The geometric light pulsed again — once, twice — then reshaped itself into ten radiant shards orbiting around Shojiro. Each shard glimmered with a distinct hue, the spectral essence of the Primordials themselves, raw and unfiltered. The air hummed with a tension that made the void itself quiver.
"You must understand, Shojiro Momo," came a voice — calm, absolute, resonant in every atom of his being. "You are not the first to bear shards. But unlike all who came before, your cycle will carry what none have held since the first days of creation."
Shojiro's gaze fixed on the ten sigils of light, feeling their pull like gravity. Each tethered him to something impossibly vast, each a thread of unbroken divinity. Unlike the previous cycles, unlike any other who had received fragments from offshoots or diluted echoes, this — this was complete.
"Unlike the cycles that bore partial shards… unlike the countless generations that only glimpsed our essence… you, the Damned Ten, shall carry the true shards of the Primordials. Unfiltered. Whole. Absolute."
The shards spun faster, forming intricate sigils that seemed almost alive. Each one radiated its own domain: strength, motion, creation, flow, spirit, order, illumination, shadow, curse, and wisdom. The raw weight of the Primordials' power pressed against Shojiro's soul, an unbearable burden made tangible. Yet it was not oppressive — it was defining, naming him, tethering him to purpose.
"The universe can no longer afford half-measures," Artemis continued, her voice calm but insistent, echoing in every corner of his consciousness. "This cycle is final. There will be no diluted echoes, no borrowed fragments, no second chances. You will not merely seal Arae… you must erase him from all realities. Permanently."
The light of the shards flared, as if testing him, teasing the limits of what his human body and spirit could contain. Each pulse reverberated through the void, echoing the heartbeat of creation itself. Shojiro felt it deep in his chest, in his marrow, in the very corners of his mind that he hadn't yet inhabited. This power was not for him to wield casually — it demanded understanding, discipline, and sacrifice.
"You must carry it all," Artemis whispered, "and survive. Because there is no one else. If you fall… creation falls with you. If you succeed… the cycle ends forever."
Shojiro's chest tightened, a mixture of awe and terror rising in tandem. Ten shards, ten sigils, ten tethers to impossible divinity — and one mortal boy in the center of it all. He could feel the pull of each shard, a constant reminder that he was no longer merely Shojiro Momo. He was the vessel of the Damned Ten, the first to bear the true shards since time itself began.
A shiver ran down him as the shards' light intertwined, weaving a lattice that seemed to wrap around his soul. The air hummed, the void pulsed, and the weight of inevitability pressed down. This was not just power — this was responsibility incarnate, a contract signed not in ink but in essence.
And as Shojiro's mind strained to comprehend the immensity of it, Artemis's voice cut through once more, calm, certain, unflinching:
"Understand this, Shojiro. You are the last hope. The final generation of Chosen. The Damned Ten will bear the full measure of our essence — the unbroken, unfiltered shards of all Primordials. This is your cycle, and your cycle alone. The universe rests in your hands."
The shards of light pulsed around Shojiro, tethering him to the unimaginable breadth of the Primordials' essence. Each sigil burned with its own will, each thread of power vibrating with a resonance older than time itself. He could feel them pressing, pulling, demanding acknowledgment of the weight they carried. And yet, it was Artemis's voice — calm, absolute, threading through the void — that anchored him.
"Shojiro Momo," she said, her tone echoing in the depths of his mind, "you are not merely a vessel. You are the final safeguard. There is no next cycle. There is no second chance. You are the universe's last measure against its own destruction."
The words pressed into him with the weight of a thousand mountains. The Damned Ten — he and nine others yet unseen — were not born of chance or destiny, but necessity. The Primordials had forged this cycle not as an experiment, not as a hope, but as the final line of defense against Arae.
"You must understand," Artemis continued, her voice threading through the fabric of his consciousness like the skeins of light weaving Yggdrasil itself, "the universe cannot afford failure. The cycles before you — the two hundred and ninety-nine before — all had the chance to rise, to falter, to be forgotten and reborn. Your cycle is final. If you fall, there will be no reset. If you fail, existence itself will collapse, undone by the corruption we could not contain."
Shojiro's vision expanded as Artemis spoke. Around him, a vast tapestry unfolded, luminous threads interweaving past, present, and potential futures. He saw entire civilizations rising — glittering cities of impossible design, towers that scraped the edges of suns, fleets of ships spanning oceans and continents. And then, as if some invisible hand erased them, they crumbled. Dust and shadow replaced them. Fires burned without witnesses. Names carved into stone faded into oblivion. All that remained was silence.
