Lucien stood at the heart of the Primordial Citadel, the vast roots of Ydris Solmare coiling beneath him like veins of the universe itself. His aura had grown silent, restrained only by his will, yet potent enough to make even Null shift uneasily in the background. His Abyssal Eyes, now fully evolved after the touch of the World Tree, glimmered like the void between stars — a window to all realities, to all potentialities, to all truths.
He breathed in slowly, feeling the pulse of every realm in tandem with his own heartbeat. Time, space, causality, life, and death — all of it converged within his awareness. And yet, he wanted more.
He wanted presence.
With a calm gesture, he formed the first clone. It shimmered like liquid silver before solidifying, standing before him as though born of thought alone. This was Lucien, but not Lucien. One percent of his full power flowed into the being, enough to allow independent thought, to experience life, to grow.
Then another. And another.
Each clone was distinct. Some tall, some shorter. Hair black, white, or streaked with unusual colors. Eyes that gleamed silver, amber, or deep violet. Some bore subtle scars, others bore none. Yet in their stance, their gaze, the glint of confidence in their expression, they were undeniably him. Each carried fragments of his arrogance, his humor, his calculating mind. Each was aware, yet unaware of the absolute entirety of their origin — they were him, yet their own selves.
Lucien raised his hand and released them.
"Go," he murmured softly. "Walk the realms. Learn. Grow. Experience life. But do not return to Aetherion. It remains sacred. They are not ready for what you bring."
The clones dissolved into streams of light, each slipping into a different realm. They carried nothing but their consciousness and that fraction of power, enough to survive, enough to evolve in environments foreign and unique. Each realm's laws would teach them — mortality, divinity, magic, spirit, instinct — every one of them offering a new lens through which a fragment of Lucien could grow.
And so they dispersed.
He did not worry. There was no fear of loss. Each clone was part of him, yet separate enough to learn without tainting his main self. One could never be more than one percent of his strength, yet that one percent multiplied by experience could yield power no god could predict.
Lucien turned his gaze inward, watching the flows of time, causality, and possibility shimmer around him. He could see the realms — Aetherion, Veyraxis, Drakensoul, Netheris, Luminara, Krythos, Elythria, Oblivara, and Astralis — each now populated with a hidden version of himself.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. Life, he realized, even for the godlike, was still something to explore. Even inevitability had lessons to teach.
He flexed his fingers, feeling Abyssal Eyes flare faintly, the void of uncountable possibilities reflecting in their depths. It was a vision he could not fully share with anyone, not even Null or Veythar. He alone bore the weight of this kind of omniscient observation — seeing the past, present, and potential of every corner of existence at once.
And yet, for the first time, he let it settle. Let the world — all worlds — move around him. Let them grow. Let him observe. Let him… wait.
The Primordial Void stretched infinitely before him, peaceful, yet alive. And within it, Lucien Dreamveil, Owner of the Primordial Void, sat silently, watching the infinite play of life he had set into motion.
He had sent his pieces to the world, yet remained whole.
Inevitability had learned patience.