"So the GodKing can be nice," Ezmelral said, her voice tinged with a mix of surprise and wonder as she watched the orb of light drift back to the GodKing, his rare gesture of mercy toward Thornborne's soul lingering in her mind like a soft dawn breaking through a storm.
Raiking's lips curved into a slight smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his crimson eyes. "Was he really being 'nice'?" he countered, his tone inviting her to dig deeper.
She turned to face him, brow furrowing with curiosity. "What do you mean?"
He tilted his head, his gaze steady as if peering into the threads of time itself. "Think about how the GodKing operates—his nature, his choices."
Ezmelral fell silent, her mind drifting back through the tapestry of their time-travel glimpses. She recalled his first arrogant display—when they'd first entered the past timeline sequences, witnessing him wield Gravitational Essence to crush the Elders to their knees during their protest against his defiance of cosmic taboos, a show of power that silenced dissent with a single gesture. Then, she thought of his most vulnerable moment—after completing his first Flood Mission, the weight of cleansing countless lives crashing down upon him, his armored form trembling under the burden of a duty too vast for words.
Her memory sharpened to the Keeper of Time and Fate stepping forward then, her voice gentle yet firm as she offered him solace: "You were born with greater power than others, so you can carry this burden on your shoulders—a responsibility they cannot bear."
Piecing it together, Ezmelral spoke aloud, her voice steady with realization: "Duty."
Raiking gave a slow, affirming nod. "The GodKing's logic is not a mortal one. Concepts of right and wrong are irrelevant to him." He paused, his crimson eyes glinting as he posed a question that seemed to cut to the heart of everything. "Have you never wondered why he never removes his armor?"
Ezmelral's gaze was drawn to the distant, star-forged figure. She had always been curious, her mind concocting countless theories about the face beneath the helmet. But without proof, they remained just that—absurd speculations.
"I'm sure you," she began, turning back to him, "somehow, also know this reason."
Raiking smiled, another flicker of amusement at her perception. "He never removes his armor," he revealed, his voice dropping to a weighty timbre, "because it is a perpetual symbol of his duty as the Cosmos's purgative flame. It is the final barrier between his will and absolute power."
"So if he was to remove it..." she pondered, the implication hovering in the air.
"Then his last shred of respect for the Cosmic Will would end there," Raiking answered.
A chill, sharp and cold, ran down Ezmelral's spine. The statement was a key, turning a lock deep within her mind. Her thoughts raced back to the Orb of Reincarnation, and the threads began to connect into a daring theory. "If this arena holds the beings most attuned to the Entities... then they must know about the Flood Missions."
"There are whispers," Raiking conceded, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "Secrets spilled in the intimacy between Entity and mortal. But it has never been more than a rumor. The Keepers and the GodKing have never spoken of it openly."
"Yes," Raiking confirmed, a single nod cementing her theory. "The GodKing has long viewed the Flood Missions as a fundamental flaw in cosmic governance—a reactionary measure that answers chaos, rather than preventing it." His voice took on a sharper, more intrigued edge. "So now, he conducts his own experiment: how do these supreme beings react when they know they are under constant, cosmic scrutiny, with the fate of their entire species hanging in the balance?"
Ezmelral frowned, a flicker of moral unease in her eyes. "So he's just... using them as subjects in a lab?"
"That depends entirely on the conscience of the observed," Raiking countered, his head tilting slightly. "Planets festering with buried sin will recoil from the light, their defiance a confession. But those who walk in harmony will see it not as a threat, but as a covenant—a promise that corruption will be met with consequence."
As Ezmelral's gaze swept the stands, Raiking's words manifested before her. Aserenity and Astrength, embodiments of the woodland realm, stood with an unshakable, serene confidence, their postures open as if welcoming the cosmic gaze. They were rooted in a balance that had nothing to fear.
In stark contrast, the dragonkin Obsicaro and the elders of Caeruleus's kind wore their dread like a second skin. Their brows were heavy with the weight of unspoken transgressions, their fists clenched as if ready to fight a judgment they saw not as justice, but as annihilation. The divide was no longer theoretical; it was written in the fear and peace on the faces of the gods themselves.
Seeing these noble-appearing beings betray such unease, a cold truth settled over Ezmelral: appearances were a fragile mask. A fleeting image of her mother flashed in her mind, beautiful and kind.
She turned to Raiking, her voice a whisper frayed by doubt. "Then... my mother truly deserved it? To become a Praexar?"
Raiking met her gaze, seeing the comforting lie she longed for—a version of reality where goodness was always rewarded. But centuries had taught him that the hardest truths forge the strongest souls. His voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of granite. "The Seed of Corruption is never mistaken. It does not judge intent, only the rot within one's actions."
"But I knew her," Ezmelral insisted, shaking her head as if to dislodge the memory. "She was kind. She was loving..."
He leaned closer, his tone gentle but firm. "Earlier, you recalled the GodKing's behavior. To some, he's a tyrant—arrogant, defying cosmic law. But ask his disciple, the Keepers—what would they say?"
Ezmelral froze. The pieces tumbled into place. She saw it clearly: the GodKing defying cosmic law so the Keeper of Balance could love a mortal, creating Shona; bowing his head to the Keeper of Time and Fate despite his power; treating his disciple with unwavering respect, even resurrecting her world. The perception of a tyrant crumbled, revealing something far more complex.
"What we see," she murmured, the words a revelation, "is not the whole truth."
Raiking offered no reply, letting the silence cradle her hard-won understanding. Their shared gaze then fell to the arena below, where the Keeper of Balance stepped forward.
"Caeruleus is the winner," she announced, her voice the resonant chime of order restored. "The next contest shall be between Solomon and the GodKing's Disciple."
A wave of cheers rose from those whose consciences were clear, their voices a tide of hope and approval. But from others—those still reeling from the confirmation of their deepest fears—there was only a heavy, cheerless silence. They slumped in their seats, their still forms a silent testament to the secrets festering in their hearts, their faces etched with unease and the weight of hidden guilt.
Then, Slicing through the anticipation and restless hearts, Ezmelral's lookalike appeared in the ring like a gust of wind—her form a blur of white robes and flowing midnight hair, hand resting on her hilt with poised grace as she awaited her opponent, her crimson bloodmark glowing faintly like a beacon of resolve.
Across the arena, a different kind of pressure built. The Eldest Elder leaned into his son's space, his voice a gravelly whisper that brooked no defiance. "The weight of our legacy rests on this. You must win, Solomon. The path to the throne ends here if you fail."
The command coiled around Solomon like a vice, his pristine white robes feeling suddenly like a shroud. "I will not fail," he vowed, the steadiness in his tone belying the storm in his dark eyes. As he rose, a portal of pure void yawned before him, its inky depths whispering of forgotten realms. He stepped through and was swallowed whole.
In the center of the arena, a corresponding rift tore open. Solomon emerged as the void bled away like dissipating mist. Without a word, he settled into his meditative posture—legs crossed, hands forming ancient mudras, a silent signal of readiness that stilled the air.
The Keeper of Balance stepped forward, her ten arms unfolding in a gesture of cosmic order. "The rules remain as before," she declared, her voice a resonant chime cutting through the tension. "Begin."