"These are the possibilities if your cycle fails," Artemis said. Her voice was neither harsh nor sympathetic; it was the unyielding tone of one who simply states the facts of existence. "You will fight not for memory, not for recognition. You will fight for survival itself. All that has been built, all that has been dreamed, all that has been achieved — it hangs by your strength alone."
Shojiro's chest tightened. He tried to reach for the shards orbiting him, to draw their power, to feel their guidance. But they were not tools to be wielded casually. They were responsibilities incarnate, each pulse a reminder that he was not a boy, not even a mortal. He was a conduit for divinity, chosen because the universe had exhausted all other defenses.
"You are not the first," Artemis added, almost as an aside. "There were cycles before — countless generations of mortals, some bearing fragments, some wielding offshoots of our essence. None could carry the burden as you will. None were final."
Shojiro's eyes traced the paths of the ten sigils as they spun, faster and faster, weaving a lattice of light and energy. He could feel them shaping the void around him, coiling threads of possibility and consequence. And within that lattice, he saw shadows — the echoes of past Chosen, their triumphs and their failures, erased from memory but preserved in Yggdrasil's roots.
"The universe does not reward heroism," Artemis said, her voice slicing through the expanse. "It forgets. It forgets the battles, the sacrifices, the names of those who rose against corruption. But Yggdrasil remembers. And through Yggdrasil, I remind you. Your actions — and those of the Damned Ten — will ripple through time, unseen yet unbroken."
The shards pulsed in response, brightening as if acknowledging her words. Shojiro felt the weight of unseen eyes — the nine others, the future Damned Ten who would walk beside him. He did not know them yet; he could only sense their presence as faint pulses of light, distant yet tethered to his own. Each carried a shard, each bore the same impossible responsibility.
Artemis's voice softened, though it did not lose its authority. "Look carefully, Shojiro. These threads you see are not abstract. They are consequences made visible. For every moment you hesitate, for every choice you fail to make, there are worlds that collapse. Suns burn out. Oceans dry. Cities vanish. Families perish without witnesses. You must understand: this is the burden of continuity, the cost of existence itself."
Shojiro felt a coldness deep in his chest. The enormity of it pressed upon him like an eternal tide. He could taste the weight of generations, feel the impossibility of their tasks, sense the loneliness of standing against a foe that could touch all of reality and yet remain unseen. He wanted to turn away, to shrink from the vast responsibility. But the shards held him. Their pull was unrelenting, their essence both a comfort and a chain.
"You will not act alone," Artemis continued. "The nine others will appear when the moment comes. But for now, you must understand the scale. There is no second chance, no alternate path. The Damned Ten are not heroes chosen by fate. You are survivors chosen by necessity, the universe's final answer to a problem it cannot solve on its own."
Shojiro's mind reeled, visions flashing before him. He saw the rise and fall of entire species in seconds — civilizations that reached technological brilliance beyond imagination, then disintegrated into dust. He saw entire worlds consumed by corruption, burned into silence by the echo of Arae's influence. And yet, in every image, he saw the faint, golden pulse of Yggdrasil — the silent witness, the arbiter of memory, the one constant in a sea of impermanence.
"Understand, Shojiro," Artemis said, her voice now gentle, almost mournful, "the universe will forget you. Your victories, your struggles, the lives you save — none will endure in memory. Cities will be rebuilt atop your graves, and your names will fade into nothing. But Yggdrasil will remember, and through Yggdrasil, I remind you. That is why you exist. That is why you fight."
Shojiro felt the shards pulse around him in response, a chorus of color and light that resonated with his heartbeat. The weight of inevitability pressed down, yet within it, a spark of purpose ignited. He was not alone — the other nine waited, the shards whispered, and the root of Yggdrasil cradled him, connecting him to the entirety of existence.
"And now," Artemis said, her tone breaking the barrier between witness and participant, "you stand at the threshold of the final cycle. You are the last chance against the corruption that will not die. The Damned Ten will rise — and through you, all that remains of hope will endure. Watch closely, reader. Watch closely, for the final cycle of Chosen begins here."
Shojiro's vision expanded further, the shards spinning faster, orbiting him in perfect synchronization. The golden threads of Yggdrasil's root stretched into the void, connecting him to every corner of the newborn universe. He felt the gravity of his role, the enormity of the task, and the impossibility of turning back. And yet, beneath the weight, there was a spark of defiance — fragile, bright, and unyielding.
He was the last measure. The final safeguard. The Damned Ten would carry the unbroken shards of the Primordials, and with them, the burden of existence itself. For the first time, Shojiro understood that this was no mere cycle of heroes. This was the cycle that mattered — the one upon which the future of all realities depended.
