The Story Seeker lay under the Celestarbark Tree, a cosmic monstrosity of bark and stardust that had no business being this scenic. Its roots were tangled through his whole realm, and its leaves glowed with constellations that probably wouldn't exist for another few thousand years. Classic overachiever behavior.
Floating around him were six books—each pulsing faintly, orbiting like loyal satellites. Their covers weren't made of leather or paper, but of condensed soullight. Each one held a life, a person, a story the universe had no idea it had already forgotten.
And yeah—he'd eaten those stories. Metaphorically. Mostly.
They were his now.
1. Wings of the Windborne – Aelira, wind-slinging sky elf with more pride than altitude tolerance.
2. Ashes Rewritten – Kaelira, she was a firebrand rebel who looked at empires and said: "Burn it."
3. Frostmourner's Vow – Eirein, emotionally frozen snow elf. Vengeance was her love language.
4. The Stonewright's Legacy – Draven, dwarf artificer whose brain had more gears than most airships.
5. The Tideshaper's Oath – Nareth, dramatic fish prince. Water obeyed him. People... less so.
6. Stormbound: A Chronicle of Lightning and Ash – Kael Thorne, brooding human pirate with a knack for adventure and avoiding tax.
Their stories had something in common — all their endings either went missing or ended in a battle against some monstrosity, like a leviathan. But the truth was much simpler: every single one met their demise at the hands of the Story Seeker.
He watched them, guided them when needed, and once they ripened — he reaped their stories. All so he could inch closer to that elusive godhood.
Now, their essences have been forged into these six books — each aligned with a different elemental affinity: wind, fire, earth, water, ice, and lightning.
Why only six? Because his reach has limits. It's not easy to snatch souls from millions of light-years away. Some demigods are so pitiful, they can only manage to bring in one or two.
"You're stalling again," said a voice behind him. Calm. Slightly judge-y.
Liora. His right-hand shadow. Too smart to trust him fully, too loyal to leave.
"I'm reflecting," he replied smoothly.
"The council's about to start. And the Watcher doesn't like waiting."
He sighed. Right.
________
Deep within the neutral realm of Aetherhold, a place untouched by any single dominion, floated a pocket of stability that rarely welcomed visitors. Once sealed off from meddling hands, it was now accessible—opened after a tenuous alliance was formed between a handful of demi-gods. They called themselves — The Accord of Stars —a name both poetic and mildly pretentious, but it stuck.
At the realm's shimmering core stood the Hall of Prismacite—a dazzlingly excessive chamber made entirely of judgmental glass and casually floating staircases. No throne, no ruler. Just sharp corners and sharper words. Arguments thrived here, probably because no one was in charge to shut them down.
As the Story Seeker entered the main chamber, a few demi-gods had already arrived.
The Gilded Maw lounged on a seat made of coins and compliments, swirling a golden chalice. He grinned like he bought the concept of confidence at a discount.
Veilmother was just... there. Shadowy, quiet, draped in layers of emotion no one asked for. She never really spoke. Just... loomed. Like a disappointed librarian.
Watcher, though, was a different beast entirely. Hooded, silent, and all-knowing. Need a lost artifact? A secret city? That one sock you swear was under the bed but isn't? Watcher probably knows. She's basically the universe's cosmic mom, with the emotional warmth of a filing cabinet.
"Are we starting without Riftwalker again?" Gilded Maw asked, already bored.
Lady Solcraven answered with a glare. She radiated solar energy and judgment, like a literal beam of disappointment. Wings of light. Temper of plasma.
"He's always late," she muttered. "Time isn't his thing."
The chamber doors slammed open with a volcanic thud.
Baraxion stomped in, smoke coiling from his shoulders like an active volcano that had learned to swear. Ash-colored skin clung to a towering, muscle-bound frame. His pointed ears twitched with irritation, and his bare upper body shimmered with ember-like runes—scars, or trophies, or both. A thick, fur-lined cloak clung to his shoulders, dark and brooding, more suited to a battlefield than diplomacy. He looked like someone who'd punched his way out of a mountain just to shout at the weather.
"Are you bastards starting without me?!" he growled, heat radiating off him like an open forge.
Then came Seraphine.
She descended in a column of light, wings spread wide—pristine, blinding, and utterly excessive. Her halo hovered above her platinum-blonde head like a smug punctuation mark. Her armor shimmered with the glow of a midday sun, untouched by dust or doubt. Her expression screamed celestial superiority—the kind you usually saw right before someone declared a crusade.
"Sinners," she intoned, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
Baraxion scoffed. "Good to see you too, Feeny."
Her eyes twitched. "That's not my—" she began, but sighed mid-sentence. Why bother? He did it just to annoy her.
The two locked eyes, tension thick as molten rock and just as likely to explode. Angels and demons—they always hated each other. Cosmic law at this point. But in the back of the Story Seeker's mind, a thought rose—unbidden, amused:
If angels and demons are eternal enemies… Why is it always humans getting raided by demon kings in every damn world? Where are the angels then?
He didn't say it aloud. But the silence hung with snark anyway.
A cat arrived next.
No, seriously. A fluffy white cat, crown perched atop her head, floating mid-air with a cup of tea politely bobbing beside her.
Lady Nymera—casual chaos in feline form. She hadn't bothered to show up in her true body, instead opting for this absurdly adorable avatar. But no one laughed. No one dared. Not when she was one of the most powerful beings in the room—someone with an actual track record of killing a demi-god.
