Chapter 112: Shifting Tides
Even as the Conclave drew to a formal close, the energy within The Locus had not calmed. If anything, it simmered. As the thrones dimmed and the mystical beings turned to confer in hushed tones, Philip remained still on his seat. His senses, sharper now than ever before, caught something beneath the layers of celestial stone and floating thrones. A hum. No not sound. A call.
Something ancient was awakening.
He rose.
Philip walked away from the throne circle, towards a nearby corridor. He placed his hand on the wall as he could feel something as he scanned the wall with his soul sense but The Locus did not resist. In fact, its very architecture shifted around him, guiding his steps through spiraling hallways and open corridors that hadn't existed moments before.
Corridors of twilight metal stretched ahead, their surfaces marked with echoes of language too ancient for most to decipher language that answered to his presence. As he descended, time seemed to blur. His thoughts sharpened.
He did not know where he was being taken
At the center of the structure beneath the floating chamber, hidden behind a door of star-metal runes he found it: a chamber not meant for mortals or even Demigods.
A crystal altar floated in the heart of the room, and beside it, an orb of condensed mana pulsed like a heart. At its heart floated a crystal altar, suspended in the center of a void-like space. All around it, motes of origin mana swirled like stars in a miniature galaxy. Beneath the altar, the air rippled
And then the air rippled.
From the orb stepped a figure.
Not a person.
An artifact spirit.
She appeared as a tall woman draped in energy, her hair flowing like solar flares, her eyes endless spirals of light.
"You have arrived," she said.
Philip's posture didn't change. "You're the spirit of this place."
She nodded once. "I am the custodian of The Locus. Until now, no bearer of Sovereign Thread has entered this chamber. You are the first in millennia."
"Why call me?" he asked.
"Because The Locus is not merely a meeting ground," she replied. "It is an ancient stabilizer. A remnant of the Emperor's Will."
Philip's eyes sharpened.
The spirit continued, extending her hand. "When the Emperor of this sector gathered fragments of the Origin Plane after the Great Battle, he brought together to create serval planet. To stabilize it. To rebuild. He ordered the survivors to build pyramids across the world. Those pyramids aren't just relics they are planetary stabilizers."
Philip's breath slowed. He remembered now the feel of ancient power beneath the pyramid in abakaliki. "The pyramids anchor leyline clusters," she said. "They nurture Earth's Core. They soothe the storms of mana left behind from a shattered divine war."
"And The Locus?" he asked.
"It channels origin mana from the stars, collecting and refining it. Then, it sends it to the pyramids. To Earth's core. Without it, the planet would've torn itself apart long ago."
Philip took a step forward. "So why me?"
"You hold the Thread of Rule. You are not just a demigod you are the Emperor Candidate. That is why The Locus has opened to you fully. You are its next Administrator."
All around him, sigils lit the air like starlight being reborn.
The air crystallized into interfaces a lattice of cosmic permissions, glyphs, and divine keys. One screen showed the leyline flows across the continents. Another displayed dimensional fractures rips in the veil of reality. A third showed the mana balance reserves the Locus had built up for the planet… most of which had just been used by the Conclave.
With a mere thought, Philip realized he could redirect mana tides, reinforce leyline nodes, shield regions from astral storms, even control the birthrate of mystic phenomena.
He could stabilize Earth.
Or reshape it entirely.
The power was terrifying.
She stepped aside and raised her hand.
The air shifted. And then memory itself played in the space between them.
Images formed floating projections of history long buried:
A colossal battle among the stars, worlds shattering, gods dying, continents cracking from divine impact.
A lone figure clad in flames, cloaked in law gathering shards of broken planes and fusing them together.
Planets forming from dust, from wreckage, from fallen divinity.
Pyramids rising crafted not as tombs, but as power conduits built by survivors under imperial command. These pyramids, spread across the Earth, were anchors, pressing the fragmented leyline system into stability, linking sky and soil.
"After the Great Battle," she said, her voice layered with echoes of countless past Administrators, "the Emperor of this sector gathered the fragments of the Origin Plane. He crafted new worlds. Earth was among them a young planet, seeded with potential. But the instability of the shattered planes left dangerous currents of unbound mana."