High above Planet Eden, in the floating Garden, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The GodKing descended, his form a silent eclipse against the star-scattered sky, until his boots met the sacred soil before the ancient Sacred Tree.
Its branches, older than empires, swayed in a sorrowful rhythm. "...GodKing," the tree murmured, its voice the sound of rustling leaves and deep-rooted grief. It had been her sanctuary as much as his; it had watched the fragile girl he brought here harden into the strongest mortal the cosmos would ever know. The loss was a shared, silent wound.
The GodKing did not speak. He summoned a root from the earth. It rose with a soft, groaning crunch, cradling the air before him. With infinite care, he laid his disciple's body upon it. His gauntleted hand started to move, to brush a stray lock of hair from her peaceful face—a face graced by one last, blissful smile in her final moment.
He stopped.
His gaze fell upon the star-forged metal encasing his hand—the armor he had sworn never to remove, the perpetual symbol of a duty that superseded all personal bonds. A heavy, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him. He withdrew his hand, the gesture unfinished, and turned toward the staircase that spiraled up into the Great Temple. The root, bearing its precious burden, floated beside him like a solemn honor guard.
Midway up the ascent, he halted. His hand rose, not to the heavens, but to the base of his own helmet. With a strained, guttural sound of effort—the sound of will battling cosmic design—he began to pry it loose. The metal resisted, then yielded with a final, shattering clank.
From the veil of time, Ezmelral watched, her breath catching. She had always harbored the impossible suspicion, buried it under layers of denial. But now, as the helmet tore free, the truth she had refused to face was undeniable.
The helmet tumbled down the steps, a resonant CLANG echoing through the garden with each strike against the stone, until it lay still at the bottom.
The GodKing, Raiking, stood revealed. His crimson eyes, witnessing the world directly for the first time in millennia, held a terrifying, absolute clarity.
He continued his climb. As he neared the temple entrance, a sudden, playful cry shattered the silence.
"BOO!"
An image of his disciple leaped from beside the doorway, her face alight with a mischievous grin. "Hehe, did I scare you, Master?"
A slight, genuine smile—a sight as rare as a dying star—touched Raiking's lips. It was a fleeting warmth that softened the divine grief etched into his features. But his steps did not falter. He passed directly through her shimmering form, and the illusion dissolved into a swirl of silver mist, a ghost of a memory that could no longer hold its shape.
He entered the temple, his unhelmeted face now fully exposed. It was a face of impossible perfection and profound sorrow, a monument to a loss that had finally, after eons, found its way through his armor and into his heart.
The empty corridor stretched before him, its silence a physical pressure against his star-forged armor. With measured steps, the GodKing, Raiking, removed his left gauntlet, then his right. They fell to the stone floor. The clank that should have echoed was swallowed by a voice that lived only in memory.
"Master!"
He turned. There, on the stairs to his right, sat his disciple—a little older, a book open on her lap. She looked up, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I don't understand this part. Can you explain it?"
His body tensed, a teacher's instinct urging him forward. But he halted, a faint, sorrowful smile touching his lips. He straightened his back, turned away from the ghost, and continued his solitary march. Her form dissolved into silver mist behind him, a fleeting echo of a simpler time.
A few paces on, he shed his armplates. As they clattered to the ground, another specter bloomed beside him—a more confident version of his disciple, her eyes bright.
"Master,look! I'm almost there!" she declared, channeling her Air Essence. She levitated, wobbling precariously for a glorious second before crashing down with a soft thud. Rubbing her head, she grinned up at him, embarrassed. "Okay, so 'almost' might be stretching it a little."
Raiking's smile returned, a genuine warmth softening the grief etched on his face. She reached a hand up, her expression playful yet hopeful. "Aren't you going to help me up?"
He turned fully to her, his back arching as he leaned down. His fingers hovered just inches from hers—close enough to feel the ghost of her touch. But his resolve held. He pulled his hand back as if from a flame, and her form vanished, scattered by an unfelt wind.
A profound silence rushed in to fill the void she left, a loneliness more absolute than the stillness of the temple. For a long moment, he remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the empty air where her smile had been. Then, with a resolve forged in that fresh grief, he turned and continued on, the weight of his journey now a palpable burden upon his soul.
Passing the open archway to her chambers, his hand went to the clasp of his chestplate. The buckle gave way with a sharp, metallic clang that echoed down the silent hall. He let the heavy plate fall. It hit the stone with a final, resonant crash, leaving him feeling both more vulnerable and unburdened.
A flicker of candlelight drew his eye into her room. There she was, grown into a woman, bent over her desk in studious concentration—a mirror of his own discipline. Sensing him, she brushed a strand of hair from her face, a blush coloring her cheeks.
"Master! How long have you been standing there?" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of shyness and mock accusation. Then, with a playful pout, "Don't just stare. If you have something to say, come in."
His hand rose, hovering over the door handle. He pushed, the door creaking open a sliver—a promise of a past he could no longer inhabit. But with a supreme effort of will, he took a step back.
"What's wrong, Master?" her voice called from within, now tinged with genuine hurt. "Don't you want to see me?"
He paused, the temptation a physical ache. But with a determination forged in loss, he turned and walked on, leaving the door ajar and the ghost of her invitation hanging in the air. He wandered the temple halls, a king in a kingdom of memories, until he finally stood before the door to the main hall.