After the departure of Kael and Lior, the world moved on.But Tribal and Alaya, immortal, did not.They carried in their eyes the memory of their sons — and in their hearts, an unease.
They felt an energy growing. Strange. Familiar, yet impure.It pulsed through the roots of the planet, in the deepest layers of matter.And so, they set out.
They walked through forgotten forests, nameless deserts, and mountains that touched the firmament.They passed through human cities — many of them beautiful, others drowning in disorder.They observed without interfering. Like the wind.
Tribal, towering at nearly six meters of living light.Alaya, radiant as a star shaped into a woman.And yet, humans rarely saw them.For only those who were ready could see.They knew. They felt everything.
The human race had changed.Now small — rarely taller than 1.8 meters.But in some corners of the world lived the remnants of the first generation: the Giants.Created by the children of Tribal and Alaya, the Giants lived in harmony with the planet.They reached three meters in height, possessing the wisdom of silence and the strength of peace.
There, among the Giants, Tribal and Alaya felt at home.They spoke. They smiled.They were equals.But it was not there that the energy called to them.They moved on.
They found the spiritualists — humans born of chance, of the planet's natural harmony.There were not many of them.They lived alone, or among the Giants, or wandering silently through the paths of creation.Beings who needed no school nor master.They learned by osmosis.They absorbed the secrets of existence as one breathes.And they lived longer. Much longer.
These, Tribal respected.Alaya admired them.But the strange energy did not come from them.It was deeper.Denser.
And then, they arrived.
Hidden cities.Vast. Technological.Forged of metal and smoke.There, the forms were distorted.Hairy creatures with fangs, scaled beings with tails, fused with fragile humans — impossible mixtures.
The art of metal had conquered the art of spirit.Machines spat fire.The air was poisoned.The waters sickened.
Tribal and Alaya passed unseen, walking like specters.But they felt everything.The smell… it was the same as that of forgotten wars.The odor of the corruption of Creation.
And then — There.In the heart of the darkest city — They felt it.
The energy.
It was strong. Dense. Familiar.But it came from a human spiritualist — or what remained of one.
He walked toward them.He did not fear.His aura pulsed in black waves.His skin was stained with time.But his eyes… they were clear.
— "Why do you follow me?" he said firmly.— "What do you want from me? Can I not live on this planet? Can I not learn and teach?"
Tribal trembled.Alaya gripped his hand.There was no arrogance in that voice — only pain.But also… something else.A dark echo.An ancient whisper.
The same that once spoke to Kael.The same that hid in the shadows of Elshua.
The being before them was human — but not alone.
And for the first time in ages, Tribal felt fear.
The spiritualist stood still before them.Tribal did not answer.Alaya remained silent as well.But something shimmered in her eyes — A firm compassion.A vigilant love.
— "You look at me as if I were impure," said the spiritualist, his voice trembling yet defiant.— "But I only absorbed what the planet offered! The iron, the fire, the scream — these too are creation!"
Alaya stepped forward.Her presence made the dust rise in golden spirals.She did not speak with her mouth, but through vibration.
The energy around them shifted.The air grew dense.The nearby trees bent in reverence.The clouds above swirled slowly, as if the sky itself were listening.
Tribal stretched out his hand.From the soil, ancient roots emerged — not to restrain, but to connect.
— "What you absorbed," he said calmly, "was not natural. What you learned… was distorted."
— "Lies!" shouted the spiritualist, and the earth quaked beneath his feet.— "I saw the power! I felt the pulse hidden in rock, in molten metal, in machines. I saw them… the ancient ones… the forgotten…"
His eyes flared black.And then — he exploded.
Not with fire — but with thought.
A blade-sharp idea sliced through the air, a torrent of soundless words, of twisted truths disguised as wisdom.His mind was a hurricane of distorted certainties.
Tribal staggered.He felt the invasion — as if he were drowning in an ocean where every drop carried a lie that looked like truth.
But he stood firm.Closed his eyes.And dove in.
Beside him, Alaya floated in meditation, her hair rising in spirals, dancing to the rhythm of the universe.
The battle was not one of muscle — but of memory. Of essence.
The spiritualist hurled thoughts like spears:
— "Goodness is weakness!"— "Order is oppression!"— "Light is an illusion born from fear of shadow!"
But Tribal answered with silence.And his silence roared:
— "Goodness needs no proof."— "Order is not control, but harmony."— "Light is only the name we give to the meeting."
Each mental response from them unraveled a layer of darkness.The spiritualist's aura trembled.Cracks of light began to form across his ethereal skin.He screamed — not from anger, but from ancient pain, from forgotten wounds.
And then… Alaya wept.
One tear.Just one.
It fell upon the blackened ground.And the soil bloomed.
Roots of light climbed up the spiritualist's legs.His form trembled.He cried out — and collapsed.
Tribal ran and held the body in his arms.Alaya knelt beside him.
And there, between the two beings of light, the darkness dissolved.
The spiritualist's aura became translucent — and finally, pure.
But before Tribal could speak, before Alaya could touch him in gratitude, the spiritualist's body rose on its own.It floated.
And then… vanished — like mist drawn into the air.
Where he had stood, a shadow remained.Not an ordinary shadow — but a silhouette.
Immense.Untouchable.Ancient.
Beyond the veil between worlds, Akasha watched.
His eyes, twin embers restrained, gazed at Tribal and Alaya.There was no hatred.No surprise.Only something far more dangerous — interest.
Then the silhouette turned… and disappeared.
The wind fell silent.
The battle was over.
But Tribal knew — that was only the beginning.