The presence returned—not abruptly, not gently, but with the same inevitability with which tides obey a moon they do not see.
Once more, thought aligned itself into purpose.
And once more, the younger minds were not listening—yet they were receiving.
Today, the lesson would not concern virtue, nor inner enemies, nor the quiet violence of friendship. Today, it would concern power—not as it was wished to be, but as it had always been.
So began another rambling.
There had lived another great man in the long, bloodstained history of mortals.
A diplomat.A thinker.A man whose insights stripped illusion from power and exposed it as it truly operated.
Niccolò Machiavelli.
"The promise given was a necessity of the past; the word broken is a necessity of the present."
A quote as relevant now as it had been during the crises of the Immortal King's own age.
Students were urged—without ever knowing why—to linger on these words. They carried weight disproportionate to their length.
For within them lay an uncomfortable truth.
At its core, the quote spoke of change—and of flexibility, the quality most despised by those who romanticized honor without understanding survival.
Change was the only constant in existence.
Kingdoms rose. Empires fell. Cities were built atop ruins that had once been cities themselves. Nothing endured—not stone, not bloodlines, not even belief.
Not even knowledge was permanent.
And if knowledge itself decayed, how could structures built upon it ever claim eternity?
Time changed—not only for people, but for objects, situations, even for the heavens and the earth themselves. Thus, adaptation was not betrayal. It was obedience to reality.
The individual who resisted change, who clung to the circumstances of the past, became the most vulnerable of all.
Such people basked in former glory while their enemies sharpened themselves in the present. They defended yesterday while their kingdoms were assaulted by today.
Students were reminded:
A promise kept once may have been the need of that moment.
But a promise broken today may be the need of the present.
Honor and morality functioned only while one possessed power. The moment power was lost, they transformed—from virtues into restraints.
Every kingdom, every empire, was built on sacrifice: the blood of soldiers, the ruthlessness of rulers, the endurance of common people. Once in power, leaders spoke of morality and equality. But such language only gained authority after victory.
In the realm of nobles and politics, victory preceded virtue.
It granted the power to define morality—and to justify the promises broken along the ascent.
The promise of the past had once been necessary: to survive, to grow, to climb. But clinging to yesterday's promise when tomorrow demanded something else created fracture—first within the ruler, then within the realm.
Yet there was a warning embedded within this lesson.
One promise must never be broken.
The promise made to oneself.
To break such a vow was to confess that one placed no value upon one's own goals. One must abandon bad habits, shed destructive sins, and sever ties to a harmful past—but never betray a promise that shaped a better tomorrow.
Be loyal to promises only as long as they served your purpose.
When the moment arrived where breaking them furthered your goal, hesitation was indulgence.
Tomorrow must never be sacrificed for yesterday.
An example emerged, unbidden.
During wartime, a ruler forged an alliance with a neighboring kingdom, promising mutual defense. At the time, the alliance bought stability and time.
Months later, intelligence revealed the ally's duplicity—they were secretly negotiating with the enemy.
The promise that once ensured survival had become a liability.
If the ruler honored it, his reputation would remain intact—and his people would perish.
If he broke it, he would be labeled a traitor—and his kingdom would endure.
A Machiavellian ruler did not hesitate. He struck first. He justified the betrayal after victory.
History remembered him not as a liar, but as a survivor.
Then the lesson deepened—moving beyond mortals.
Beyond history.
Beyond scale.
The oath had been sworn before stars had learned how to burn.
Two gods stood at the dawn of creation—one the Warden of Continuance, the other the Sovereign of Ruin. They swore never to act against one another, for balance demanded restraint.
At the time, the promise was truth.
Without it, creation would have torn itself apart in its infancy.
But eternity did not preserve intention.
It eroded it.
Ages passed. Civilizations rose and fell like fleeting thoughts. Worship transformed into fear. Reverence decayed into desperation.
The Sovereign of Ruin began whispering to mortals, teaching them how to end the world faster than time intended.
The Warden understood what mortals never did:
An eternal promise remained eternal only until it became fatal.
On the eve of the Seventh Collapse, the Warden descended—not as a judge, but as an executioner.
The oath was not denied.
It was outgrown.
When the Sovereign screamed betrayal, the Warden answered with divine calm:
"The promise preserved existence once. Now it threatens it. I do not break faith—I retire it."
The god of Ruin was unmade—not out of hatred, but necessity.
Creation survived.
History would later call the Warden a traitor.
The universe called him necessary.
And with that, the lesson ended.
The thought withdrew. The Immortal King receded once more into slumber, his existence dimmed by the energy spent conveying truth across dimensions.
Tomorrow—or some distant age—he would return.
In a distant universe, a small boy knelt before a statue of an old man.
Though the stone mouth did not move, the boy listened with unwavering focus. When the thoughts ceased, he prostrated himself fully.
"Good night, my master," he whispered. "I shall return tomorrow."
He left with clarity he had not possessed before.
Unbeknownst to both teacher and student, each was altering the other's fate.
The boy walked home carrying memories of humiliation, and of a promise once made to escape it. Now, guided by unseen wisdom, his intention sharpened.
By the time he reached the secluded cottage, the sun had set.
The house was modest—neither grand nor poor—standing apart from the city's noise. Inside waited only his family.
"How was school today, my dear?" his mother called.
"It was nice," the boy replied. "I also made some friends."
A satisfied smile crossed her face.
"That's good. What would you like for dinner—apart from rice?"
"Anything you make is fine," he said. "Where is my sister?"
"She's resting," his mother replied. "Don't disturb her."
After dinner, the boy returned to his room in silence. He reviewed his school lessons—and then, quietly, the teachings of the unseen sage.
Elsewhere—far beyond perception—a ruined dimension lay silent.
Within it, a small consciousness flickered like a candle in a winter storm.
But the flame was growing.
The change was subtle, imperceptible to any eye. Yet transformation had begun.
The Immortal King remained unaware.
For one who measured time in eons, such changes were invisible.
But they were real.
And they were waiting.