Shojiro drifted in a void that felt neither empty nor full. Time had no meaning here; his body felt weightless, yet tethered, as though every atom of his being were suspended on invisible threads. The darkness of Arae's world had receded, leaving only a hollow echo — the faint aftertaste of screams, the lingering stain of spilled ichor, the memory of shapes that should never have existed.
And then, as if the universe itself had exhaled, a new presence arrived.
It was not light in any sense Shojiro had known. Not the warm gold of a sunrise, not the pale silver of moonlight, nor the harsh brilliance of lightning. This light was precise, geometric, almost surgical. Circles intersected at impossible angles, lines shimmered like living glyphs, and planes of radiant energy folded over each other in impossible arrangements, forming a lattice of comprehension itself.
From within this brilliance, a voice spoke. Not in his ears, but inside him — threading through his thoughts, touching the core of his consciousness.
"Shojiro Momo… the truth you must know is not one of myth — but of system. Creation is a machine, and every piece must move to balance the weight of Arae's corruption."
The tone was calm, resonant, absolute. Shojiro recognized it immediately. Artemis. But this was not the Artemis who whispered playfully, or who spoke to him with wry humor, or even who guided him through trials. This Artemis was the embodiment of thought made tangible — infinite knowledge distilled into a voice that bent reality itself.
Shojiro could only watch as the light folded itself into a moving tapestry. Threads of gold and silver wove across the void, forming shapes, symbols, patterns, histories. He saw no single image, yet everything unfolded at once.
"Before you," Artemis continued, "is the architecture of eternity. Every act, every being, every drop of blood ever spilled, every choice ever made… is a cog in a system designed to preserve balance. The Corruption of Arae is not chaos alone; it is inevitability. And inevitability demands correction."
The tapestry pulsed, and Shojiro's mind followed it. He saw the first hints of creation after Arae had been bound. A void twisted, turned, and then resolved into forms — subtle at first, delicate as breath. Streams of energy bent, spiraled, and coalesced into matter. Stars blinked into existence, not as flames, but as points of pure, concentrated thought. Planets formed from the threads of logic and law, each rotation, each orbit perfectly calculated — a silent testament to the precision of Primordial design.
Shojiro felt a pull at the edges of his awareness. This was more than observation; it was participation. Every thread of the tapestry brushed against him, embedding fragments of knowledge, echoes of intent, the blueprint of existence itself. He understood, without thinking, that Arae's corruption had left gaps, weak points — flaws that could unravel entire planes of being. And he understood, just as clearly, that what was to come would rely on those gaps, on those flaws, on the meticulous weaving of the Primordials.
"The universe cannot destroy what has already been defined," Artemis explained. "Even Arae, broken and bound, still exists. Existence itself is his loophole. Every thousand years, his corruption resurfaces — carried through dreams, echoes, and decay."
The tapestry shifted again, showing the Primordials as they had first witnessed Arae's spawn in Purgatory. Their faces were masks of dread, their movements deliberate but helpless. Shojiro could see it all: the first abominations rising from blood and defiance, the malformed shapes crawling through reality's cracks, the hunger and malice that refused to be contained.
"We saw his spawn born of ichor and defiance. We saw his hunger reaching beyond the cage. And we knew… no prison lasts forever."
The golden threads rippled. Yggdrasil's roots glowed faintly, like veins carrying the lifeblood of the universe itself. Shojiro realized that the roots were not passive — they were instruments, sentinels, sentient and patient. They remembered everything, even when the world forgot.
"So, we created a failsafe," Artemis continued. "A self-correcting law built into the roots of Yggdrasil — the Cycle of Chosen. Every thousand years, when Arae's forces breach the mortal plane, Yggdrasil will awaken its fruit. The kins of the Primordials — our blood, our echoes, our legacy — will rise."
Images appeared: humans, mortals, seemingly ordinary in every way, yet their eyes shimmered with faint traces of divine light. Shojiro's chest tightened as he realized that these were not just echoes, not just fragments — they were instruments of resistance, born to confront inevitable evil.
"They are not reincarnations. They are not successors. They are the continuation — the necessary resistance to the inevitable corruption."
Shojiro's gaze lingered on the tapestry. Warriors, scholars, children, mothers, kings — all rose and fell in an unbroken rhythm across centuries. Each cycle bore the weight of the last, each generation stronger, yet burdened with greater responsibility.