Then the air rippled, cracked—then tore open like silk being sliced by a blade of thought.
Riftwalker stepped through, wrapped in layers of spatial nonsense. His cloak shimmered with stitched seams of starlight and half-existence—woven from coordinates that didn't even exist yesterday.
He landed lightly, as if gravity had personally agreed to step aside for him.
"Right on time," he said, as the air sealed behind him with a soft click.
"You're late," Solcraven muttered, annoyance flaring like a spark.
"I arrived precisely when the mood turned sour," Riftwalker replied smoothly. "Figured I'd fit right in."
"You always do love making an entrance," came a soft, lilting voice.
Nymera.
Still in her ridiculous cat avatar, she floated lazily mid-air, teacup hovering beside her. Her eyes—mismatched today, one gold, one sapphire—glinted like knives.
"A shame you never stay long enough to face the consequences," she added, sipping daintily.
Riftwalker offered her a mock bow. "Well, you know how it is, Your Fluffiness. I tear a hole in space, you tear through egos. We all have our little talents."
"Mine at least has results," she replied sweetly. "You just run from commitment."
"Ah, but I run beautifully," he said with a grin. "Besides, even you couldn't leash me if you tried."
The air between them shimmered slightly—just for a moment. Old tension. Familiar challenge. No one in the room missed it.
Baraxion snorted. "Stop flirting, you two. It's nauseating."
"I don't flirt with felines," Riftwalker said, side-eyeing Nymera.
After that chaos just settled, Things got even more worse.
Dreamweaver slinked in—silk, smirks, and sin woven into every step. Her presence carried the scent of warm night air and forgotten cravings. A succubus draped in barely-there fabric that shifted like mist, eyes half-lidded with a predator's patience.
Her dominion wasn't just over dreams, but over the desire that twisted inside them. She didn't just visit your sleep—she made sure you didn't wake up the same. Or at all.
Some said she once seduced a would-be demi-god during his breakthrough ritual. Left him drained of power, purpose, and pants. The man died smiling.
She glided past Riftwalker with a wink, then made a beeline for the quiet figure sitting with a book floating before him.
The Story Seeker.
"Darling Seeker," she cooed, circling behind him, her breath brushing against his ear like a whisper from a dream. "Why don't you ever write about me? Surely you're tired of watching heaven's golden boys stumble toward glory."
The Story Seeker didn't look up. He turned a page instead.
"I prefer stories with plot," he said dryly. "Yours would just be a symphony of moans and mattress springs."
"Ouch." She clutched her chest, feigning a wound. "You wound me."
"Not nearly enough," he muttered, eyes never leaving the text.
She slid in front of him now, eyes gleaming. "Let me offer you something new. A tale of temptation and betrayal. A rise and fall more sensual than tragic. Come now… wouldn't it be thrilling to script the tale of the one who devours demi–gods in their sleep?"
He finally looked up, expression unreadable.
"I've seen what your stories do. Hollowed shells with happy endings… in only one sense of the phrase. Pass."
"Still can't forget that pitiful birdie?" she teased, voice velvet with poison. "What's she got that I don't?"
The book floated shut between them.
"A spine," he replied.
She blinked, then laughed—a low, sultry sound that echoed off the crystal walls.
"You'll come around," she said, turning with a sway. "Everyone does. Eventually."
Riftwalker, lounging nearby, called out, "Careful, Seeker. She might slip into your dreams next."
The Story Seeker scoffed. "She already tried. All she found was a library and disappointment."
________
Gearfather arrived last—his steps heavy enough to make the crystalline floor hum. A squat figure, broad as a forge wall and twice as grim. Soot blackened his arms up to the elbow, and glowing runes pulsed along his bracers like slow heartbeats. Tools clanked softly from the many pouches and loops at his belt, each one older than some civilizations.
He didn't speak.
He simply walked to his seat, dropped into it like a boulder from a cliff, crossed his arms… and waited.
But none mocked his silence.
For this was the Gearfather – One of the First Node's greatest artificer, the dwarf who built weapons that rewrote battlefields and machines that tore open the skies. A demi-god not of war or fire, but of invention.
And more than that… he was the keeper of the Entropy Artifact.
No one knew who had made it—certainly not him. But he had been the only one to unlock even a fraction of its purpose—not even Omniscript had helped. Normally, when someone soul-binds an artifact, Omniscript reveals its stats and functions. But no one—not even demi-gods—had been able to soul-bind The Core of Entropy, leaving its purpose a mystery. That is, until Gearfather researched and discovered a method.
Some whispered it was God-tier. A relic not made by a system or a species, but by the death of a star… or perhaps the end of a god.
No proof. No explanation.
Yet Gearfather held it. And more importantly—understood it. Even if only partially.
And that made him dangerous.
________
Finally, the Watcher spoke.
"The seal near the Second Node is thinnest at the Axial Verge."
The room fell silent.
Even Baraxion stopped chewing whatever raw ember he'd been gnawing on.
The Watcher continued, "It's where the leyline threads of two ancient star clusters intersect. Whatever event happened there… it weakened reality itself. The seal is unstable. Perfect for what we need."
"We'll use the Core of Entropy there," she said. "It has just enough Aetherion for a single breach."
"Enough time for the souls to reach the Second Node?" Nymera asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes. Unless we mess up somehow."
Gearfather grunted—the universal sign for finally, something worth doing.
"Then let's go," said the Story Seeker, already rising. "Before we start monologuing again."