Chapter 9: Divine Intervention

  Verdalon lounged within the floating gardens of the Sixth Universe, his presence causing entire ecosystems to bloom and flourish with every breath. This place, his domain, was a symphony of nature’s endless cycle—a world of boundless verdant spires, colossal trees reaching into the cosmic abyss, and rivers of liquid starlight weaving through rolling meadows of bioluminescent flora.

  The gentle song of life itself coursed through the place a mirror of Veldalon himself.

  In the distance, a massive celestial behemoth slumbered beneath the roots of the Elderwood Titan, an ancient tree whose canopy stretched far beyond the visible sky. Planets and moons hung suspended within its twisting branches like fruit, each teeming with its own form of life.

  Verdalon relished the silence, the gentle hum of existence as flowers unfurled and creatures roamed freely beneath his watchful gaze. His realm was one of nurturing and balance, a sanctuary of steady, inexorable growth.

  Then, there was a tremor.

  A single pulse of cold, absolute force rippled through the very fabric of his domain, shattering the stillness like a knife through silk. Leaves curled in on themselves, vines recoiled, and the rivers of starlight dimmed. It carried an authority that could not be ignored.

  Verdalon’s expression tightened.

  Even without seeing the sender, he knew who it was. It was a summons. A demand.

  Amara was calling.

  The leader of The Everbound Pantheon, she was one of the first and most powerful gods inexistence.

  The name alone sent an instinctive shiver through his divine essence. He knew better than to refuse. Few did.

  With a resigned sigh, Verdalon reached out, tapping into the ever-growing network of life that pulsed throughout his domain. The branches of the Elderwood Titan twisted, forming a spiraling gateway woven from pure astral greenery.

  With a single step, he vanished.

  Verdalon emerged into a place beyond time, beyond space, beyond comprehension.

  The Chamber of Eternity was not a singular realm but a paradox, a shifting plane that was at once a throne room, an endless void, and a universe unto itself. Reality here was malleable, folding and unfolding in kaleidoscopic patterns, infinite and ever-changing.

  It was neither warm nor cold, neither bright nor dark. It simply was.

  At the center of it all sat Amara.

  Her throne was a construct of raw celestial essence, an unfathomable thing of light, shadow, and power woven into a seat of absolute authority. It pulsed like a dying star, shifting between pristine divinity and the void of the unknowable.

  And she was far more terrifying than the throne.

  Amara’s form flickered –sometimes ethereal, sometimes tangible, always overwhelming. She was not bound to a single shape or state of being, nor did she need to be. She was simply power. Inevitability.

  Verdalon inhaled slowly, centering himself before speaking.

  “You summoned me.”

  Her gaze landed on him, and the weight of it nearly drove him to his knees. He refused to falter, though the very air around him warped beneath her presence.

  “There are quite an unusual number of talents in the new universe,” Amara stated without preamble, her tone deceptively light.

  A simple statement, but Verdalon knew better. This was the opening move in a game of words.

  He did not respond immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch before offering a measured reply.

  “So, I’ve heard.”

  A ghost of a smile curled at the corner of her lips. She was enjoying this.

  “I have already found my chosen,” she continued, idly toying with the strands of fate that curled around her fingers like golden threads.

  Verdalon raised an eyebrow. “So, you’ve already crowned a king of the new generation?”

  Her smile deepened. Mocking. Knowing.

  “He needed no crowning.”

  Verdalon frowned. There was something in the way she said it that made Verdalon uneasy. He heard certainty in her words. She had not named a king—she had acknowledged one. As though it had never been in question.

  The Chamber pulsed, the very foundation of reality shifting as Amara rose from her throne. She took a step forward, and the cosmos bent around her.

  “I’ve asked you here for that very reason.”

  She extended a hand, and reality itself peeled open, revealing a vast, swirling tapestry of fate. One thread, golden and humming with potential, stood out among the countless others.

  Verdalon’s breath caught. He recognized it.

  [Tutorial E3A27192]

  His heart sank.

  “I believe it’s the only trial you’ve been deemed worthy enough to sponsor,” Amara said, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “The other two have already taken my suggestions—to bless a large number, even those unfit. Even your fellow god from the Ethereal Genesis has confirmed that this opinion is completely your own.”

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  Her gaze darkened slightly, growing more pointed.

  Verdalon inhaled slowly, controlling the rise of irritation in his chest. “You’ve already had great influence in the tutorial. I see no reason to prolong their suffering.”

  The universe trembled.

  The air thickened.

  And then, a crushing, inescapable force bore down upon him. Amara’s domain.

  The cosmic gardens, the Elderwood Titan, the lifeblood of his entire realm wither in an instant.

  She was not exerting her full strength. She did not need to.

  Verdalon staggered but did not fall. He would not kneel.

  Amara tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “It is not up to you to see my vision.”

  He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming weight of her power. “I am a god of growth. This will only cause death.”

  Amara exhaled in amusement.

  “You are barely a god.”

  The words cut deeper than any blade.

  “Forever stuck on the first step of divinity.” She took another step forward, and the air between them cracked. “I am not giving you a choice.”

  Verdalon’s hands trembled at his sides. He had never felt so small.

  Her voice softened, but the danger remained. “I wouldn’t mind a war if your higher-ups even cared.”

  And they wouldn’t.

  She let him stew in the silence before finally delivering the final blow.

  “A hero needs a villain,” she murmured. “And this will forge diamonds. Those who succumb under the pressure and heat of greatness would die when the greater universe opens up anyway.”

  Verdalon closed his eyes. He knew what this meant. What it demanded of him.

  A choice that was not a choice at all.

  And he had lost.

  Amara turned away, already dismissing him. “Return to your gardens, little god. Your trial awaits.”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving him alone in the vast, ever-shifting void.