"The universe cannot unmake what has been sealed. Even Arae, broken and buried, still breathes within his cage. His curse festers across the ages — growing stronger every thousand years. To counter his rise, we — the Primordials — forged a law into existence: the Cycle of Chosen."
Shojiro felt the enormity of it all pressing against his soul. The tapestry spun, showing a lone warrior standing against overwhelming odds, then two, then ten — the Chosen of each age, growing in strength, resilience, and purpose. Each spark of resistance was fragile, yet unyielding, a testament to the persistence of life and will.
"Sometimes," Artemis added, "when the balance falters, we create new entities — Primordial Offshoots. Lesser echoes of our existence, born to assist the Chosen. But once their duty is done, they too fade… leaving only faint ripples in eternity."
Shojiro saw beings flicker into existence — radiant sparks of divine intervention — their light blazing for moments, then vanishing. Every flash reminded him of fragility, impermanence, and the cost of intervention.
"Even so," Artemis said softly, "Arae's curse extends beyond the flesh. Every cycle ends, and the world forgets. Mortals forget the Chosen, forget the wars, forget the deaths. Only Yggdrasil remembers. Only the roots whisper of what came before."
Shojiro clenched his fists. Entire generations — heroes, saviors, Chosen of old — erased by the passing of time, their names and deeds swallowed by silence. Yet through it all, the roots pulsed, glowing faintly, a steady heartbeat beneath the chaos.
"With each passing millennium, Arae's seal weakens. His cunning evolves. By the three-hundredth cycle, even the laws of reality will tremble beneath him. That is your cycle, Shojiro — the Damned Ten."
Nine shadows appeared beside him, indistinct but tangible, outlines of the others who would share this burden. Their presence was a weight in his chest, a silent reminder of the scale of the task ahead.
"You are not chosen by fate… but by necessity. You exist because the universe demanded resistance. Because without you — the seal breaks."
Shojiro's breath caught. He had glimpsed the horror of the past, the inevitability of Arae's corruption, and now the burden of the future was laid upon him. Yet despite the enormity, despite the fear and despair, a spark of awe lingered. He was witnessing not just history, not just prophecy, but the careful, deliberate weaving of existence itself.
And through it all, Artemis's voice remained, a constant thread in the vast tapestry of light: calm, absolute, unyielding — the voice of understanding, and of the universe itself.
Shojiro's vision shifted again. The golden lattice of Artemis' light expanded, folding outward into infinity. The void behind him vanished entirely, replaced by a vast network of roots and branches — Yggdrasil itself, pulsing with the heartbeat of a newborn cosmos.
Each vein shimmered with living intelligence. Shojiro realized these roots were more than conduits of power — they were memory made tangible, recording everything that had ever been and everything that could yet be.
"The universe cannot destroy what has already been defined," Artemis said, her voice threading through his mind, merging with the hum of the roots. "Even Arae, broken and bound, still exists. Existence itself is his loophole. Every thousand years, his corruption resurfaces — carried through dreams, echoes, and decay."
Shojiro saw it then — a drop of dark ichor drifting like a comet through the conceptual void. Shapes began to form around it: grotesque, writhing, hungry. Arae's children. His spawn, trapped in the layers of Yggdrasil's roots, waiting for cracks in reality to spread wide enough for their escape.
"We saw his spawn born of ichor and defiance," Artemis continued, "and we knew no prison lasts forever. Even Purgatory could not contain him entirely. Something had to endure, even when all else failed."
The golden light shifted again. Shojiro saw tiny figures scattered across the branches and roots. At first, they were barely more than outlines — flickering sparks of life. But gradually, their forms solidified: humans, children of the mortal plane, carrying faint traces of divine power.
"The Cycle of Chosen," Artemis said, "a self-correcting law embedded into the roots of Yggdrasil. Every thousand years, when Arae's corruption breaches the mortal plane, Yggdrasil awakens its fruit. Our blood, our essence, our legacy — carried into the world as mortal flesh."
Shojiro's heart raced. These were mortals, yet they held fragments of the Primordials' power — strength, shadow, flame, spirit, thought — calibrated to resist the inevitable return of Arae.
"They are not reincarnations. They are not successors," Artemis clarified, "but continuations. Necessity made flesh. Without them, the seal would fail, and the corruption would spread unchecked."
The tapestry shifted again. Shojiro saw generations unfold before him: one warrior rose, fought alone, fell, and vanished. Another appeared, then another. Each built upon the legacy of the last. Centuries passed in moments, cycles of rising and falling replayed endlessly across the branches of Yggdrasil.
