It had been three days since Teleu reached the royal palace and all he could say was things were going quite fast. On the very first day was an altercation in the royal hall with Rose Sichom requesting him to leave, directly after, there was the situation with Gyan which he had to sort out. And lastly the day before he noticed Amida Sichom's interest in him which he could make use of.
All of these situations gave him useful information on how he could carry out his plans moving forward. However, firstly he needed to ground himself, something he had not done in a while due to all the happenings in his life. He had neglected his personal and spiritual advancements and he knew that he could not achieve anything without advancing.
That is why on the night of the third day Teleu locked himself in the small house he had been given by Princess Reloua in her garden. She lived with Gyan who had relocated to her palace and Teleu stayed in the house guarding them at night.
Seated in a lotus position on his bed, Teleu started recapitulating everything that was said to him by his master in the past.
His mind drifted.
The walls dissolved.
And suddenly, he was no longer in the Gold Land.
Ten years ago. The Kingdom of Ankh.
The hut smelled of burned sage and earth. Candlelight flickered against walls adorned with symbols Teleu did not yet understand—spirals within spirals, eyes staring from every corner, hands reaching toward an invisible center.
He was ten years old.
Small. Thin. Silent.
He sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his back straight despite the trembling in his bones. His eyes—those dark, unblinking eyes that had seen his mother's death, the blood-soaked floors of his childhood—remained fixed on the man before him.
His master.
The old man sat in perfect stillness, draped in white robes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. His skin was weathered like ancient bark, his beard long and silver, his eyes... his eyes were not the eyes of a man. They were deeper. Older. As if they had witnessed the birth and death of kingdoms a thousand times over.
"You are quiet tonight, Teleu," the master said softly.
Teleu did not respond.
He never did, unless asked directly.
The master smiled—a small, knowing curve of his lips.
"Good. Silence is the first lesson."
A pause.
Then the old man leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing through the boy.
"Do you know why you are here, child?"
Teleu's voice came out flat, emotionless. "You said I am special."
"Special?" The master chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "No, Teleu. You are chosen. There is a difference."
"Chosen by who?"
"By the Source itself."
Teleu's eyes narrowed. He had heard the word before—whispered in temples, muttered by priests, spoken with reverence by those who believed. But he had never understood it.
The master saw the confusion flicker across the boy's face and nodded slowly.
"You do not understand. That is expected. But tonight, you will begin to."
He reached beside him and retrieved a small wooden bowl filled with water. He placed it between them.
"Look into the water, Teleu. Tell me what you see."
Teleu leaned forward and stared into the bowl.
"Water."
"Look deeper."
Teleu frowned but obeyed. He stared harder. The candlelight danced on the surface, ripples forming and fading.
"I see... my reflection."
"Good. Now listen."
The master's voice dropped, becoming something else—something that seemed to resonate not in Teleu's ears, but in his chest, his bones, his very soul.
"In the beginning," the master began, "there was only the Source."
Teleu did not blink.
"The Source," the master continued, "was not a god. Not a being. Not a thing. It was everything and nothing. It was wholeness. Completeness. Infinite potential folded into a single, impossible point."
He dipped his finger into the water, creating a ripple.
"But the Source desired something."
"What?" Teleu whispered.
"Experience."
The master's finger moved again, creating more ripples.
"To experience, one must divide. To feel, one must separate. To know joy, one must also know sorrow. To taste light, one must touch darkness."
He gestured to the ripples spreading across the bowl.
"And so the Source divided itself. Again. And again. And again."
Teleu watched as the ripples overlapped, collided, formed new patterns.
"Each division," the master said, "was a fission. A splitting. And with each split, a fragment of the Source's consciousness separated."
His voice grew heavier.
"And with each separation, the fragments became... denser."
Teleu's brow furrowed. "Denser?"
"Yes. Imagine a light so pure, so brilliant, that it blinds. Now imagine that light passing through a prism, splitting into colors. Then those colors passing through another prism, splitting again. And again. And again."
The master's eyes burned with intensity.
"Each time it splits, the light becomes dimmer. More diffused. More... impure."
Teleu stared at the water.
"And so the fragments fell," the master whispered. "Further. Deeper. Away from the Source."
He drew a line in the air with his finger.
"At first, they existed in the highest realms—pure thought, pure light, pure energy. These became the Primordial Entities. The first-born. The closest to the Source. They still remember what they were."
Another line.
"Then came the Ethereal beings—spirits of thought and dream, coiling through cycles of memory and imagination. They forgot the Source, but they still sensed it."
Another line.
"Then came the astral spirits—ancestors, guides, protectors. They forgot the Source entirely, but they still felt it, distantly, like an echo."
A final line.
"And then," the master said, his voice heavy as stone, "came us."
He gestured to Teleu.
"Flesh. Blood. Bone. The densest form. The furthest separation. The deepest fall."
Teleu's voice was barely audible. "We are the most separated?"
"Yes."
"Then we are... lost?"
The master's eyes gleamed.
"Almost."
Teleu leaned closer, his small hands gripping the edge of the mat.
"What do you mean?"
The master smiled faintly.
"In the early ages of Nubia," he said, "when the world was young and memory still clung to the oldest stones, there were those who remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"The Source."
The master's voice grew softer, reverent.
