The garden was still.
Not by choice, but by reverence.
The wind no longer rustled the leaves.
The trees stood like stone sentinels.
The moon — a witness — hung frozen in the heavens, as if held by the breath of gods.
And at the center stood Geal Elish.
His sword rested at his side, no longer a blade but a conduit.
His chest rose and fell slowly, the fire of the ritual settling into the marrow of his bones.
He was no longer just a man.
He was a Titlebearer.
The first and the only one.
Behind him, the maid still knelt. Her name, her identity, all had been forgotten in the presence of the transcendent. What did mortal names matter before a soul baptized in the Mother River's gaze?
But Geal turned slowly, his expression unreadable, his four-pupiled eyes dimmed — sealed, watching.
"…Stand," he said.
His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of iron and inevitability.
The girl trembled. She rose with difficulty, as if her limbs resisted her, as if they, too, had felt the kneeling was more proper. Her eyes couldn't meet his. The echoes of the ritual still lingered in the air around him — a pressure not of physical force, but of meaning. Of truth.
He looked at her, and for a brief moment, her soul quaked.
"You watched."
She nodded.
"What did you see?"
"…I saw the world bow," she whispered.
A pause.
Geal turned away, gazing into the starlit horizon. "I have truly awakened."
And in truth — it was only that.
He had not yet tested the full depth of the title. The power was latent, coiled around him like a sleeping dragon. It would grow, stretch, awaken — as he walked the path and refined the concept until it became not just his truth, but the world's.
But even now, the ripples had started.
Far beyond the mansion walls, in sanctums of prophecy and towers of spirit-sight, whispers spread like cracks across a dam.
"The Path of the Sword has crowned a new emperor…"
"A soul not born of this world, yet written into its fate…"
"The book has opened again."
And among the stars — those who had transcended Sequence Zero, the Bright Moons and Eternal Suns, stirred. Their gazes turned earthward, and in their silence, they marked the rise of an unknown force.
But Geal did not care for any of this now.
He stood still for a long moment before finally walking back toward the mansion, the sword still in hand.
The maid followed, quietly, like a shadow.
"Your name?" he asked without turning.
"…Alin," she said.
"She sent you."
"Yes."
"Good. She should be the one who covered up the vision."
She flinched at the words. [ How did he know]
"I'm not what I was," he said softly. "And neither is the world."
As they reached the steps, a strange sensation passed through him — subtle, like threads brushing against his skin. He paused, narrowing his eyes.
The book stirred again. Not in his hand, nor in his room — but in his soul.
A new page turned.
A Title demands tribute. It is not power freely given.
Each step must be paid with action, sacrifice, or intention.
He felt it then — a pull.
Not to a place. Not to a person. But to a concept.
The Sword Emperor was not a title of rest. It demanded its bearer walk the blade's truth. Each day without practicing the path would dull it. Each action must reflect the concept. To hesitate, to betray, to stray… was to invite corruption.
So this was the burden of titles.
Not only power — but obligation.
He acts as a beacon on the sword path for other practitioners, guiding them to the truth.
He said nothing as he returned to the mansion. Alin opened the door silently for him, bowing once more. Inside, the halls were empty, quiet, and cold — as if the place knew a storm had awakened beneath its roof.
His room greeted him like a tomb.
He placed the sword on the wall, then sat at the edge of the bed, staring out the window toward the stars.
His mind swirled with questions.
Why him?
Why the book?
Why did his soul feel… ancient?
The memories of Geal Elish — the original — still stirred within him. A boy born with a hollow soul, whose spirit had once been stripped, scattered like ash across the Mother River.
Now rejoined, he felt something waiting inside — a presence that had slumbered for eons.
A memory not his own stirred at the edge of awareness:
A field of swords. A war of concepts. A river of silver light tearing through the sky.
"Who… am I really?" he murmured.
And then — a sound.
A chime, clear and soft.
Not from this world.
In his mind, the book turned another page.1
Your next title awaits.
But beware — of obstacles in the rituals.
And in the darkness of the world, others stirred.
Reborn. Transmigrated. Fated.
Each with a piece of the story.
Each a protagonist in a world far too big for one.
Geal Elish, the passerby, was now something more.
A mirror to destiny.
A challenger to prophecy.
A guide to paths not yet walked.
And felt something more special had awakened in him, so it time to find out.