"Each cycle births a fixed number of Chosen," Artemis said. "The count cannot diminish — only rise. As Arae's strength grows, so too must the will that opposes him."
Shojiro's gaze lingered on one figure: a lone warrior wielding a faint shard of light against a mass of shadows. Another appeared beside him, then ten, each carrying fragments of the Primordials' essence. The vision flickered, showing cycles repeating — always facing the impossible struggle, rising, falling, and rising again.
Artemis' voice threaded through his mind. "We cannot intervene directly. Even the touch of a Primordial would tear the mortal plane apart. Our influence is subtle. A fragment here, a spark of guidance there. The rest is left to their courage, their will."
Shojiro felt the weight of it. The Primordials had built laws, cosmos, Yggdrasil itself — and yet they could not fight alongside the mortals. Every action had consequences too great to risk. The Chosen bore the burden of Arae's resurgence alone.
"Sometimes," Artemis continued, "when the balance falters, we create Primordial Offshoots — lesser echoes of our existence. They appear to aid the Chosen for a cycle. But even they are fleeting. Once their duty ends, they vanish, leaving only whispers in the roots."
Shojiro watched sparks flicker — radiant beings that guided the Chosen for brief moments before dissolving into nothing. But there was one cycle that stood apart: the Perfect 7.
"Long ago," Artemis said, "the first cycle of Chosen to receive full shards — though not from us directly, but from our offshoots — became the Perfect 7. By anomaly or design, these offshoots were as strong, or even stronger, than the original Primordials. That cycle alone bore full shards and faced Arae's darkness with power unprecedented."
Shojiro blinked, heart hammering. A cycle of mortals — imbued with offshoot shards, not the original Primordials' — had achieved something the universe had never seen again. He saw them rise, fight, and leave a legend, their power unparalleled but fleeting.
"But," Artemis continued, "after the Perfect 7, the offshoots returned to their normal strength. No other cycle would ever hold full shards until your own — the Damned Ten. You are the first since that time to carry the unbroken fragments of the original Primordials."
The light dimmed. Shojiro saw generations rise and vanish: Chosen fighting, failing, and forgotten. Statues crumbled. Cities fell. Names vanished. Memory itself eroded. Only Yggdrasil remembered.
"Every cycle ends this way," Artemis said, "for Arae's curse extends beyond flesh and time. The world forgets, and the Chosen are erased from history. Only the roots whisper of what came before."
Shojiro clenched his fists. Despite the beauty of Yggdrasil, the inevitability of the cycles weighed upon him. Yet his love for Artemis — the calm certainty in her voice — burned brighter than ever. He had seen the machinery of the cosmos, the infinite struggle against Arae, and still, his heart clung to awe, to wonder, to devotion.
"With each passing millennium, Arae's seal weakens. By the three-hundredth cycle," Artemis said, "even reality itself will tremble beneath him. That is your cycle, Shojiro — the Damned Ten."
Nine shadows appeared beside him. Their forms flickered — indistinct, yet heavy with destiny. The others who would stand with him, carrying fragments of divine power through the next confrontation.
"You are not chosen by fate… but by necessity," Artemis whispered. "Without you, the seal breaks. Without the Damned Ten, Arae cannot be resisted. You exist as shield and sword, as resistance incarnate."
Shojiro's heart swelled with awe, dread, and love — for the universe, for the cycles, and for Artemis herself. He was not merely a witness. He was a participant. Every root, every cycle, every spark, led to him.
And as the tapestry of the cycles expanded across the golden void, Shojiro's pulse began to synchronize with the inevitability of destiny — and the courage required to meet it.
The golden light of the Cradle pulsed around Shojiro, but it was no longer calm. It shivered, fractured by unseen tension. Shadows flickered at the edges of the sap, twisting and writhing as if reality itself recoiled from what it held.
Artemis' voice rose, steady and unyielding, threading through the void within Shojiro's mind:
"You will not see what was lost," she said. "The first cycle… the Perfect Seven… their visions are corrupted. Even memory cannot preserve them. What remains is the echo, the shadow of what came before you."
Shojiro felt a pang of frustration, a sharp twist in his chest. He had been so curious, so hungry to witness the first full manifestations of shards, yet even that was denied him. Still, Artemis continued, indifferent to his yearning:
"Observe what survives. The cycles that followed, fractured and incomplete. They carry offshoots, fragments of essence. They rise, they fall. They fail."