And in that moment, suspended in the golden light of the Cradle, Shojiro felt the enormity of his purpose press into every fiber of his being. He would fight. He would endure. And though the universe would forget, though history would erase every act of courage, though time itself would bend beneath the weight of inevitability, he would stand.
Because there was no other choice.
Because there could be no other.
The Damned Ten had begun their cycle.
Shojiro drifted. Not through air, not through water, not through the void he had once known — but through a golden sea that pulsed with rhythm and life. It was the Cradle, a womb of Yggdrasil itself, suspended in the incomprehensible expanse of existence. The sap around him glimmered with veins brighter than any star, veins that carried the memories, essence, and intent of ten ancient Primordials. Each pulse resonated in Shojiro's soul, like a heartbeat stretched across the cosmos, both familiar and utterly alien.
He could not tell where he began or ended. His consciousness felt both infinitely vast and fragile, like a glass sculpture floating atop a sunless ocean. Vines thicker than mountains curled and twisted around him, their surfaces alive with molten golden sap. They were warm, comforting, yet impossibly powerful — each one a conduit of creation itself. Threads of light danced across their surfaces, like liquid memory, carrying whispers of the Primordials' thoughts, songs, and unspoken intentions.
These whispers did not speak in words, yet Shojiro understood them. He felt their guidance not as instruction but as insistence: "Move. Grow. Take form. Be the vessel we have chosen." His essence, still faint and translucent, quivered at the pull. He was at once nothing and everything, neither yet fully a mortal nor completely divine. And yet, the Cradle knew him. It nurtured him, shaping him in ways that defied description — every thread of light, every pulse of sap, shaping him like a sculptor shaping molten gold.
Shojiro tried to reach out, to grasp the energy, but there was no need. The Cradle enveloped him fully, bending the divine sap to his essence. It recognized his shape, his spirit, his potential. Every cell he would one day have was already being woven here, in this impossible womb. Every vein, every nerve, every fragment of thought that would make him human — yet more than human — was being threaded into being.
The whispers grew louder, more insistent, like a choir that existed outside of time. He sensed all ten Primordials within those murmurs, though not as corporeal beings. They were immanent, omnipresent, but unable to touch him directly. Their voices wrapped around his soul like the threads of a loom. "You will rise. You must rise. The cycle begins with you. The Damned Ten will carry the world."
And then, from the golden haze, she appeared.
Thanamira. Not fully corporeal, yet not abstract, her form radiated a soft, flowing light. She moved toward him as if treading water through the luminous sap, hands extended, eyes filled with gentle authority. Around her, the golden sap shimmered brighter, as though recognizing her presence.
Then, a voice — soft, melodic, and tinged with the sadness of eons — echoed through the sap.
"Aren't you excited, little soul? The shell awaits you. A new vessel, shaped from Yggdrasil's lifeblood… a gift even the gods could not grant twice."
He could feel her essence intertwining with his, but it was not invasive. It was careful, deliberate. Thanamira was not making him; she was guiding him, shaping the potential he already held into a tangible vessel. Every pulse of her spirit aligned with the sap, the vines, the golden threads of Yggdrasil, ensuring nothing went astray.
"Sleep has ended, child of strength. Breathe again." Her tone was almost playful — yet beneath it lingered something reverent.
Her fingers brushed the edges of his being, and the sap pulsed in response. He felt it, a subtle hum of energy resonating through every fiber of what would become his body. "Are you happy?" she asked, tilting her luminous form closer, as if measuring the joy of a spark. "Are you ready to take your first breath and laugh at the stars?"
Shojiro's incorporeal form, still dim and flickering, began to descend. The Cradle's sap welcomed him like water around a fledgling fish, bending and reshaping itself with delicate precision. Bones crystallized within his essence, veins coursed with pulsing light, nerves wove themselves like electric filaments. He felt his first real weight, the weight of substance. His form solidified, yet remained light with the resonance of divinity.
Artemis's voice rang calm and measured, carrying certainty over the chaos. "Shojiro Momo… witness this moment. You are the first of your cycle to awaken. Take this body, take this vessel, and know that every pulse of its blood is tethered to a purpose that will outlast you."
Thanamira leaned close again, brushing against him like sunlight on water. "Do you feel it? The sap… the warmth? That's Yggdrasil saying hello. Don't be shy. Stretch. Wiggle your fingers. Laugh if you want." She laughed herself then, a sound like wind through a crystal forest, scattering sparks across the Cradle. "You'll have time enough for seriousness soon, little soul. For now… just breathe."
