Silence had weight.
It pressed against the Void like an invisible ocean, thick enough to drown even gods.
No thunder. No clash. No scream of reality tearing itself apart. Only the slow, aching aftermath of power spent beyond limit — the kind of stillness that follows an apocalypse rather than a war.
And within that stillness, four ruined arenas drifted like shattered continents of divinity.
---
I. The Battlefield of Strength and Speed
Kaiser did not fall.
He floated.
His colossal body hung suspended in nothingness, every muscle fiber frozen mid-tremor, as if even the act of existing was now a strain his form could barely endure. His skin — once unbreakable, once an emblem of absolute power — was cracked like ancient stone. Through those fissures seeped molten crimson, slow and luminous, drifting away from him in droplets that glowed like dying stars.
His chest rose, then fell, in shallow, labored cycles — a god reduced to the rhythm of a dying mortal.
The aura that once surrounded him, the oppressive pressure of raw might that bent space itself, was gone. Only a faint shimmer clung to his frame, like the last ember of a fire that had burned too brightly and too long.
Not far from him drifted Savitar.
If Kaiser was ruin carved in stone, Savitar was catastrophe twisted into motion.
His limbs bent at angles that should not exist — joints folded backward, bones fractured in invisible, conceptual ways that made the very idea of anatomy feel wrong. His outline flickered, unstable, as though he were struggling to remain a singular being rather than dissolving into infinite versions of himself.
Around him, motion still trembled.
Ripples of speed looped in tight spirals, trapped in paradoxical cycles that refused to end — afterimages of a god who had outrun eternity itself, now condemned to be chased by it forever.
The air — if such a thing could be said to exist — vibrated with the ghost of his movement. The concept of velocity clung to him like a curse, unwilling to let him rest even in defeat.
They did not look at each other. They could not.
Both were alive.
Both were broken.
Two absolute principles — Strength and Speed — reduced to helpless stillness, their clash having torn them apart from the inside out.
---
II. The Battlefield of Steel and Tide
Here, the Void resembled a drowned foundry.
Shattered constructs drifted aimlessly — colossal gears cracked in half, molten blades frozen mid-cool, fragmented machinery spiraling slowly through space like the debris of a demolished world.
Droplets of water hung in midair, shimmering like scattered pearls, each one a fragment of an ocean that no longer existed.
At the center of this devastation lay Hephaestus.
His divine frame was impaled by his own creations — molten spears that had once been instruments of mastery now embedded deep within his body. The metal hissed as it cooled against his flesh, steam curling upward in ghostly tendrils before fading into nothing.
His infinite forges — once blazing with endless creation — were reduced to blackened slag, drifting around him in jagged, smoldering chunks. The fires that had birthed reality's tools were extinguished, leaving only ash where innovation once roared.
Across the fractured sea hovered Poseidara.
Or what remained of her.
Her once-majestic oceanic form had dissipated into a vast, drifting mist — shimmering, formless, scattered across the void like a forgotten storm. Her trident, symbol of her dominion, lay shattered into three luminous fragments that slowly spiraled away from her.
She tried to rise.
The mist trembled, attempting to coalesce, to reform into something whole — but her waves had forgotten how to flow. The rhythm of tide and current that defined her had been shattered, leaving her essence disoriented and fragmented.
Through the wreckage, they locked gazes.
No hatred remained.
Only recognition.
Two rivals. Two equals. Two forces that had destroyed one another simply by being what they were.
Steel had sought to dominate the tide. The tide had sought to drown the forge.
In the end, both had broken.
---
III. The Battlefield of Spirit and Barrier
This place was eerily quiet — not empty, but haunted.
Thanamira hovered amid a graveyard of souls.
Fragments of her own spectral attacks drifted around her like pale fireflies, flickering in and out of existence. Wisps of ethereal energy trailed from her torn claws, dissipating into the Void like fading memories.