The light rippled, folding into a tapestry of time. Shojiro saw them now: warriors, mortals, souls marked by divine intent yet shackled by limitations. Their outlines were dim, flickering, always incomplete. He could not tell one face from another — only the shape, the pulse of power, the flicker of determination and despair.
"They were never meant to wield the full shards," Artemis explained. "They bore offshoots. Lesser reflections. Their strength was enough to endure a cycle, but never enough to challenge the darkness in full."
Shojiro's gaze followed a lone figure, a girl with faintly glowing eyes, her limbs trembling as she battled forces beyond her comprehension. Another — a man, muscles straining, wielding light that sputtered against shadow. Each one fought valiantly, but every victory was fleeting, every triumph swallowed by inevitability.
"They rise, yes," Artemis continued, her voice like the calm in the storm, "but they fall. And each time, Arae's corruption seeps deeper. His cage remains, but his influence is never fully contained. Even in failure, he spreads."
Shojiro felt a chill crawling down his spine. The tapestry shifted, showing cycles where whole villages fell to unseen horrors, entire generations snuffed out by despair. Mortals wielded offshoot shards, but they were ephemeral, their power a candle flickering in a gale.
"And yet," Artemis whispered, "this is necessary. Every failure, every death, every spark of resistance feeds the system. It ensures the next cycle will be stronger. It ensures… you."
Her words sank into him, a strange mixture of awe and dread. Shojiro's hands clenched within the golden sap, veins of energy humming beneath his forming skin. Even as he remained tethered to the visions, he could feel the weight of centuries pressing against him — the lives lost, the failures endured, the curse of inevitability repeating endlessly.
The cycles spun before him like shattered constellations. He saw a boy, no older than himself, clutching a fragment of divine essence as shadows closed in. The boy screamed, reaching for something he could never hold. He saw a mother, her arms filled with children, fighting with the remnants of an offshoot shard that flickered and failed, leaving her grasping at empty air.
"They were never whole," Artemis said. "Their essence borrowed, incomplete. Their victories temporary. And yet, each one laid the groundwork. Each one etched a path through which the Damned Ten would one day rise."
Shojiro's chest ached. Even as he witnessed the failures, he felt an intoxicating pull — a magnetic surge toward the cycles' inevitability. He wanted to step in, to touch them, to save them all. But Artemis' tone warned him, soft yet firm:
"You cannot. The Primordials cannot interfere directly. No law allows us to bend the cycles to our desire. Only the machine moves, and we… observe."
Shojiro's vision flickered again. Shadows of warriors, scholars, children, all tethered to invisible threads of fate. Each thread pulled taut, then snapped under the weight of destiny. He saw fleeting flashes of divine sparks — shards born of offshoots, sputtering like dying stars — enough to resist, not enough to triumph.
"And from this pattern," Artemis murmured, "you must understand the law of the Cycle. Not all Chosen succeed. Not all survive. Some fall, some die before they even grasp the truth. But every action… every sacrifice… is recorded. It will guide the next cycle. It will guide you."
Shojiro shivered, his love for the world and for those lost cycles twisting together. He felt an ache, not just of longing, but of responsibility. Even as he burned with desire to act, Artemis' calm voice reminded him of the harsh truth:
"The universe cannot break its own rules. And Arae… Arae waits, always. The cycles endure, yes — but his corruption never ceases."
The golden sap of the Cradle quivered around him. In its rippling, he saw the silhouettes of the future — his own peers, the Damned Ten, waiting to rise when the time was right. Their forms blurred, shadows of what they would become, yet even now, they radiated inevitability.
Shojiro's heart throbbed, hot and erratic, for them, for what would come, and for the burden he would one day carry. Artemis' voice, serene and eternal, echoed through every fiber of his consciousness:
"You are not chosen by chance. You are chosen by necessity. And the Cycle… the Cycle will not wait for you to understand its weight. You will live it, or it will break without you."
The light dimmed slightly, leaving Shojiro suspended in the golden cradle — a witness to centuries of sacrifice, failure, and preparation. He was madly, impossibly in love, yet even that love could not shield him from the truth that he would bear the greatest burden of all.
And somewhere beyond the sap, Artemis' final words of this vision lingered:
"Prepare yourself, Shojiro. You are about to witness the cycles that define existence… and the ones that will define you."
The golden sap of Yggdrasil pulsed around Shojiro, thick with memory and energy, yet strangely hollow. Even as the visions of past cycles unfurled, he could feel the absence of the Primordials' touch in the mortal world — a deliberate void he was not meant to fill.
