Varnak'Thul, Sovereign of Geo, did not arrive.
He had always been—
Mistaken for mountain.
A monolith of tectonic memory, woven with fault lines and time.
He did not walk.
The land itself rose to him.
Where others wielded power with flair,
He moved only when the earth demanded.
"The fruit of our effort has yet to ripen.
Patience… is the virtue that reigns until the final breath."
His words, spoken like the grinding of bedrock, stilled the stirrings of war within the Sovereigns.
---
From above, the sky was cleaved open in flame.
Xiuhcoatl, Sovereign of Pyro, descended from the sun in a blaze that split daylight in half.
A serpent of blinding corona—eight burning wings, arms of molten spears, horns like curved sabers forged in dying stars.
Each breath scorched clouds into smoke.
Around his crown danced fire and ash—like a king in mourning for every sunken city.
"But his birth changes nothing.
We will still raise war in full scale.
I'm done playing Celestia's long game.
We made our message clear in the last battle."
His voice echoed through Arian like the death knell of an era.
---
The fields below trembled—not from fire, nor quake—but from life.
Apep, Sovereign of Dendro, coiled upward from the grasslands, tearing through the soil like roots rebelling against time.
Her body, vast and sinuous, was cloaked in ancient bark and luminous veins of green-gold sap.
Scales replaced by ever-blooming growth.
Twin lines of primeval energy spiraled down her form.
Her gaze held the sorrow of extinct forests—
And the promise that they would return.
"If he succeeds... the entire Realm of Nyxhara will flourish.
With Elemental Energy flowing freely, we can rebuild, thrive—
And finally grow without fear."
She spoke with amusement, her voice rustling like leaves in a storm—anticipation beneath every word.
---
On the trembling ground, where Emblems still stood frozen—
Kaelya, trembling, looked up.
"What do you mean, Mother? Seraphyx... isn't dead?
Then why—why is he like this in my arms?"
"Why can't I heal him? Why can't I bring him back—?!"
Her voice cracked as sobs overtook her, her fingers clinging to the still form in her arms.
But then—
Ignarion's eyes widened.
A stillness overtook him—a soldier recognizing the unspoken truth.
"No... Kaelya...
He's disintegrating."
The words fell like thunder.
In her arms, Seraphyx shimmered—
And began to fade.
Tiny particles of elemental light—Cryo, Anemo, and Dendro in divine equilibrium—lifted from his form, weightless.
Not vanishing.
Not dying.
Returning.
Confusion swept the Emblems.
Despair tried to settle.
But somewhere beneath the sorrow...
A new pulse had begun.
Something far greater than rebirth.
The sky did not thunder. It wept silence.
VlastMoroz's eyes shimmered like dying stars — twin galaxies frozen in time. When she spoke, the heavens bent to listen, and even the wind dared not move.
"If we Sovereigns fail to shackle Celestia..."
Her voice rang with the finality of Judgment itself.
"Then Seraphyx shall rise… as the Last Hope of Creation."
Above the land of Arian, the Seven Elements were drawn together — not as magic, but as will — ancient, sovereign, divine. They converged in a spiral of radiant truth, swirling faster until reality itself thinned. And from within that halo of primordial light, an image stirred:
A child's form — Seraphyx — nestled in the heart of infinity, as if dreamt into being by the universe itself.
"The Birth of the Next King," Varnak'Thul declared, and his voice was not sound, but law. The words echoed across time, written into the bones of the world.
---
Far below, in the Knights Academy…
Orion clutched his chest as if the vision had pierced through his soul.
"That… that's impossible…" he breathed. "All seven elements are resonating with him. Just like they did with me… when I carried Frieda, and the soul of our child… Nibelung's final spark..."
He staggered, eyes wide.
"But that was a miracle wrought through death and love. How… how could this be...?"
---
High above the mortal sky, where light bends and thoughts fade, Zephyr floated, his wings folded, his gaze like moonlight on a blade.
"Had Orion and Frieda's child not borne the mark — not played the bait — Seraphyx would never have survived."
VlastMoroz lowered her gaze. Her crown of frost cracked ever so slightly.
"It was the only way. The child had to be marked… had to burn in the sight of Celestia. So Seraphyx could rise unseen."
Raiclaus let out a bitter laugh, sharp as shattered glass.
"You branded a child with the gold of greed, VlastMoroz. You fed them to gods and called it strategy."
A silence followed — long, ancient, agonizing.
"And I will regret it… for the rest of time," she whispered. Her words fell like snowflakes… each one heavy as guilt.
---
Then, the divine storm pulsed —
A radiant womb of starlight cracked open.
Seraphyx began to take form.
A small boy, curled like a newborn galaxy, his body blazing white-gold. He hugged his knees as though bracing for the memory of pain. Light poured from him in waves — not warm, but revelatory.