Her eyes — once blazing with otherworldly flame — now dimmed, their light wavering like candles on the brink of extinction. Cracks ran through her spirit-form, faint but unmistakable, as though even the concept of "soul" could be fractured.
Across from her, Aegriya knelt within a shattered dome of sigils.
The protective glyphs that once formed an unbreakable sanctuary now trembled weakly, their glowing lines flickering and faltering. Several seals had pierced her own body — wards that had backfired, turning her defense into a weapon against herself.
Blood — luminous, divine, and heavy with meaning — dripped from her wounds, pooling into glowing runes that slowly dissolved upon contact with the Void.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then their eyes met.
In that fleeting instant, rage was gone.
Pity replaced it.
Two beings who had fought not out of malice, but out of necessity — guardians of spirit and law who had been forced into a war that shattered both.
The silence between them was not peaceful.
It was mournful.
---
IV. The Battlefield of Shadow and Lightning
This part of the Void no longer resembled reality at all.
Half of it was scorched white — burned by an impossible, blinding radiance that had erased the very idea of darkness. The space here felt hollow, raw, stripped of meaning.
The other half was frozen in absolute night — a suffocating black so deep that even existence seemed afraid to touch it.
Between them ran an endless fracture.
A rift of pure gray — neither light nor dark — a wound in reality that stretched infinitely in both directions, as though creation itself had been split down the middle.
At the heart of this divide floated Voltraeus.
His lightning was gone.
His chest was hollowed, not physically, but conceptually — as though the core of his being had been torn out by the recoil of his own final eruption. Faint sparks flickered weakly across his body before fading into nothing.
Beside him drifted Nocturne.
His form was barely more than a silhouette, flickering in and out of cohesion. The edges of his being dissolved into the surrounding darkness, as if the Void itself were slowly reclaiming him.
Where their final clash had collided — light and shadow in absolute opposition — reality had never fully healed.
And it never would.
Their battle had not just scarred existence.
It had changed its nature.
---
V. The Two Who Remained
Amid all this ruin, only two figures were untouched.
Artemis drifted through the devastation like a silent star.
Her form shimmered with calm luminescence — gentle, steady, unbroken. Her eyes did not flinch at the destruction around her; they absorbed it, understood it, cataloged it as part of a greater pattern.
She did not mourn.
Not because she felt nothing — but because she already knew what this moment meant.
Across the periphery hovered Moara.
Her presence was a ripple of dark symbols, shifting runes folding over one another in impossible ways. She moved through the wreckage like a paradox made flesh, neither judge nor participant — merely observer.
Where Arae's curse had torn into the others, it had found no purchase in her.
It had tried to twist her essence, to poison her being — but the labyrinth of her soul devoured it, unraveling the corruption and leaving only silence in its wake.
For a long moment, the Void itself seemed to hold its breath.
The wars of gods were over.
And what remained was not glory.
Only consequence.
The Void trembled faintly beneath their presence, though it had been broken too many times to register true movement. Artemis floated with her usual serenity, a calm river in a sea of shattered divinity. Her luminescent form radiated quiet authority, every gesture precise yet effortless, a primordial intellect shaping reality without touching it.
Moara drifted closer, her runic essence folding in on itself like an infinite labyrinth. Her dark energy twisted, coiling, curling — a tangible representation of paradox. She moved silently, but each of her steps bent the fabric of the Void, ripples trailing like echoes of forbidden mathematics.
They faced one another across the remnants of collapsed battlefields. The fragments of fallen Primordials — molten metal, misted oceans, spectral echoes, fractured light and shadow — hovered between them, suspended like offerings to some cosmic altar. The air — if such a thing could exist here — vibrated with tension, anticipation, the quiet before creation bent once again toward decision.
Artemis extended a hand. Sigils unfurled from her mind, luminous strands weaving into intricate patterns that floated in the nothingness. Each line carried logic, knowledge, understanding — a lattice of thought that could anchor reality itself.