Artemis' voice came again, calm and unyielding:
"The Primordials cannot walk the mortal plane. Our presence would unmake it. Our power, unchecked, is a blade that severs reality itself. So we lend fragments of ourselves instead — and even then, only to those who can bear it."
The golden light bent, coalescing into shapes — humans of every kind. Warriors with eyes like distant suns, mothers with trembling hands but hearts brimming with courage, scholars clutching glowing tomes that hummed with borrowed thought.
Shojiro watched as faint pulses of light sank into each of them, filling their forms like veins of divine energy. These were the Shard Bearers — mortals touched by divinity, yet bound to the limits of their flesh.
"They hold what is lent," Artemis explained. "Not what is owned. They wield it for a heartbeat, and when their task is done, the light returns to Yggdrasil. Their victories, their sacrifices… ephemeral, yet necessary."
Shojiro's gaze lingered on one figure — a boy standing alone on a cliff against a wave of shadow. His sword flared with borrowed energy, his stance resolute, yet the light sputtered and waned, like a candle fighting a storm.
"See how the power fades?" Artemis continued. "They are never whole. They carry only what is required for the moment. They are the universe's instruments, not its masters."
A girl appeared next, her arms raised as she formed a barrier of fractured light. It held for a heartbeat — then collapsed. Still, the shadow beyond recoiled, delayed, changed.
Shojiro's chest ached. Even in their impermanence, the Shard Bearers were beautiful — brief sparks of defiance in an uncaring cosmos. He wanted to reach out, to protect them, to lend his strength. Yet Artemis' tone pierced that longing:
"You cannot. To touch them directly would unravel the cycles. Only the fragments — the borrowed divinity — may intervene. Observe, but do not interfere. Learn what it means to balance power and restraint."
He clenched his fists, veins pulsing with the residue of Yggdrasil's energy. Every flicker of light, every brief defiance, seemed to echo the Primordials' own intent. Even in absence, their influence shaped the tides of fate.
Shojiro felt awe, yes, but also a piercing frustration. Mortals struggling with shards too large for them, their lives measured not by choice, but by necessity. Still, Artemis' voice offered clarity amidst the ache:
"Balance is the law of existence. Too much power, and the world collapses. Too little, and Arae prevails. This is why the Shard Bearers exist — the smallest possible intervention for the greatest possible effect."
The tapestry of light shifted, showing dozens, hundreds, thousands of Chosen across centuries. Each carried the faint glow of an offshoot shard or fragment, fighting, surviving, failing, and fading. Shojiro saw the patterns, the cycles, the rhythm of necessity: the universe correcting itself, one borrowed heartbeat at a time.
"And remember," Artemis whispered, her voice threading through him like golden strands of thought, "though the light is temporary, the consequences are eternal. Even a single Shard Bearer may alter the course of a thousand years. Witness, Shojiro. Learn. When your turn comes, you will carry more than light — you will carry inevitability itself."
The golden sap pulsed harder around him, the light coiling like living veins. Shojiro felt the weight of eternity pressing in — of countless mortals, each touched briefly by divinity, their victories ephemeral yet etched forever in Yggdrasil's memory.
He exhaled slowly, feeling both small and infinite. The Shard Bearers, fleeting though they were, represented a law older than himself: power must be given, not taken. Influence must be balanced, not forced.
And for the first time, Shojiro understood: even in absence, even in restraint, the Primordials' will flowed through creation — invisible, ephemeral, but absolute.
Shojiro drifted within the Cradle of Yggdrasil, suspended in golden sap that pulsed like a heartbeat older than time itself. Around him, the memories of the cycles had begun to coalesce, but they were fragmented, fleeting — already beginning to decay. He could feel the echoes of countless Shard Bearers, offshoots of divine intent, rising and falling through history, their victories and failures woven into the living wood.
Artemis' voice came, low and deliberate, threading through the amber light like the pull of gravity.
"Every cycle begins anew, Shojiro. Every thousand years, Arae's seed reaches out. Even in death, even in imprisonment, his corruption persists. He waits, as it always has, as it always will."
The Cradle shivered beneath him, and suddenly he was no longer alone. He saw visions of the world — mortal, fragile, beautiful — and yet every time a cycle ended, it seemed to forget itself. Cities that had burned bright vanished as if they had never existed. Kings who had struck against Arae's spawn were erased from memory. Even the most heroic acts dissolved into nothing, leaving only the faintest echoes in Yggdrasil's sap.
