraphim.
He was not a legendary figure as local tales described, but an individual placed in a role greater than himself. His power did not stem from innate superiority, but from his deep integration with Nirvana's structure. He drew his energy from light—not merely as a combat element, but as an ethical and organizational reference. Light, for him, was not a weapon, but a way of thinking.
His sword did not fully belong to him. It was a vessel, containing a portion of the power taken from me, altered by time and the world it had settled in.
Retrieving it would not be mere reclamation, but a confrontation with a version of myself that had become different.
I did not rush toward him directly. I spent my time observing the world—not just to find weaknesses, but to understand his relationship with it. The forests, rivers, ancient temples—they were not aesthetic elements, but components of a memory system. Everything in Nirvana retains traces of the past, and every trace contributes to maintaining balance.
Within one of the ancient temples, I found inscriptions that did not speak of heroism, but of roles. The texts did not glorify Seraphim, but explained how he became necessary. I realized then that his power was not intrinsic, but conditional—tied to light, to place, and to his belief that what he did was the only possible choice.
Darkness was not his enemy because it was evil, but because it disrupted this certainty.
I did not plan a swift battle. If a confrontation were to occur, it had to be at a moment when the system itself stood witness. And so I withdrew temporarily, continuing my observation.
Seraphim was not oblivious. He prepared—not out of fear, but out of duty. He reinforced his defenses, reorganized his fortress, and increased his reliance on light as a source of strength and control. With him was another force, less visible but more connected to the world: the Forest Guardian.
Serena was not a fighter, but a living memory of Nirvana. Her knowledge of the world was not technical, but intuitive. She saw what was unspoken and understood what was unwritten. Her role was not provocative, but guiding. She did not tell Seraphim how to defeat me, but how to maintain the cohesion of his world.
Over time, I began to notice that Nirvana itself was interacting with my presence. The trees, the waters, even the silence were not neutral. They did not try to expel me, but to understand me. It was as if this world, unlike others, did not see me as an immediate threat, but as a possibility.
Only then did it become clear to me that this confrontation could not be resolved by force alone.
If I reclaimed this portion of my power through coercion, I would reproduce the same imbalance.
And if I left it, I would remain incomplete forever.
Nirvana was not merely the first world in my journey, but the first true test of my new decision:
Would I regain my power to continue what I had begun,
or would I understand why completeness was never possible in the first place?
This was not the beginning of a battle.
It was the beginning of reflection.
And the cosmic system, without realizing it, was about to be asked a question never before posed.