  Verdalon inhaled sharply, casting his gaze back toward the golden thread of fate still shimmering before him. So many lives. So many souls.

  He was a god of growth. But today, he had only witnessed destruction.

  Verdalon stood upon the highest branch of the Elderwood Titan, his domain stretching endlessly below him. The sky above was a soft, shifting hue of green and gold, the air thick with the scent of blooming life. Rivers of light coursed through the land, pulsing with the slow heartbeat of nature itself. Every leaf, every blade of grass hummed with his presence, an extension of his will.

  But something was wrong.

  The golden glow of his rivers had dulled. The trees, once standing proud, had begun to wither at the edges, curling inward like dying embers. The very breath of the land was stifled.

  Verdalon narrowed his eyes. Amara’s influence had already begun to take root.

  A sigh, laced with amusement, drifted through the air.

  “Brooding doesn’t suit you.”

  Verdalon didn’t turn. He had already felt Grail’s presence long before he spoke. The wonderer had a way of making himself known without effort.

  Grail emerged from the mist-like shadows between the branches, dressed in a dark high-collared coat, golden trim lining its edges. His silver eyes gleamed, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. He moved with the grace of someone who had never once doubted his steps.

  “You were summoned,” Grail mused, stepping beside Verdalon. “And now you bear the weight of a decision you were never meant to make.”

  Verdalon’s jaw tightened. “Amara has already dictated what must be done.”

  Grail tilted his head. “Has she?”

  Verdalon turned, his patience thinning. “She decreed that the trial must proceed violently. That suffering will shape them. That a hero will rise—but only if enough are crushed beneath their ascent.”

  Grail let out a low chuckle. “And yet, you doubt.”

  Verdalon exhaled sharply. “Of course I doubt. Growth is not about suffering for the sake of suffering. It is about becoming.”

  Grail studied him, then shook his head. “Always the idealist.”

  Before Verdalon could retort, the very air around them shifted. A breeze, gentle yet weighted with something eternal, brushed through the leaves. The sky darkened to a deep violet as the fabric of time and existence bent to welcome another.

  From the fading dusk, Elandria, Goddess of Cycles, stepped forward.

  Her form shimmered as though she existed in every phase of existence at once. Her long hair, shifting between silver and deep auburn, cascaded down her shoulders, carrying the hues of seasons changing. The hem of her robes trailed along the great branch, leaving behind blossoming flowers that quickly wilted into dust, only to bloom again.

  She regarded both gods with a serene smile. “Debating the nature of fate?” she asked, her voice layered, as though spoken from many points in time at once.

  Verdalon turned fully to face her. “You knew this was coming.”

  Elandria’s smile did not waver. “I have seen it before.”

  Grail sighed dramatically. “Of course you have.”

  She glanced at him with knowing amusement before shifting her focus back to Verdalon. “And yet, despite knowing what must come, you resist.”

  Verdalon’s gaze hardened. “Because I refuse to be a mere piece on Amara’s board.”

  Elandria moved past him, reaching out toward one of the withering vines curling along the Elderwood Titan’s bark. With the lightest touch, she withered it further until it turned to dust. Then, in the silence that followed, new tendrils of green sprouted from the very same place.

  “Cycles do not stop, Verdant One,” she said gently. “But they can be guided.”

  Verdalon exhaled, watching as the fresh leaves unfurled. “And what cycle is this? One of war? Of unnecessary death?”

  Elandria tilted her head. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is a cycle of awakening.”

  Grail crossed his arms, smirking. “You ask what kind of cycle this is, Verdalon? It is the same as it always is. Those who rise, rise. Those who fall, fall. The only question is who writes the final story.”

  Verdalon clenched his fists. “I will not let Amara turn this into a slaughterhouse.”

  Grail raised an eyebrow. “Then don’t.”

  Verdalon frowned. “It is not that simple.”

  Grail leaned against the tree, smirking. “It is exactly that simple. She may have swayed the beginnings of your tutorial but its ultimately yours, Lon. You cannot stop it, but you can shape it. Amara wants Villains forged in blood, but who says that blood must be senseless? Who says the villains can’t be your heroes. The difference between a hero and a villain is a matter of prospective after all. Why not forge something greater”

  Verdalon hesitated.

  Elandria stepped closer, pressing a single fingertip to his chest. A pulse of warmth spread outward, filling him with a deep, unshakable sense of continuity.

  “You are a god of growth,” she said softly. “Not war. Not conquest. Growth. You do not break. You nurture. And yet, even you must know—true growth does not come without hardship. Without endings. Without loss.”

  Verdalon inhaled slowly. He did not want to admit that she was right.

  But he knew she was.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the trial before him settle onto his shoulders.

  Elandria’s voice was softer now, her presence like the shifting of tides. “Amara will not stop. The trial is set. But if you wish to change its course, then do what you do best. Sow your own seeds. Nurture the ones who can defy her expectations. You may not be able to halt the cycle, but you can decide what grows within it.”

  Verdalon opened his eyes. The weight had not lessened, but there was clarity now. A path.

  Not defiance. Not war.

  But guidance.

  He turned to Elandria, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you.”

  She smiled, stepping back into the shifting glow of the cosmos. Grail chuckled, shaking his head before following her. “Try not to lose yourself in sentimentality, Lon.”

  With that, the two departed, vanishing into the great tapestry of existence. Their conversation continued, a quiet exchange between those who had seen countless cycles unfold.

  “Do you think he will manage it?” Elandria asked as they walked through the void between realms.

  Grail smirked. “He has no choice but to try.”

  Elandria chuckled softly. “Perhaps, in this cycle, something new will bloom.”

  Grail glanced at her. “Or perhaps it will wither before it has a chance.”

  Their voices faded, leaving only the whisper of falling leaves in their wake.