[Nicholas Anstalionah.]
It was a dream folded within a dream, a labyrinth of shadow and light, memory and truth.
I floated within it, neither fully awake nor asleep, yet entirely present.
Time fractured around me, each shard reflecting a version of myself, and at the center stood the me I had long sought.
In each illogical world, in each impossible world, I was there.
I could extend my hand to a reasonable one. And probable one.
Yet it was lacking. Lacking just about everything I desired.
A true version of myself, radiating with a clarity I had never known.
It was more real than I could ever be, yet inseparable from who I was.
Here and now, this was possible because to my True Self nothing was alive.
To it, death, freedom from life. And I am dead.
"You must endure your failures," it said, voice echoing across the void. "You must accept the travesties that bear your name."
I hesitated, a thread of fear in my chest. "I… I do not want to continue," I whispered.
It tilted its head, and the void seemed to swell.
"Do you not see that your resistance is itself an illusion? To reject it is to deny the very world you are meant to shape."
I swallowed, staring at the expanse in its hand: a cosmos condensed into a single palm, each star, each world, each life suspended like a note in an eternal symphony.
"And if I fail?" I asked, voice barely more than a breath.
"You will not fail," it said, calm and inexorable.
"Even your failure is part of the pattern. Acceptance is not surrender; it is the acknowledgment that what you are, and what you can be, is enough."
The words sank into me like rivers carving stone.
I realized the True Self was not a judge but a reflection, showing me the whole of what I had endured and the entirety of what I could become.
"You must awaken to the call of my name, your name, our name," it continued.
I felt the echo of a True Name, whispered like a wind through the stars, brushing my consciousness.
I reached out, trembling, and in that motion, the Canvas stretched infinitely around me, blank, unyielding, yet pregnant with potential.
It was a nothingness beyond fear, beyond comprehension, where even time itself seemed to bow.
"You cannot cling to the shadow of what you were," it said.
"Each choice, each breath, each failure, is a step toward the self that waits."
A divine teaching unfolded, intricate and gentle.
"You are more than the sum of your wounds, more than the echo of your fears. Accept yourself."
And I saw it: the weight of my blood, my eyes, the sword I bore.
The essence of all I had been, all I had endured, fused into a coherent whole.
My Regalia flared within me, resonating with a power both terrifying and beautiful. I was no longer fragmentary.
I had absorbed the Cradle of Swords, not as a tool, but as part of my very essence.
Mana flowed with greater ease; the strain of my illness slackened, no longer a constant chain around my body.
My Regalia responded with an intimacy I had never known, granting access to traits and techniques that had once been beyond my reach.
Each movement, each thought, each command over my blade required less exertion, more precision, more unity.
"For a moment, I granted you a fragment of what is infinite," it said, and I felt the memory of that impossible gift in my bones.
"Do not despair that it is gone. The strength you retain is the mark of your perseverance. You are enough, and you are all you will ever be."
Tears came unbidden, not of sorrow, but of clarity, of the release of long-held burdens.
I whispered, almost without thought, "I see now… I am what I am. I do not need more, yet I am allowed to grow."
"Yes," it said, and for a moment, its gaze softened. "And when the world calls, when those you love call, you will rise."
Once more, my name reverberated in the void, not as a command, but as a blessing, sharpening with each echo.
Her voice, distinct and clear, pierced the darkness.
"Yuga-Nonihilith!" she screamed, and my eyes opened.
Memories struck with the force of falling worlds: a night decayed, a world rotting, dreams torn short.
Speaking my True Name caused that world of dreams to end. I'm lucky, if I wasn't there, Earth might have fallen.
It seems for now on, I'll be sure to use my title when invoking my True Name.
Along with its fall my Regalia flared, thrumming with newfound potency.
The power no longer felt alien; it was mine, instinctive, harmonious.
She pressed against me, her chest suffocating me with pure, ecstatic joy. I tried to speak, but her voice carried first.
"Please, never leave me again. You must never leave me again, Nicholas. It is my one final command."
Her words, sweet and venomous, threaded themselves into my core.
I smiled, carrying both the weight of her demand and the vastness of my power.
She slowly released me, studying my expression as though measuring the extent of my comprehension.
"Sure," I said quietly, with all the gravity I could muster. "I'll try my best."
Tears fell from her eyes, vast enough to cleave the heavens, though it was only I who felt their immensity.
I pressed my hand to her cheek. "Come now, my little miracle. Why do you weep for someone like me?"
She flushed, a storm of anger and bliss, her hair darkening from silver-red to blood ruby.
As I brushed it, it bloomed to hot pink, reflecting the euphoria she mirrored within me.
"I'll ignore your words this time, my love. I am glad you have returned. That you are alive."
I pulled her close, pressing her to my side. "Do not cry again. I cannot allow it."
She laughed, exhaling joy that carried the weight of worlds. "Damnit, you almost die saving the world, and yet you tell me not to cry?"
I chuckled, the sound rough with relief.
Her presence anchored me, nearly enough to mask the other truths pressing against my mind.
She stepped back and turned, revealing two small figures.
They were echoes of us: the girl with Mirabel's hair, the boy with mine.
Their presences shimmered, simultaneously innocent and formidable.
Even my past self, before Destrarossa, would have faltered before them.
Their existence confirmed one immutable truth: the King of Sloth, Belphagor, now moved through the world with power both inherited and earned.
Creation, even of kin, was a natural extension of dominion.
My blush betrayed me, and Mirabel caught it with a knowing gaze.
"Their names… I don't suppose they are Cassio and Miraculum, are they?" I asked the little girl, my voice soft, cautious.
She seized my nose with surprising strength. "Yep," she said, articulate beyond her years, a grin tugging at her lips.
Mirabel laughed softly. "How did you know?"
"I… felt it," I admitted, reaching out to lightly ruffle the girl's hair. "Something about them feels… right."
The boy, Miraculum, ran his fingers down my arm, testing my presence as if measuring it.
"He's real. Bery real," he said, voice high and confident.
Though unpolished, his power radiated subtly, a quiet curiosity shining from his gaze.
I lifted them both, holding them close, letting their warmth and energy fill the gaps I hadn't realized were empty.
Their small laughs, soft and tentative, felt like the first sunlight on a frozen world.
Mirabel's smile was a quiet approval. "Perhaps I do not need to feel you in," she murmured, her tone both relieved and tender.
"They're curious," I said, my voice tinged with awe. "It's strange to see them here, real and alive, and yet, so full of questions."
"They've only just met you," Mirabel said gently, brushing a strand of hair from the little girl's face.
"Give them time. And Nicholas…" She leaned close, her warmth brushing my shoulder.
"They already feel your strength, even if they don't understand it."
I nodded, my chest tightening.
Their tiny hands pressed against my arms, their presence demanding constant attention.
I had to maintain barriers, refine my presence, balance the energies that radiated from them even in their youth.
I sighed, a mixture of amusement and wonder threading through me.
"No, it will be difficult to catch up with everything. I do not feel caught up at all.
But… it is enough just to hold them here, to know they are real."
Cassio giggled softly, pressing her small hand against my chest, while Miraculum leaned against my arm with a tentative confidence.
Their trust was delicate, yet unyielding, and for the first time in years, I felt truly anchored.
[Nicholas, despite all he had endured, remained the Endless Fool, but now he could contend with the greatest wolves of the world.]
I supposed it was fitting. I was strong now, stronger than before.
The clarity of my mind, the ease of my body, the unity with my Regalia, the control of my mana, all of it.
And now, the bond with them, this new life, this fragile, precious tether.
It was time. Time to finally act as king.