Moara's response was a ripple of shadowed runes, whispering curses too ancient to be named, too deliberate to be chaotic. Her labyrinthine magic coiled around Artemis' geometry, probing it, testing it, seeking a flaw. The interplay was subtle at first, a gentle push and pull of raw concept, but the air hummed with increasing intensity.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Moara's voice was a labyrinth of echoes, folding in on itself. "The fracture beneath the stars, the wound Arae left… It hasn't healed. It waits."
Artemis' glow flared slightly, but her voice remained calm, measured, absolute. "I feel it. I always feel it. That is why we cannot linger in grief. That is why we must bind it before it becomes more than memory."
Moara tilted her head, studying her counterpart. "Bind it? Or bury it? You wield wisdom as a weapon, Artemis, but even you cannot contain the chaos fully. You know that."
"I know," Artemis admitted, her form pulsing like a slow heartbeat in the void. "Which is why we must work together. The remnants of our kin, their essences, their truths… they must converge. Otherwise, the Void itself will remember only ruin."
Moara's dark energy spiraled, reaching out, touching fragments of the fallen — droplets of Poseidara's essence, shards of Hephaestus' forge, streaks of Voltraeus' light, the dissolving shadow of Nocturne. The fragments trembled, bending to her will, yet resisting, whispering fragments of their former selves back into the Void.
Artemis' sigils reacted immediately, wrapping around each fragment like threads of thought, stabilizing, naming, categorizing. "See? Each piece can be understood, each echo accounted for. Even in chaos, there is pattern. Even in ruin, there is potential."
Moara's tone softened for a fraction of an instant, almost imperceptibly. "Potential… or tool? The Chosen, when they rise… they will inherit this. But they will not understand it as we do. They will wield it blindly, and the cycle may repeat."
Artemis tilted her glowing head toward her companion, serene yet sharp. "Then we must teach them. Or rather, we must prepare them. Yggdrasil will be their guide, and through it, the memory of this age will survive. They will not need to understand all at once — only enough to endure."
The two Primordials hovered in perfect equilibrium, the calm eye of a cosmic storm. Around them, fragments of divinity continued to float, suspended in delicate tension. The air hummed with raw potential, like a string pulled taut, vibrating with the resonance of what was lost and what could be rebuilt.
Moara let her runes shimmer faintly, a ripple of forbidden power brushing the edges of the Void. "You are merciful, Artemis. Perhaps too merciful. If Arae were awake, he would have torn this place apart again. Twice over."
Artemis' voice was soft, reverent, yet unwavering. "And that is why Arae sleeps. We do not fight him — not yet. But what we do here, now, will endure. We will prepare the foundation before the inevitable returns."
A slow pulse ran through the Void, the fragments quivering in resonance. It was neither light nor dark, neither order nor chaos, but the promise of continuity — the first seed of a cycle that could survive even the madness of gods.
Moara inclined her head. "Then let us begin. There is work to do, and even the Void can wait no longer for hesitation."
Artemis extended both hands, her sigils extending like rivers of crystal thought, wrapping around the fragments of the fallen. Moara pressed her palm against the same field, her blood-etched runes twisting through the threads of reality, dark and paradoxical. Together, they began weaving — wisdom and curse, order and chaos — shaping the foundation of the world to come.
And as the threads intertwined, the Void seemed to exhale for the first time since the wars began. It was still fractured. It was still raw. But it was no longer entirely dead.
The Void trembled beneath them, a black sea fractured by echoes of a thousand battles. Artemis and Moara hovered above the debris of collapsed divinity, their hands outstretched, weaving together threads of essence and thought.
Every fragment of the fallen responded as if sensing the purpose behind this unspoken ritual. Hephaestus' molten metal still hissed, Poseidara's fragmented waters floated in suspended droplets, Kaiser's blood and Savitar's shattered bones shimmered faintly, and the spectral echoes of Thanamira and Aegriya hovered like forgotten starlight. Even Voltraeus and Nocturne, remnants of light and shadow, lent their dying pulses to the weave.