"They remembered that they were not separate. That the division was an illusion. That they, too, were fragments of the infinite."
He paused.
"And so they sought to return."
"How?"
"Enlightenment."
The word hung in the air like a prayer.
"They trained their minds. Purified their spirits. Separated their souls from their flesh. They entered the astral planes, walked among the spirits, communed with the Primordial Entities. They remembered their connection to the Source."
His voice grew darker.
"And with that connection came power."
Teleu's breath quickened.
"Power beyond mortal comprehension," the master continued. "The ability to shape cycles. To see the unseen. To command the forces that govern reality itself."
He looked at Teleu with an expression that was both sad and proud.
"They became as gods."
Silence.
Then Teleu spoke, his voice hollow.
"What happened to them?"
The master sighed.
"War."
The single word carried the weight of centuries.
"As knowledge spread, so did ambition. Some sought the Source for enlightenment. Others sought it for conquest. Mystics clashed with mystics. Kingdoms rose and fell in the astral before they ever manifested in the physical."
He gestured to the bowl of water.
"The knowledge became dangerous. Powerful families hoarded it. Masters refused to teach. Texts were burned. Rituals were forgotten."
His voice grew bitter.
"And so the continent weakened. The spiritual prowess of Nubia collapsed into fragments. Only the lucky, the curious, the seekers, or the nobility retained access to what remained."
Teleu's jaw tightened.
"And even among them," the master added, "most know nothing. They are Initiated—given the title, shown the surface—but they cannot advance. They lack the rituals. The knowledge. The discipline."
He leaned forward.
"Most remain stuck at the first or second grade of initiation. And at that level, they are barely different from common men."
Teleu's eyes flickered with something—anger, perhaps. Or hunger.
"How many routes are there?" he asked.
The master's expression shifted, becoming more serious.
"An infinite number."
Teleu blinked.
"The path back to the Source," the master explained, "is not a single road. Every soul must find its own way. Some walk the path of knowledge. Others walk the path of war. Still others walk paths of healing, creation, vision, or command."
He held up seven fingers.
"But in Nubia, we have codified seven Great Routes. Seven paths that have been walked by the masters of old and proven to lead toward enlightenment."
He began counting on his fingers.
"The Scholar Route—those who seek the Source through knowledge and wisdom. They are the lorekeepers, the historians, the philosophers. Ankh has always produced the greatest Scholars."
A second finger.
"The Warrior Route—those who seek the Source through discipline of the body and spirit. They are the blade-masters, the generals, the protectors. Mura's warriors walk this path above all others."
A third finger.
"The Ruler Route—those who seek the Source through governance and order. They are the kings, the lawgivers, the diplomats. Ace has perfected this route."
A fourth finger.
"The Seer Route—those who seek the Source through vision and prophecy. They are the diviners, the oracles, the truth-seers. Fairyland's sages walk this path."
A fifth finger.
"The Healer Route—those who seek the Source through restoration and balance. They are the herbalists, the soul-menders, the purifiers. Every kingdom has need of them."
A sixth finger.
"The Builder Route—those who seek the Source through creation and craft. They are the architects, the artisans, the forgers of sacred things. Their works outlive kingdoms."
A seventh finger.
"And the Merchant Route—those who seek the Source through exchange and negotiation. They are the traders, the dealmakers, the weavers of pacts. The Gold Land, though spiritually weak, has mastered this route in the physical realm... though they have forgotten its spiritual depth."
Teleu absorbed the words in silence.
Then he asked quietly, "Which path am I supposed to walk?"
The master studied him for a long moment.
"That," he said slowly, "is not for me to decide."
He leaned back.
"You are a spirit-child, Teleu. You were born with your soul already partially separated from your flesh. You entered this world standing at the third grade of initiation in not one, but three routes."
Teleu's eyes widened slightly—the most emotion he had shown all night.
"Three?"
"Yes."
The master's gaze grew heavy.
"Spirit-children are rare. One in five thousand births. They are born because their souls resisted the final fusion into flesh. They remember, even if only faintly, what they were before."
He paused.
"And because of that, they have the greatest potential of all."
Teleu's voice was barely a whisper. "Potential for what?"
The master's expression became unreadable.
"To ascend."
Silence.
"To walk the path all the way back to the Source. To reach the Eternal Tier. To become..."
He hesitated.
"...a divinity."
The word hung between them like a blade.
Teleu stared at him.
"Is that true?"
The master smiled faintly.
"It is a myth, child. A story told by desperate masters to give hope to their students."
He looked into Teleu's eyes.
"But all myths are born from truth."
The memory faded.
Teleu opened his eyes.
The small house in the Gold Land returned around him. The bed. The walls. The faint sound of wind rustling through Reloua's garden.
He exhaled slowly.
A spirit-child.
Three routes.
The greatest potential.
He clenched his fists.
Though he somewhat advanced, he felt like he had neglected his training for too long. Survival had consumed him. Politics had distracted him. But if he was to reclaim his throne, if he was to carve his destiny into the fabric of Nubia itself, he could not remain stagnant.
He would advance.
No matter the cost.
No matter the sacrifice.
He closed his eyes again and began to meditate, letting his soul stir within his flesh, reaching toward the unseen.
Toward the Source.