Over the next four months, he lived simply as a husband and a father.
He woke before dawn to tend the soil with his spouses, learning the patient cadence of planting seeds rather than drawing a blade. When the sun climbed high, the grand courtyard became a sanctuary of small voices and running footsteps. Eiden sat cross-legged on the emerald grass, patient and unhurried, guiding tiny fingers as they summoned their first flickering sparks of light. Little hands tugged at his tunic, climbed across his shoulders, and tangled in his hair. He caught every stumble, bandaged scraped knees with gentle pulses of mana, and memorized every giggle, holding each precious second close to his heart.
The afternoons brought quiet moments in the parlor—shared teas, stolen kisses in sunlit corridors, and long, easy conversations that never touched on war or duty. The wedding rings on his fingers were no longer symbols of sacrifices made; they were reminders of a home built, a love returned, and a life truly lived. He watched his wives and husbands laugh together, watched his children grow and play, and watched the seasons turn the leaves to gold.
Then, the time came.
On a warm, radiant afternoon, the family gathered in the heart of the private garden. White blossoms drifted lazily on the breeze, blanketing the lush grass. Eiden lay back, pulled into a deep, loving embrace by his spouses. Soft arms draped across his chest; heads rested against his shoulders and lap, their breaths falling into a gentle, synchronized rhythm. Tangled among them were their children, nestled close, tiny hands clutching his clothes as they drifted into peaceful, midday sleep.
Lying there surrounded by their warmth, listening to the steady beat of their hearts, Eiden felt a stillness settle over his spirit.
He had achieved the happiness he had long awaited. The boy who had swung a notched wooden sword in the cold halls of the Whitecrest Clan, the soldier who had walked among Devils, the warrior who had bled alongside the Sages—every painful step had led to this quiet garden. He was whole. He had loved and been loved completely. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to prove.
Gently, with an expression of pure, unburdened peace, Eiden raised his right arm, lifting his grimoire into the open sky above.
He looked around one last time at the sleeping faces of his children, the peaceful smiles of his spouses, and the beauty of the life they had shared.
"Thank you," he murmured softly.
Eiden closed his eyes.
From the grimoire, a soundless, brilliant wave rolled outward. There was no pain, no fear, and no violent shockwave. Like a quiet breath, everything began to fade to ash.
The white blossoms and green grass dissolved into pale dust. The children in his arms, the spouses holding him close, the estate, and the kingdoms beyond softly unraveled, their forms melting into shimmering gray embers carried away on a still wind. Eiden felt his own immortal power, his divine soul, and his very life unravel alongside them, erased completely from existence.
The ash swept across the mountains, the oceans, and the heavens, reaching upward until it consumed the golden thrones and divine halls of the Gods of Creation. Every higher divinity, every eternal domain, and every trace of the old order was erased without a sound, reduced to a vast, silent expanse of pale dust.
Everything was gone.
Then, from the boundless sea of ash, the planet began to reform.
Drawn together by quiet, ancient forces, the dust coalesced into stone, rock, and fresh water. Millions of years blurred past in a silent, cosmic shift. Continents shifted and settled; rains fell upon uncarved mountains; wild forests sprouted from untainted dirt. The world healed, virgin and free, with no memory of ancient wars or omnipotent beings.
Slowly, the reformed planet grew into a new era.
Centuries rolled by until a simple, medieval world flourished beneath the sun. Towns of timber, thatch, and cobblestone grew along riverbanks. Windmills turned lazily above sprawling fields of golden wheat. In the village squares, blacksmiths hammered plain iron over glowing coals, and travelers rode on horseback through winding forest roads. It was a world of simple mortals living ordinary, honest lives, free from the tyranny of gods and celestial magic.
High atop a green hill overlooking a quiet, bustling village, a single remnant of the forgotten past hovered in the morning air.
Eiden's grimoire.
Weathered, faded, and drained of its infinite light, it floated motionless, watching over the birth of this new world until its final duty was done.
A warm breeze swept up from the valley below, carrying the distant chime of a chapel bell and the bright, carefree laughter of children playing in the fields.
The ancient book gave one faint, quiet shimmer. Then, its pages unraveled into a delicate plume of gray dust, and Eiden's grimoire turned to ash—scattering into the wind, vanishing forever into the new world.