Artemis' sigils spiraled outward, crystalline and exact, each line a vector of understanding, a lattice of order over chaos. Moara's runes twisted in opposition, the forbidden labyrinth of curse and paradox slicing through reality itself, reshaping it at her will. Where Moara's darkness threatened to unravel, Artemis' light anchored. Where Artemis' structure risked rigidity, Moara's chaos gave it fluidity. Together, they danced along the edge of creation and destruction, each complementing the other in perfect balance.
Artemis whispered, her voice a soft wind across the void, intimate yet reverent. "Each fragment carries memory. Each drop of essence carries history. We will not waste it. We will fold it into a root that remembers, that endures, that guides."
Moara's voice coiled around hers, dark and melodic, like shadows stretching across glass. "The curse will not be forgotten, nor should it. Every echo of Arae's madness must be preserved… but tempered, so it no longer consumes."
The first threads of Yggdrasil began to appear: a trunk of glass-like thought, transparent yet unbreakably solid, reaching infinitely in both directions. Its roots curled outward, plunging through fragments of fallen divinity, drinking in memory, essence, and power. With each rotation, branches unfolded, fractal in design, splitting endlessly into streams that defied linear space — rivers of creation, weaving through the fractured void like veins of potential.
Artemis' hands glowed with the soft intensity of wisdom made tangible. Every pulse of her mind sent ripples of logic along the trunk, embedding knowledge, patterns, laws of reality that could survive even the return of chaos.
Moara pressed her bloodied hand against the emerging bark, the thick black essence of her curse bleeding into the structure. Every drop whispered of paradox, of pain, of lessons learned through suffering and ruin. "Let the seed remember suffering… let it guide the Chosen to endure."
The void shuddered as the tree grew, its branches stretching outward, fracturing the empty black into a lattice of potential. Each leaf carried the distilled essence of a fallen Primordial: strength, motion, machinery, water, soul, barrier, light, and shadow. They shimmered faintly, trapped in the crystallized trunk, yet alive with memory.
Artemis extended her mind into the structure itself, weaving recursive patterns that could encode thought, choice, and destiny. "When the Chosen awaken," she said softly, "they will inherit not just power, but understanding. They will carry the history of this age, the triumph and the ruin, within their essence. And when Arae returns, they will not be unprepared."
Moara's labyrinthine magic spiraled through the roots and branches, ensuring the curse remained, yet contained, a dark heartbeat beneath the light. "They will feel the weight of their purpose, and yet endure it. Each echo of divinity, each shard of failure, will forge them."
The first leaves unfolded fully, fractal prisms reflecting both light and shadow. Each leaf whispered of the Primordials who had fallen, of lessons carved in blood, bone, and spirit. The Void began to breathe in response, slowly, deliberately — a living lattice of memory stretching across infinity.
Artemis lowered her hands, and the soft hum of her thought lingered in the Void. "Yggdrasil is born. From its roots will rise ten souls — Chosen of the Cycle. Each one will carry fragments of those who came before, tempered by knowledge, guided by wisdom, and strengthened against madness."
Moara stepped back, her runes dimming, her power folding inward like a closing spiral. "The cycle begins. Let the Chosen inherit our purpose… and our sins."
Together, they watched as the World-Root pulsed, light and shadow intertwined, wisdom and curse coexisting in fragile harmony. Across the Void, the fragments of fallen Primordials stirred faintly — not as gods, but as echoes remembered, their memory woven into the spine of creation.
Artemis' voice, soft and intimate, carried across the void, reaching far beyond the mortal and the divine: "Balance is preserved. The memory of the Primordials, the lessons of ruin and endurance… they will live. And through Yggdrasil, they will guide the Chosen to what must come next."
Moara inclined her head, darkness folding around her in quiet approval. "The Void is fractured… but not lost. The Cycle endures."