Shojiro's breath caught. He wanted to scream, to reach out, to preserve the memory of those who had fought so fiercely, but he could not. The roots of Yggdrasil whispered softly around him, and in their murmur was the truth: forgetting is inevitable.
Artemis continued, her tone calm yet filled with the weight of all the ages:
"The Curse of Forgetfulness is not a flaw. It is a law. The world cannot bear the full memory of divinity. Mortals are fragile; history is fragile. To carry the weight of every cycle would be to destroy what we seek to preserve. So we allow forgetting, and in that forgetting, the balance endures."
Shojiro watched as generations flickered like dying stars. A child wielding a sword imbued with the essence of Poseidara's flow — the borrowed currents of tides and rivers — struck at a shadowy demon. His strike was precise, brilliant, and final. Yet, as the child fell and the shadow dissipated, the image fractured. In the next heartbeat, the child's figure was gone, the sword vanished, the strike never recorded in the memory of the world. Only Yggdrasil remembered.
Another vision emerged: a woman, her body wreathed in shadow, her arms lifted in defiance as an abomination of Arae descended upon her village. She unleashed the fragment of Voltraeus' lightning she had been lent, her power tearing the monster apart in a blaze of divine light. Yet the villagers forgot her name. The village itself crumbled to dust, and no tale of her courage survived beyond the whispering sap around Shojiro.
He felt a pang in his chest. Even their deaths were forgotten. Even their sacrifices.
Artemis' voice softened, almost maternal, but with an edge of unyielding resolve:
"This is why you exist, Shojiro. This is why the Damned Ten are necessary. When the cycles fall into shadow, when the memory of what came before slips into silence, you will rise. You and your companions will bear the fragments, carry the essence of the Primordials, and stand where history has failed. But know this — even you will be forgotten by the world. Your light will flicker, your names will fade, and only Yggdrasil will keep your story."
Shojiro felt a deep, aching despair. To fight, to die, to be forgotten… It was a cruelty beyond mortal comprehension. The cycles repeated not for the glory of heroes, but because the universe demanded it. He could see the truth of it — the pattern was unavoidable. For every act of courage, for every victory, the world would turn its gaze away, letting memory dissolve like mist in sunlight.
The visions shifted again. Shojiro saw himself — not as he was, but as he would be. He was kneeling in the ruins of a city he would save, clutching the lifeless form of a Shard Bearer beside him. Around them, the skies burned with shadow and flame. He tried to cry out, to call for help, but no sound emerged. Then the city, the people, the battle — all faded. It was as if he had never existed. Only the faint pulse of Yggdrasil marked the place where he had knelt.
Artemis' tone grew firmer, carrying the authority of one who had witnessed eternity:
"Every thousand years, the cycle turns. The Chosen rise, the Abominations of Arae fall, and yet history forgets them. The lessons, the victories, the mistakes — erased. Only the seed remains. Only Yggdrasil remembers."
The golden sap around Shojiro shimmered, showing visions of those who had come before him — souls who had carried fragments of Primordial essence, fought with valor, and perished. Their light faded too quickly. Their names were gone. Even Yggdrasil's roots could only whisper of them faintly, like a dream slipping through fingers.
And yet, even as despair gnawed at his chest, Artemis offered a sliver of hope:
"But forgetting is not annihilation. It is preservation. The world must forget so it can continue. Mortals must live in ignorance of the divine in order to endure. And when the next cycle comes, new Chosen will rise, carrying the torch, wielding the fragments, and resisting what cannot be stopped."
Shojiro's mind reeled. So all of this — all of the pain, all of the struggle, all of the victories — nothing survives beyond Yggdrasil?
"Yes," Artemis replied softly, her voice threading through the golden sap. "All that is mortal will fade. Only the essence remains. Only the structure of what was will endure."
Another vision. A man, young, trembling, clutching a shard of Moara's essence. He raised it in defiance, unleashing a wave of darkness that shredded an entire battalion of Arae's spawn. Yet, the moment the battle ended, his figure dissolved. The darkness he had destroyed reformed elsewhere, and the mortal world knew nothing. His courage, his sacrifice, vanished like smoke. Only Yggdrasil knew.
Shojiro felt a strange mix of awe and sorrow. He had glimpsed mortals wielding divinity, seen them fight against the inevitable, and yet — they were all shadows, ephemeral and fleeting.
