The guardian of stone and stars had fallen, scattered into dust by the surge of Life. But the silver road did not grow calm. Instead, the battlefield darkened, the void itself trembling as if the Earth-Level Universe sought to test him further.
From the broken fragments of the guardian's body, three new forms rose.
One cloaked in pale shadows, radiating stillness.
One radiant, carrying sparks that wove themselves into shapes of new worlds.
One blazing with a crimson storm that tore at everything it touched.
Krish steadied himself, his wings spread wide. He recognized them instantly—reflections of what slept inside him. Death. Creation. Destruction.
The first to move was the shadow.
Chains of silence spread outward, binding the stars, suffocating the battlefield until even sound and light ceased to exist. It was Death, relentless and absolute.
The air grew colder. Krish's wings slowed as if frozen. The pressure pressed against his veins, his heartbeat faltering.
Then, deep within his core, the second element stirred. He exhaled, allowing the essence of Death within him to awaken.
A shadow pulsed outward from his body, darker than the void itself. The chains dissolved into silence. The stars crumbled into ash. And yet, there was no fear in his eyes.
"Death is not to be fled from," he murmured. "It is the breath between two lives."
With a sweep of his wings, the shadow before him collapsed into stillness, returning to dust.
But there was no time to rest.
The radiant figure stepped forward. Threads of golden essence spilled from its hands, weaving into oceans, mountains, skies, and life—worlds forming and collapsing in an instant. Creation surged like a flood.
Krish's body trembled, his veins burning as though they were being rewritten into new foundations. But he did not resist. Instead, he opened himself to the element of Creation that stirred within.
Golden sparks erupted from his wings, weaving threads of essence across the battlefield. Broken stars reformed. The shattered silver road repaired itself. Worlds spun briefly into existence, only to dissolve as his will released them.
"Creation is not a gift—it is a burden," he whispered. "But it is a burden I will carry."
The radiant reflection bowed and dissolved into his essence, returning to the core where the four elements rested.
Then came the last.
The crimson storm surged forward, tearing the void apart, its roar drowning all else. This was Destruction, raw and merciless, the inevitable end of all things.
The storm struck him head-on. His wings cracked, his body split open, fragments of his essence scattering like dust. For a breath, it seemed as though he would be consumed entirely.
But deep within, the crimson pulse answered.
Krish raised his head, his voice steady even as his body fractured:
"If there is Destruction, there will be Creation. I am not its prey—I am its wielder."
The crimson storm merged into him, no longer tearing, but coiling within. His cracks closed, his wings blazed brighter, and with a single beat, the storm obeyed his will, collapsing into silence.
The battlefield stilled.
All four elements—Life, Death, Creation, and Destruction—now pulsed within him in unison, no longer separate forces but parts of a whole.
Krish stood at the center of the silver road, his eyes calm, his wings glowing with balanced radiance. The Earth-Level Universe trembled—not in rejection, but in recognition.
The bearer of Time now carried the Four Hidden Elements, unsealed one by one.
And countless ancient eyes turned to him.
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