And for the first time since the wars of gods, silence reigned — not the absence of sound, but the presence of purpose. A cosmic heartbeat echoed in the empty spaces, Yggdrasil standing as the living spine of all reality, prepared to cradle the next age.
Shojiro drifted. His limbs felt weightless, though he could feel every pulse of the void as if it were a tide against his chest. His mind, still echoing with the divine resonance of the fallen Primordials, could barely focus—yet a single voice anchored him.
Artemis.
She moved ahead of him, luminous, serene, her form a soft glow against the fractured black. Each step she took across the roots of Yggdrasil rippled reality itself, bending space and memory around her. Shojiro could only follow, mesmerized, heart hammering, unable to speak, unable to act. Every instinct in him screamed to reach out, to ask, to speak, but he remained suspended in awe—and in love.
"You are seeing the spine of reality, Shojiro," Artemis said, voice intimate, soft, as if she were in the very marrow of his bones. "Everything that has ever been, everything that may yet be, flows through this tree. Even the Primordials who fell… even their curses… are recorded here."
Shojiro's eyes followed the fractal branches, each one splitting endlessly, carrying glowing leaves that shimmered with echoes of strength, speed, flow, machinery, shadow, and light. The sheer immensity of it made him dizzy—but it made him want to fall to his knees, to beg Artemis to never leave his side.
"You may feel tempted," she continued, her voice caressing his very thoughts, "to cling to me. To believe that what you feel for me… is something you can hold."
Shojiro's chest tightened. His heart throbbed violently, and for the briefest instant, he wanted to scream, to ask her—anything. But her calm, unwavering presence held him in place, suspended like a leaf on the wind.
"I know," she said softly, and it was like she had plucked the thought right from his mind, "exactly what you are thinking. And it is… natural. But do not let attachment blind you. My purpose is not to be yours, Shojiro. I am a guide, a witness, a shepherd of memory and wisdom. Not a prize to be claimed."
Shojiro could do nothing but watch, utterly helpless, as she traced her fingers along a glowing leaf. Where her touch passed, the leaf shivered, and the echoes of the Primordials' essence pulsed brighter, their memories aligning, harmonizing under her careful guidance.
"Look," she whispered, pointing to a root that spiraled impossibly downward. "Here lie the first fragments of the Chosen. Ten spirits that will inherit the lessons, the strengths, and the curses of what has fallen. You will witness their birth—not as a mortal controlling them, but as one who will walk with them, who will understand their purpose before it even begins."
Shojiro felt the pull of awe and desire coiling together in his chest. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch, to speak, to ask for… everything—but every fiber of his being was caught in the gravity of her presence. He could only observe, follow, and surrender to the irresistible pull.
"And yet," Artemis continued, turning slightly so her luminous eyes seemed to bore into his soul, "even as you follow, even as you learn, you must remember: attachment will shatter clarity. Love will blind judgment. Reverence does not bind the heart; understanding does."
Her words washed over him like liquid light. His mind expanded, tasting the knowledge woven into Yggdrasil, feeling the pulse of divine memory flowing from the leaves, through the roots, into his very consciousness. Every beat of the tree echoed in him, every fragment of a fallen god's essence passed through his awareness. He understood… incompletely, yet fully, what it meant to witness creation and destruction intertwined.
Shojiro's chest swelled with a rush of emotion he could not name. It was awe, it was love, it was helplessness, and it was devotion—his heart had no choice but to surrender. He could not question, could not move faster, could not act beyond following her. And yet, it was enough.
Artemis' voice softened even further, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret with a universe only Shojiro could hear. "Do you see, dear reader?" she said suddenly, tilting her gaze as if past the void itself. "He cannot speak. He cannot act. Yet here he is, entirely captivated. And you, too, must follow—not because you will understand completely, but because you are meant to witness what is greater than comprehension itself. Even in his love, Shojiro learns."