Artemis' voice returned, quiet but resonant:
"This is the weight of your inheritance, Shojiro. You and the Damned Ten are not chosen for glory, for honor, or for remembrance. You exist because the universe demands it. Because without you, the cycle fails. Without you, Arae's seal shatters. Without you, reality collapses."
Shojiro's chest tightened. Nine other shadows — his companions — began to coalesce beside him. Their forms were indistinct, flickering at the edges, yet the presence of each pressed heavily against the fabric of the Cradle.
"They are your fellow Chosen," Artemis said. "You will bear the burden together. But know this — your task is not for recognition. Your lives, your victories, your sacrifices — destined to vanish. Only the Cycle endures. Only Yggdrasil remembers. Only Arae's curse persists."
The sap pulsed faster, pulling Shojiro closer to the root, threading him into the living memory of Yggdrasil. He saw fragments of past cycles merge into it: flashes of warriors, mothers, scholars, children — each carrying borrowed power, each fading, each forgotten. Their light burned briefly, illuminating history for a heartbeat, then vanished.
Artemis whispered again, threading her voice into his very being:
"Every victory remembered only by Yggdrasil. Every sacrifice unrecorded by the world. And yet… every action matters. The memory of what is done may be gone, but the consequences are eternal. The world moves forward because of you. The cycles turn because of you. And when Arae rises again, as he inevitably will, you and your companions will be ready."
Shojiro felt the weight of eternity pressing into him — the knowledge that he would fight, and die, and be forgotten. The memory of his existence, the names of his companions, the acts of courage that would shape history — all erased from mortal minds. Only Yggdrasil would hold them, only Artemis would record them, only the roots of the world-tree would whisper of what had been.
And yet… even with that knowledge, Shojiro's heart throbbed with resolve. He would rise. He would carry the fragments. He would face Arae's spawn, face the cycles, face the weight of destiny itself.
Because remembering or forgetting mattered little. Action was eternal.
And somewhere, deep in the golden sap, Shojiro understood the truth of the Curse of Forgetfulness:
It was not despair. It was preparation.
It was not silence. It was inevitability.
And it was not the end — it was the forge of all that was to come.
Shojiro remained suspended within the amber embrace of Yggdrasil's Cradle, still tethered to the memories of countless cycles. The golden sap pulsed beneath his skin, crawling through his veins like liquid history, whispering of victories long forgotten and sacrifices erased. He could feel the weight of inevitability pressing down upon him — the burden of continuity, the ceaseless repetition of the universe's design.
Beside him, faint shadows began to coalesce. Nine others emerged from the Cradle's light, their forms indistinct at first — silhouettes yet to be fully realized, their presences heavy with destiny. Each figure exuded a silent power, echoes of Primordial essence imbued within mortal flesh. Shojiro felt their weight, the intangible gravity of lives that would shape reality, lives that would rise and fall against the tide of Arae's corruption.
Artemis' voice broke the silence, clear and unwavering:
"Shojiro Momo, you are the three-hundredth cycle. The Damned Ten. You were not chosen for glory, for renown, or for remembrance. You exist because the universe demanded it. Without your rise, the seal falters. Without your will, Arae's curse will seep through every thousand years unchecked."
Shojiro's chest tightened. He looked upon the nine shadows, each unique yet undefined, their forms flickering with latent power. He could not yet see their faces, could not yet discern their hearts, but he felt their presence as surely as he felt his own heartbeat echoing through the Cradle.
"Why me?" he whispered, voice trembling. "Why us? Why now?"
Artemis' reply was neither comforting nor reproving. It was factual, immovable, like the structure of reality itself:
"Because only through necessity does the universe endure. You are the culmination of millennia of cycles — the final chain before the abyss consumes itself. You carry the weight of every victory forgotten, every sacrifice erased, every spark of divinity lent to mortals who could not remember. And now, Shojiro, it falls to you to bear it again."
The shadows beside him stirred as if in response. Shojiro could feel their anticipation, their fear, and their resolve — though he could not yet name them, their souls were imprinted into the Cradle like notes on a divine staff. He reached out with his mind, seeking connection, seeking understanding.
And then he saw it — the first ripple of memory within the golden sap. Flashes of the Chosen who had come before: mortals imbued with shards of divine essence, rising to challenge Arae's corruption, and falling into oblivion. The Perfect Seven — their images flickered in and out, distorted, corrupted by the centuries of forgetting. No full clarity remained. No names, no stories. Only the weight of their deeds, now abstracted into pure consequence.
