The glow of creation still lingered on the Traveler's skin, faint and trembling, like embers reluctant to fade. Around them, the once-dead plain now pulsed with translucent vines, stretching far into the mist. They breathed deeply — and for the first time, the air tasted alive.
But with life came hunger.
The soil shifted underfoot, whispering again. "Creation is not balance. It is appetite. The world feeds to grow."
"I understand," the Traveler said, though they didn't. The warmth within them was dimming. Each breath felt heavier, as if the air demanded something in return.
They wandered forward, deeper into the blooming field. Shapes were taking form — faint silhouettes of trees made of light, their branches swaying without wind. Beneath one such tree, a flicker of motion caught their eye: a pool forming where there had been none before. Its surface reflected nothing, only pulsing blackness that shimmered like oil.
As they approached, the soil's voice softened. "What do you remember?"
The Traveler hesitated. "Nothing clear. Just fragments. Fire. Towers breaking. A name—" They stopped, the sound slipping from their tongue before they realized it. "Kael."
The moment the name left their lips, the pool rippled violently. A ring of light spread outward, solidifying into a mirror. In its reflection stood Kael — the same figure, but with eyes of burning gold. The image smiled faintly.
"Kael," the reflection said. "So you do remember."
Kael's pulse quickened. "You're… me."
"Not quite." The reflection tilted its head. "I am what you shed when you fell. The part that refused to forget."
"I fell?"
"Yes. And the Multiverse trembled."
Kael stepped back. "I don't want to remember."
"You must. Or you'll repeat it."
The reflection extended its hand, touching the mirror's inner surface. The pool trembled, and in that touch, Kael saw — the world before. Endless skies fractured into shards of light. A throne of roots and stars. Kael standing upon it, their hands raised in command, summoning entire realms with a gesture. Power farming — the art of creation through cultivation — had been their gift. They had fed on the energy of dying universes to grow new ones. But somewhere, something had gone wrong. The harvest had turned to consumption.
Kael's knees buckled. The visions dissolved.
The soil spoke again, quieter this time. "Now you remember enough to begin."
Kael looked up. The pool had turned to still glass, and their reflection was gone. Only the faint echo of the voice remained.
"What do I do?"
"Plant again. But this time, let the harvest feed more than you."
Kael stood slowly. The vines nearby were coiling around strange buds — small spheres of light trembling like fragile seeds. Instinct guided their hands. They reached down and pressed one seed into the soil. Immediately, the ground responded — not with light, but with sound.
A hum spread outward, deep and resonant. The vines around them began to twist together, forming shapes — figures. They were not fully human, not yet. Wisps of light shaped into silhouettes, faces blank, limbs formless. The first beings of the new world, forming from Kael's will.
"They're alive," Kael whispered.
"They are echoes," said the soil. "You give them form, but they will seek meaning. Creation must be taught."
Kael stepped closer to one of the figures. It tilted its head, curious but wordless. Its body flickered with faint patterns — runes similar to Kael's, though unstable.
"You feel like me," Kael said softly.
"We are your roots," it replied. Its voice was fragile, like wind brushing through crystal. "We grow where you bleed."
The words struck deep. Kael stared, speechless. The being smiled faintly before fading back into mist.
Kael's hand trembled. "I didn't mean to—"
"You cannot create without consequence," the soil said. "Every act of life binds you tighter to the world you build. The harvest begins now, Kael."
The horizon shuddered. The vines quivered violently, as if in pain. Kael turned — and saw the first corruption.
Dark cracks appeared across the glowing ground, spreading outward like veins of shadow. From them, tendrils of smoke poured, devouring light. The newborn figures cried out, their forms unraveling.
"No!" Kael ran forward, pressing their hands to the soil. "Stop this!"
The earth responded, not with words, but with hunger. The corruption was feeding — consuming the energy Kael had given too freely. Creation and destruction had always been two halves of the same law, and Kael had forgotten the balance.
Desperate, Kael reached inward. The power burned again beneath their skin — the same golden glow as before. They forced it into the ground, screaming as it tore through their body. The corruption hissed, retreating, the darkness curling back like smoke before fire.
When it was done, Kael collapsed. The light faded to a soft pulse. The vines steadied. Silence returned.
"Pain," said the soil, "is the price of balance. Every seed of power demands blood or memory. You gave both."
Kael coughed, their breath ragged. "Then I'll keep giving. If this is how a world grows, I'll pay it."
The soil's tone shifted — almost tender. "You may not always have the choice."
Kael lifted their head. Far away, the gray sky cracked open. Through it, a faint shimmer appeared — a different light, distant and sharp. It wasn't from their world.
Another realm. Another stage.
Unaware of this one.
But watching.
Kael could feel it — a pulse from beyond the veil, something vast brushing against their consciousness. The Multiverse was shifting again, responding to their awakening. And somewhere out there, another Traveler might have just felt the same echo.
The soil whispered one last time, fading into the hum of the wind. "You are not alone, Kael. You never were."
Kael looked toward the horizon — toward the fracture between worlds — and whispered, "Then let them come."
The vines swayed gently, glowing brighter, as if the world itself had accepted the challenge.
And above, unseen in the distant void, something began to stir.