The Primordial of Wisdom smiled faintly, the glow of her form spreading like a soft tide over the void. Shojiro floated behind her, heart pounding, senses overwhelmed, utterly under her guidance. Every step along Yggdrasil's branches, every pulse of memory, every fragment of the fallen became a lesson, a rhythm, a heartbeat.
And Shojiro knew, even without being able to say it, that he would follow her through every pulse of creation and destruction, every breath of wisdom and curse, until the end of all things.
Shojiro drifted again, but this time the glow of Yggdrasil's branches no longer felt entirely comforting. Each pulse from the tree sent a ripple through the void, carrying whispers of lives that had yet to exist—or that were already forgotten. Artemis' luminous form glided beside him, calm, luminous, and utterly unshaken by the shadows he was about to witness.
"Shojiro," she began, her voice gentle yet resonant, "you will see what is to come. Do not reach, do not cling. Watch, and understand. These are the echoes of those who will walk the path you will follow, each in their own trial, each with a fate that will carve the shape of this world."
Her hand traced an arc through the darkness, and a scene unfolded. The first shadow appeared, tall, broad-shouldered—a male figure. His form shimmered like smoke, yet resolute.
"_______'s death" Artemis intoned. "He will meet a berserker unlike any other. Strength unbound, fury incarnate. And it will be his end."
The shadow moved across an endless battlefield, a silent storm of chaos swirling around him. Fist clashed, bones shattered, and creatures beyond comprehension screamed into the void. The shadow lifted his arms, then staggered. A blow, unseen yet final, sent him sprawling. He fell forward, swallowed by darkness, his silhouette trembling—and Shojiro knew, even without hearing it, knew that this was his death.
Artemis' hand moved again, the void folding like water. Another shadow emerged, this one encased in a mechanical frame, a hulking mech.
"____'s death," she whispered, "sacrificing himself in fire and ruin to stop the tide of demons that would devour what we love."
Shojiro watched as the figure climbed into the cockpit. Light flared from the core of the machine, bright enough to erase the edges of the void. A nuclear pulse radiated outward, swallowing the shadow. He could see the outline of the mech distorting, bending inwards as the energy consumed it, the figure's hand extending for one last moment—an offering to save countless lives. Then nothing remained but a fading pulse of light.
A faint ripple, and another shadow emerged. Smaller, hunched, a male figure. The air hummed around him, charged with unnatural electricity.
"______'s death will come by lightning," Artemis intoned. "A bolt from heaven, swift and unerring. He will not falter; he will not struggle. But fate is absolute, and it strikes all."
The shadow raised his hands as the storm above gathered. Electricity danced along the edges of his form, reflecting in shards across the void. The strike came—a perfect line of absolute ebony—and he was gone, leaving only a crackling echo of where he had been. Shojiro shivered as the raw finality of it sank into him.
Another shadow descended into the void, dark and heavy, the outline of a submarine surrounding him.
"___'s death," Artemis murmured, "will be deep, beneath oceans that remember no names. The weight of water will crush him. He will fight until the hull implodes, and still the sea will claim him."
Shojiro could see the vessel groaning, seams splitting, lights flickering like stars dying. The figure braced himself, trying to hold the pressure—but reality bent. Metal screamed, and the shadow dissolved into a wave of bubbles and echoes. The ocean swallowed him, leaving nothing to mark his sacrifice.
Then came another, taller, less defined. Artemis' voice softened.
"_____'s death is different. He will give himself to seal a darkness that cannot speak. And yet… the story does not end with him. The torch passes, unbroken, even if his shadow fades."
Shojiro could feel the energy of the passing flame, like a heartbeat transferring from one vessel to another. The shadow crouched, pressing a hand to a sigil glowing faintly on the void floor. Light poured from the mark, and the figure's outline dissolved into it—but another, smaller shadow stepped forward to inherit what he had wrought.
