"All answers lie within—
not gifted, but revealed,
as reflections of the self.
They dwell in the in-betweens:
between waking and dream,
between thought and silence,
between heaven's promise and earth's sorrow,
between ruin and rising.
There, in the trembling borderlands
where consciousness meets its echo,
the path appears—
neither extreme nor indulgent,
but the way of the Awakened One,
forged for mortals who have endured suffering,
and still choose to rise."
—Inscribed in the Codex of Stillness, sealed beneath the Shrine of the Slumbering Mind
***
The sleeping figure of Arin stirred, his body shifting into a seated position as if guided by an unseen force. The stick he held rose with him, transforming seamlessly into a staff, mirroring the vision from his dream. At that precise moment, Theryx arrived with a soft "pop," his eyes widening in astonishment. Summoning popcorn and a plush pillow, he settled in to observe the unfolding spectacle.
However, the tranquility was short-lived. A seed, previously nestled in Theryx's pocket, drifted toward Arin, drawn by an invisible current. It hovered briefly before settling into Arin's dantian, the energy center just below his navel. As it embedded itself, a dark, ink-like substance began to emerge, drawn from Arin's core. This inky essence flowed downward, coating his bones before transforming into rich, fertile soil.
The seed, as if exhaling a sigh of relief, nestled comfortably within this newfound earth. In Arin's dream, he witnessed the seed sprouting, growing rapidly into a sapling, then a plant, and finally blossoming into a majestic Bodhi tree. Its leaves shimmered with an ethereal light, casting intricate patterns upon the ground.
Theryx watched in awe as the tree's roots extended, intertwining with the very fabric of Arin's being. The transformation was profound, symbolizing a deep purification and a rebirth of spirit. The Bodhi tree, revered in many traditions as a symbol of enlightenment, now stood as a testament to Arin's inner journey and transformation.
***
Theryx blinked slowly, letting the popcorn tumble forgotten from his hand as he leaned forward, breath caught in a rare moment of reverent silence. "Well," he whispered, eyes glittering with a strange warmth, "time's funny in this place... but even for me, it feels like years are pouring into seconds."
The once-dead earth beneath Arin’s meditative form was no longer grave soil—it was rich, humming with energy, the way a river hums under ice before spring knows it’s time to bloom. The Bodhi tree had anchored itself fully now, its roots spiraling through bone and memory, not rejecting what was but transforming it. Out of femurs grew clusters of glimmering blue leaves, as if the tree was painting peace over old wars. The sap hardened not into bark, but a translucent shell where golden threads of energy danced within, slow and serene.
And around it—life.
Petals unfurled from nowhere, suspended in the air before they knew the names of wind or ground. Flowers that had never bloomed in this world or any other opened themselves to the strange, filtered starlight that rained down like dew. Some looked like orbs of liquid pearl; others resembled soft lanterns with wings. They gave off no scent—until they did. Then suddenly, the perfume of a thousand unnamed blossoms kissed the air, light as lullabies.
Theryx's mouth parted in awe, which, for him, was a kind of prayer. "Butterflies," he breathed. Not of silk or biology, but something in between. Their wings shimmered with shifting runes, ancient language written in motion, impossible to read but deeply understood. They hovered, danced, circled the tree like quiet priests mid-ritual.
And Arin… Arin was changing.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
It started subtly—his chest rising in rhythms smoother than before, as though his lungs had found a new world to breathe. His spine straightened without tension, and the grip on the staff relaxed yet held fast, as if the two had become one organism. His hair, once short and sun-worn, flowed like a silver river over his shoulders, down his back, catching the starlight until it looked almost white-blue.
The worried lines carved by human pain melted from his brow. The creases of sorrow softened into the gentlest peace. Even in slumber, he smiled—not with joy alone, but the serenity that comes from understanding sorrow too.
From his skin, faint motes of golden light drifted off and were absorbed into the air. The butterflies followed them, weaving glowing trails in their wake.
Theryx wiped his eyes without realizing it, then chuckled softly. “He’s changing the laws again… Paragon no longer. This… this is something older.”
And the graveyard—no, not a graveyard anymore—responded.
The bones no longer whispered grief. They hummed gently, a tone of approval, of rest. Vines climbed respectfully around their forms, wreathing them not in death, but reverence. The stones warmed. Small streams trickled out from the base of the Bodhi tree, water that glowed like moonlight and tasted of memory.
Then came the fauna.
Little creatures made of shadow and light peered from behind newly-formed shrubs, as if reborn from the echoes of the dead. Foxes with fur like dappled dusk. Owls with eyes shaped like galaxies. Deer that bore spirals upon their antlers, grazing silently, drinking from the sacred stream. All drawn here by a presence they instinctively knew.
Theryx finally slumped onto his conjured pillow, tail curling contentedly around his leg.
“I should’ve done this centuries ago,” he sighed, letting the moment wash over him.
Then he felt it.
The wounds he’d carried across timelines—echoes of the Lightbringer’s searing judgment, the necrotic coils from Supreme’s cursed incantations, the temporal dissonance left by the Monarch’s scythe—wounds no healing spell or joke had ever touched—were unwinding.
Bit by bit, the hurts were unraveling from him, pulled out not with force but gentleness. Not erased, no, but repurposed. Every burn became warmth. Every tear became depth. Every scar became a line in the story that sang softly through the air.
Theryx, the ageless, the trickster who feared nothing but quiet, closed his eyes and smiled—mirroring Arin’s own.
And for the first time since he had wandered out of the Void, he felt… healed.
***
Beyond the veil of bone and dust, there once stretched a void so cold and still that even time forgot its passage. This was the land outside the graveyard, a place where echoes lost their source and shadows had no anchor. It was not merely absence—it was rejection. A vacuum where the System's eye dared not look.
But now, that void stirred.
The transformation within—the blooming of the Bodhi tree, Arin's silent metamorphosis, the return of Theryx's breath—had not gone unnoticed by the fabric of the universe. Life itself exhaled into the forgotten. The air, once inert, began to shimmer with threads of possibility. Colors bled into existence where none had tread before. It was not the light of a sun, nor the echo of old stars—it was the first breath of something new.
Theryx, still half-reclined in his conjured throne of moss and mushroom cushions, jolted as the realization bloomed across his mind. A memory—not just remembered, but awakened.
"When the death-soaked soil blooms life anew, and the one who was severed becomes whole,
the echo will call not to the kings, nor the gods, nor the gears of fate—
but to the ones who said no.
The Wanderers.
The Lost.
The Free."
The prophecy. Whispered in forgotten tongues, etched into the walls of crumbling dimensions, told in riddles by mad oracles who danced with chaos. Theryx had dismissed it—then lived it. Now, he watched it.
The void outside was no longer empty. Shapes moved. Lightless beings stirred. Not sinister—but cautious, curious. Some had no form. Others were like ash given thought, or wind with memory. These were the Defiant Ones. Beings who had refused the System's chains. Some had been cast out, others had fled. A few had broken free by tearing off parts of themselves.
And now… they came.
The garden around the Bodhi tree breathed in time with Arin’s slow, meditative slumber. The petals of newly born flowers turned like antennae, seeking not light but intent. Vines etched ancient runes into the soil. Every root whispered: Welcome. But only to those who knew freedom.
The void that had once repelled now became a passage, a membrane between realities, pulsing with gentle gravity. The System couldn’t see it. Couldn’t feel it. For this place was no longer under its jurisdiction. It had become something else.
A sanctuary born from death, shaped by hope.
A lighthouse in the endless dark.
A message in a language older than gods:
You are not alone.
***