"It is done," Apep whispered. "The Dragon King is born."
Orion fell to his knees, tears glistening in disbelief.
"No... That's not possible... That's.. the…"
The voice that answered him did not come from one mouth — it came from every corner of the land, from the stones and sky and sea.
"Seraphyx didn't Die today."
"He was reborn."
"Because His soul was finally Matured enough..."
"He is the true Last Fragment of Nibelung's soul."
And as those words echoed into the void, the stars blinked — not in fear, but in awe.
Seraphyx's bare body struck the ground with a dull, resonant thrum—
and the world did not recoil.
It welcomed him.
The earth did not break. It bloomed.
Where his skin kissed the soil, the land came alive—not with pain, but with joy so ancient, it had no name.
The trees bent low, creaking under the weight of reverence.
Leaves shimmered, not with dew, but with crystallized aether.
Rivers paused mid-course, holding their breath like witnesses to prophecy.
And above it all, the wind—usually wild, untamable—coiled gently around him, wrapping his small frame like the final stitch in the fabric of destiny.
From the lightless trenches of the Realm of Nyxhara, where even thought dares not tread, something stirred.
Not a beast.
Not a god.
The pulse of the elements themselves.
It rose—not upward, but inward—rattling through ley-lines long forgotten, singing a hymn in a language the world had never needed until now.
And the ground—yes, the ground—bloomed.
Petals of gold and dust and memory erupted around him in a quiet, trembling halo.
Moss curled like velvet beneath his spine, and vines etched runes no mortal had ever seen across his ribs.
It was not nature—it was recognition.
A moment of the planet remembering who it truly served.
His form—slim, still childish—twitched.
Then again.
Light, soft at first, like a breath of dawn through stained glass, traced the curve of his back. Then it thickened, spiraling up his spine in radiant coils, like a serpent of morning devouring night.
His fingers clenched, unbidden.
A sharp breath escaped his lips.
And then—his eyes opened.
Twin suns.
Not warm, not kind—just honest.
Eyes that reflected creation not as it is, but as it should be.
In their mirrored depths swirled galaxies unborn, and judgments yet to be delivered.
Then—it began.
Not an explosion.
Not a collapse.
But a folding.
A silent, seamless undoing of form.
Seraphyx's body shimmered, then peeled, as if reality had grown tired of housing one truth.
From within him, another stepped forward—identical in face, in body, but whole in a different way.
And then another.
And another.
The echoes of his soul spilled outward, uncoiling like threads unspooled from the Loom of Fate itself.
One became two.
Two became four.
Four… became seven.
Not clones.
Not illusions.
Not even fragments.
Aspects.
Each stood alone.
Yet each bore the same youthful form—bare, untouched, as if they had been born from pure concept rather than flesh.
Their skin glowed faintly, each touched by an element not just in form, but in truth.
But it was their eyes that revealed the impossible.
Each bore a sigil within their pupils—no mere symbol, but a living glyph, pulsing with purpose.
A crimson flame, its edges jagged, burning with contained wrath.
A roiling tide, spiraling like the sea under moonlight, heavy with memory.
A storm cloud, veins of lightning flickering in slow motion across endless grey.
A coin that resembles the Anemo sigil.
A frozen star, still and patient, ancient as death itself.
A stone spiral, grinding endlessly inwards—unmovable, unshakable.
A leaf-wrapped helix, blooming in slow, infinite regeneration.
The Seven Elements.
The Seven Sovereigns, reborn not in the sky, but in a boy.
Each Seraphyx turned slowly to one another, their eyes locked in incomprehension.
There were no screams. No questions.
Only a shared breath—stolen from the lungs of destiny itself.
Then they moved.
Each raised a hand, palm open, fingers trembling—not with fear, but with a reverence they did not yet understand.
And from the air around them, matter responded. Elemental energy rippled into being like silk threads pulled through a needle:
The flame Seraphyx conjured robes of molten crimson, flickering with embers that hissed with rage.
The water-wielding form wrapped himself in a tidefall of sapphire silk that moved like the sea itself.
Lightning gathered into loose cloth stitched from stormlight and static, humming with potential.
The Anemo one was clad in white robes laced with rays of sun and the unblinking weight of judgment.
Ice wove itself into flowing fabric—fragile, yet unmelting—etched with fractal scars of the past.
The stone-born pulled mountain dust and granite folds into a robe that weighed as much as legacy.
The final Seraphyx—verdant and quiet—bloomed into a cloak of moss, bark, and roots, alive even as it draped across him.
And then—they spoke.
Not in unison.
Not as gods in chorus.
But alone.
Each voice a quiet revelation.
Soft. Frightened.
"What… happened?"
They turned to each other, not with malice, but with awe—
the kind of awe reserved for celestial convergences or the realization that you have just been born as a paradox.