Shojiro shuddered. Even the Perfect Seven, the only cycle to have wielded full shards from Primordial Offshoots, could not escape the entropy of memory. They had once been the apex of divine intervention, but time had reduced them to shadows, half-remembered and incomplete.
Artemis' voice threaded through the Cradle again, calm, absolute:
"This is the truth of continuity, Shojiro. Every cycle births heroes, every cycle births saviors, every cycle births despair. But the world forgets them. Even those who lived and breathed in the height of divinity vanish from mortal memory. Only Yggdrasil remembers. Only the roots whisper. Only the tapestry of existence endures."
Shojiro swallowed hard. His mind grappled with the immensity of it. To fight, to live, to risk everything — and yet be forgotten. It was a weight heavier than any mountain, deeper than any ocean. And yet, the shadows beside him were real. They were here. Their presence was proof that necessity had drawn them together.
Artemis continued, her voice weaving through his consciousness like threads of light:
"You are not alone, Damned Ten. Though you are mortal, though you are fragile, you carry the fragments of what the Primordials could not touch. You bear their will, their essence, and their hope. You rise not because you are chosen in the eyes of men, but because the universe demands resistance. You are inevitability made flesh."
Shojiro's gaze swept across the nine shadows. Some radiated light, others swirled with darkness. Some seemed impossibly young, others carried the weight of centuries in their stance. They were strangers, yes, but strangers bound by destiny, by the same cycle that had carried the echoes of all those who had come before.
One shadow shifted closer, and Shojiro felt a spark of recognition — not from familiarity, but from resonance. Their soul was aligned with the same frequency of necessity, vibrating with the certainty that they, too, were destined to act.
Artemis' tone softened, though it remained imbued with cosmic authority:
"The Damned Ten are the final bastion. Every thousand years, Arae's corruption rises. Every thousand years, the Chosen must stand. And now, Shojiro, it is your turn. You will face what no mortal or god alone could withstand. You will bear the fragments. You will rise. And you will act, even if the world forgets you ever lived."
Shojiro clenched his fists. The Cradle pulsed beneath him, golden light weaving into his skin, into his bones, into his very soul. He could feel the presence of Yggdrasil in every fiber of his being, the roots whispering secrets older than the Primordials themselves.
And then Artemis did something that startled him — she shifted her gaze, not toward him, but through him, beyond the Cradle, beyond the sap, beyond the amber light. She spoke, and her voice carried to a plane that Shojiro had never imagined:
"And you, reader… yes, you. You who bear witness from beyond the page, beyond the weave of reality, beyond the illusion of control. You are about to see the final cycle of Chosen. You will watch as the Damned Ten rise, as necessity manifests, as destiny presses down upon fragile shoulders. You will see courage, despair, hope, and sacrifice — all entwined, all fleeting, all necessary. Remember, even you will forget what you see in the end. Only Yggdrasil remembers."
Shojiro's heart thundered. The weight of the Cradle, the duty of the Damned Ten, the inevitability of Arae — all pressed upon him. Yet in that pressure, he found clarity. The burden of continuity was immense, terrifying, and unavoidable. But it was also a purpose — a reason to exist, a reason to fight, a reason to endure.
He looked upon the nine shadows beside him, and for the first time, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope. Together, they would rise. Together, they would bear the fragments. Together, they would stand against Arae's corruption, against the curse of forgetting, against the weight of inevitability itself.
The Cradle pulsed once more, and Shojiro felt himself and the others being drawn fully into the roots of Yggdrasil. The golden sap enveloped them, threading their souls into the living memory of the universe. Their essence intertwined with the fragments of the Primordials, with the echoes of all cycles, with the will of existence itself.
And yet, Artemis' voice lingered, lingering in the void, in the golden sap, in Shojiro's very bones:
"Remember this, Damned Ten — your lives are not for glory, your deeds are not for remembrance. You exist because they must. You fight because they demand it. And you endure because the universe will not allow otherwise. Watch closely, reader. Watch closely, for the final cycle begins now."
Shojiro inhaled, the weight of eternity settling into his chest. The nine shadows beside him stirred, becoming more distinct, more real. Their eyes, bright with fragments of divine essence, met his. The Cradle shivered, the roots pulsed, and the tapestry of Yggdrasil's memory hummed with life.
The Damned Ten had emerged. The final cycle had begun. And somewhere beyond the veil of reality, the universe held its breath, awaiting the actions of those who would rise to bear its impossible burden.