Shojiro's essence shivered in response. The Cradle seemed to recognize him now, its molten golden threads tugging him gently, coiling to form the outlines of bones, nerves, veins. With Thanamira guiding him and the Primordials watching, the transformation began. Flesh took shape, muscles formed in spirals, veins glowed with divine energy, nerves lit like filaments of electricity.
Then, silence.
No movement. No sound. Only stillness.
Until—
Thump.
A faint vibration rippled through the sap.
Then another.
And another.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thanamira's playful voice echoed again, wrapping around him like silk: "There. That's the sound of life, little soul. Isn't it… delicious?"
The rhythm grew louder, more defiant.
The holy fluid trembled, bubbles of divine energy bursting around his form as nerves, veins, and bones ignited into being.
The sap hardened, skin forming where spirit met substance.
The first spark of sensation startled him. Fingers twitched. Arms flexed. Lungs filled, a rush of air breaking the silence of the Cradle. A gasp tore through the void, scattering golden sparks across the sap like ripples in a celestial pond. Shojiro's eyes, still faintly unformed, caught the reflection of the vast network of Yggdrasil's roots curling around him, the Cradle responding with tremors of recognition.
Thanamira's smile was serene. "Welcome back," she whispered. And as she faded into the golden haze, Shojiro felt the presence of the other Primordials, faint but affirming. They did not touch, did not intervene — merely observed, lending their essence subtly, confirming his awakening.
"Welcome back to the living, Shojiro Momo," came a chorus of voices, each one carrying weight, history, and power. He blinked, adjusting to the clarity of vision and the fullness of his body. He could see the light pulse through the sap, through the vines, through the very lattice of creation itself. Yggdrasil was reflected in his pupils, infinite and alive, and for the first time, he felt the true depth of the cycle he had been chosen for.
The Damned Ten's cycle had begun. But he was not alone, nor would he ever be truly alone.
Though the others were yet unseen, Shojiro felt their presence — nine shadows, tethered across time and space by the unbreakable threads of the Primordials' will. Each carried a shard, each bore responsibility equal to his own. Their light resonated faintly in the golden void, calling to him like a distant melody he did not yet know how to hear fully.
Shojiro flexed his fingers again, feeling the tangible weight of potential, and a subtle thrill rippled through his nerves. His first breath in this new vessel was not just survival — it was acknowledgment. He had been chosen, made, and awakened for a purpose that dwarfed every memory, every instinct, every ambition he had ever held.
Shojiro's mind raced, questioning, stretching, awakening alongside his body. He could feel the gravity of his task — the inevitability of Arae's return, the history of forgotten cycles, the futility and necessity of resistance. And yet, amid the enormity of it all, he felt a spark of life that was wholly his own: curiosity, defiance, and the faint glimmer of joy at being given form again.
Artemis stepped forward, calm as ever. "Remember: you are not simply a vessel. You are the fulcrum upon which this cycle turns. The others will rise. They are tethered to you. Together, you are the Damned Ten, and the universe's survival depends upon every heartbeat you take."
Shojiro's eyes flickered open. For the first time, he could see Yggdrasil in all its infinite glory reflected in his pupils. Its light, its roots, its pulsing energy — he understood in a fraction of a second that he was now part of something far greater than himself. The Cradle had given him form, but the Primordials had given him life, personality, a spark of irrepressible joy and curiosity.
And as the golden sap receded, leaving him fully embodied, Thanamira's voice lingered, playful and teasing: "Remember, little soul… every step you take will matter. Every choice echoes. But for now? Stretch. Move. Marvel at the gift. Because even the gods could not grant this twice."
Shojiro flexed his new body, felt the blood rush, the nerves tingle, and the shards hum. His first breath, first heartbeat, first pulse of energy — every sensation screamed vitality, wonder, and inevitability.
The Damned Ten's cycle had begun. The other nine were yet unseen, their presence tethered across time and space. But Shojiro felt them, a subtle vibration in the shards orbiting him — silent, yet insistent, each one waiting for their turn to awaken.
The Primordials did not vanish entirely. Their voices, laughter, guidance, and warnings lingered in the golden air, in the pulsing sap, in the very fabric of his awareness. He could feel them, playful, stern, joyous, mischievous — a family of immortals celebrating a small but monumental victory: the awakening of the first of the final cycle.
Shojiro inhaled deeply. He exhaled. And in that single breath, the universe seemed to exhale with him.
The Cradle pulsed one final time, then faded into gentle illumination. Shojiro stood, or floated, or moved — it no longer mattered. He was alive. And the Damned Ten had begun their march.