Next, a female silhouette, delicate yet strong. Artemis' tone carried a touch of sorrow.
"_____'s death," she whispered, "will come from a mistake. She will confront what she believes is a spirit, only to discover too late the truth. A demon in disguise, and her resolve will cost her life."
The shadow moved, reaching for a form that shimmered as if unreal. But the figure recoiled, an unseen force striking her down. Her body fell in slow motion, light fading along the edges of her silhouette. Shojiro's stomach twisted at the injustice, yet Artemis' calm voice reminded him: observation first, judgment later.
Another male shadow appeared. Artemis' voice was steady, almost reverent.
"________'s death comes in protection. A child, innocent and trembling, will face a threat he cannot deny. He will stand, and the blow meant for another will find him. His sacrifice will save what must live."
Shojiro watched as the shadow threw himself in front of a demon, light and shadow colliding. His figure crumpled, chest torn, hands grasping nothing as the demon's claws sank in. He faded into black mist, leaving only the echo of courage behind.
A female shadow followed. Artemis' voice softened again.
"______'s death is fragile, ephemeral. She will suffer a seizure, a betrayal of her own vessel, and the world will not wait. Yet her mind will imprint itself upon those who follow."
The shadow collapsed mid-step, her limbs trembling, eyes flickering as if struggling to remain tethered. Her form wavered like smoke, then stabilized, leaving only the faint hum of her will in the void.
Another female silhouette emerged. Artemis' tone was gentle, almost a lullaby.
"_______'s death will come beneath the weight of countless foes. She will fight to her last breath, overwhelmed, yet she will inspire those who witness her stand."
Shojiro could see her surrounded by demons, each shadow clawing and snapping. She fought, spinning, striking, and yet every moment she grew dimmer, her energy bleeding into the void. Finally, she collapsed, a silhouette fraying at the edges, leaving an imprint of defiance.
The penultimate shadow was strange, different. Time itself seemed wrong. Artemis' voice echoed as though from another universe.
"_____'s death… is not here. It bends, twists, diverges. You will see him elsewhere, Shojiro, in another path, another reality. The end will wait for a different sun."
Shojiro's head spun as the shadow's outline fractured and reformed, looping, skipping, and rearranging itself in impossible ways. The pattern made no sense, yet he understood it was a warning: some fates are beyond one's comprehension.
Finally, the last shadow, female, delicate yet luminous in the void. Artemis' voice softened to a whisper that seemed to echo from the roots of Yggdrasil itself.
"____'s death is a promise unfulfilled. You will meet them when the time is right. All are shadows now, but they will walk into light—guided by the lessons of their ends."
Shojiro floated silently, absorbing, following, understanding. He no longer felt the pull of desire for Artemis as sharply. Awe and reverence replaced the ache of love—he was witness, student, and participant in a tapestry of fate.
Artemis' hand swept through the void, and all the shadows dissolved, leaving only echoes—imprints of sacrifice, of courage, of mistakes, of inevitability.
"You see now, Shojiro," she whispered, her voice touching his mind like a soft wind, "all beginnings carry their ends. And all ends carry the seeds of beginnings. They will rise. They will fall. And when the time is right… you will meet them."
Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes luminous pools of wisdom. "Remember this, even if you forget my voice, even if you forget the paths you have seen. Life, death, sacrifice, rebirth—they are threads woven through the same loom. And you… you are a witness, chosen not to act yet, but to understand. To remember. To follow."
Then, almost imperceptibly, she tilted her gaze beyond him, addressing not just Shojiro, but the very fabric of the void.
"And you, dear reader," she murmured, her lips never moving yet her words resonating in every shadow, "watch closely. You may think you know what is to come, but fate is patient. Even the shadows will teach you things you cannot yet see."
Shojiro floated, silent, reverent, and ready. Not in love, not yet in awe—but tethered to the first true glimpse of what would one day shape him, the ten Chosen, and the endless cycle of Yggdrasil.