Raiking's gaze lingered on Ezmelral, crimson eyes shadowed with the weight of truths unspoken. "No matter what you see next," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "remember this: she is not you. You are you."
Ezmelral blinked, uncertainty flickering. "O-okay…" she murmured, though her tone carried more question than certainty.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, the touch a familiar anchor, and the world blurred once more—time and space folding in on themselves.
When the haze cleared, they stood in the Great Hall—a cavernous chamber of marble veined with starlight, walls etched with constellations that seemed to shift and breathe. In the center, a young girl—the ezmelral lookalike—knelt on the polished floor, her small frame trembling slightly, helmet discarded beside her, revealing wide eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and fear.
Before her loomed the GodKing on his throne, a towering figure in star-forged armor that gleamed like captured galaxies. Beside him stood the Keeper of Time and Fate—his Master—her presence a serene calm amid the hall's vast echo.
The GodKing leaned forward, voice rolling like distant thunder. "Tell me, child… what is it you want now?"
The girl bowed low, her small hands pressed to the gleaming floor. "Thank you for saving me, GodKing. But… my world is gone. Deatheny burned it to ash. I have nothing left to want."
His helm tilted. "Nothing? Not even revenge?"
Her fists tightened, then loosened. "You've already punished them. What more could I ask?"
A glance passed between the GodKing and his Master—subtle, heavy with layered meaning.
Raiking's jaw clenched, a growl rumbling faintly in his throat. The GodKing's helm turned just enough to catch him in the corner of its gaze, the faint curve of a smirk playing beneath. Amused. Taunting.
Then his focus dropped back to the girl. "I could restore your world," he said simply. "Resurrect your people. If you agree to become my disciple."
Her eyes widened—hope bursting, fragile as glass. "I… I would wish for nothing more." She faltered then, gaze lifting shyly. "But you are the GodKing. So mighty, so feared. I'm just a weak mortal girl. If I become your disciple… others will laugh at you."
The GodKing let out a rare laugh—amused, booming like a crack in the void. "Kings and queens of planets—even Entities who bear half-mortal, half-divine blood—would trade their lives for me to take their children as disciples. Yet you, a no-name mortal, dare refuse me?"
She flustered, bowing lower. "I-I only don't want to shame you. You saved me. I could never repay that with ridicule."
The Keeper's lips curved with a faint smile, her gaze drifting toward Ezmelral. "Even when offered her heart's desire, she puts her savior above herself. Such a soul is rare."
The GodKing fell silent, the words stirring memories—his own youth, when others had plotted his end, deeming him a threat. When those responsible for his birth's chaos had been held accountable, thanks to his Master and Ta'Narsha's selfless defense. He stared at the girl properly now, as if seeing her for the first time. In that gaze, he glanced sidelong at Raiking, realization dawning—the reason for taking Ezmelral as a disciple clicking into place like a key in a long-locked door.
"No one will laugh at you," he told the girl at last, his tone softened, tempered with iron. "I am the GodKing. None would dare mock me—or harm you—again."
"Truly?" she whispered, voice trembling on the edge of belief.
"Truly."
Her small shoulders straightened, resolve cutting through her fear. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "Then… I will become your disciple."
The GodKing extended a hand, sealing the pact with a simple gesture. But as the scene unfolded, Raiking's face twisted with turmoil—guilt, sorrow, and a storm of regret churning in his crimson depths, his fists trembling at his sides. Ezmelral reached out instinctively, her hand brushing his arm. "Master...?"
He didn't respond, lost in the echo of his own past, the weight of choices long made pressing down like an unbreakable chain. The hall seemed to close in, the air thick with unspoken pain, leaving her heart aching in solidarity—for him, for the girl, for the fragile threads of fate that bound them all.
Ezmelral's breath caught as the vision shifted once more, the threads of time weaving them into a new tapestry. For the next three months—compressed into moments through Raiking's power—they watched the GodKing and the Ezmelral lookalike forge a bond that mirrored her own in eerie ways. He taught her from ancient tomes that unfolded like living stars, revealing the vast knowledge of the cosmos: the birth of galaxies in fiery cradles, the secrets of black holes that devoured light itself, the harmonious dance of planets around distant suns. She absorbed it all, her mind blooming like a flower under eternal rain, until she was ready for the physical trials—the clash of blade and will.
Three months in, the GodKing took her to meet his oldest, most unique friend. They stood before the Sacred Tree, its colossal form towering like a guardian of eternity, branches sprawling across the void, leaves shimmering with the light of captured stars.
The lookalike stared up and down its immense trunk, eyes wide with wonder. "Wow... what an ethereal giant tree," she murmured, her voice filled with childlike reverence.
"Thank you," the Tree responded, its voice a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the ground like the earth's own heartbeat.
The girl startled slightly, even though she'd read of such wonders—tales of planets where tree-like humanoids ruled as the dominant species, their bark etched with ancient wisdom. But this... this was a literal colossus, alive and speaking. She snapped from her thoughts, bowing deeply with respectful grace. "Greetings, Sacred Tree."
The Tree's leaves rustled like a soft laugh. "The rumors are true... you've taken in a mortal disciple."
The GodKing inclined his head. "Why?" the Tree pressed.
He glanced toward Raiking and Ezmelral's spectral forms, a knowing glint in his eye. "I thought it would be interesting," he replied, his tone laced with subtle amusement.
"And how has it been so far?"
"Boring," the GodKing said flatly.
The lookalike puffed her cheeks in indignation, her small fists tapping rapidly—but gently—against his armored robes. "Master, how dare you!" she protested, her voice a mix of playful scolding and genuine hurt.
The GodKing let out a low chuckle, rare and rumbling. "To think the first to lay a hand on me would be a weak mortal."
"I'm not weak!" she retorted, her pats gaining a bit more force, though still harmless against his star-forged plate.
"Yes, yes," he conceded, materializing in a blink before the Sacred Tree, his back resting casually against its massive trunk, as if lounging against an old friend.
The lookalike scampered over, resting her arms on his legs and trying to pry beneath his headplate—the one piece of armor he'd never removed, a mystery even to her.
"How have you been, old friend?" he asked, his tone shifting to a quiet warmth that echoed through the garden like a gentle breeze rustling forgotten leaves.
The Tree's branches swayed gently, its leaves whispering in response—a soft susurrus that carried secrets from eons past, as if the ancient guardian were sharing tales only the stars could hear.
"Being rooted in one place offers great clarity," the Tree spoke, its voice a deep, resonant hum vibrating through the ground, like the earth's own wisdom given form.
"Oh?" the GodKing replied, tilting his helmeted head, curiosity glinting in the shadows beneath his visor.
"Those who chase the future often forget the past," the Tree continued, its words weaving through the air like vines seeking light. "Those stuck in the past often miss the future."
The GodKing paused, the gourd halfway to his lips, the liquid within swirling like captured storms. "Then which would you say I am?"
"You are a man who chases the past," the Tree answered, its tone laced with quiet sorrow, branches dipping as if in lament, "but is trapped in the future."
The words hung heavy, a profound silence falling over the garden—the GodKing frozen in contemplation, the weight of eternity pressing down like an unseen crown, leaving the cosmos itself to ponder the riddle of a conqueror's divided soul.