The next day, the eight Originat companions found themselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder with ten thousand other disciples from the Myriad Sect of Races on the vast central plaza of the sect's core world—a sprawling jade platform floating amid endless clouds of mana mist, ringed by towering spires that pierced the heavens like divine spears.
The air hummed with restrained power, auras mingling in a symphony of anticipation—Fourth Calamity disciples mostly, with scattered higher ranks among the elites. Banners of every race fluttered in the wind: phoenix flames, dragon scales, elf leaves, beastkin claws, and countless others.
In front of the gathered disciples stood twenty guardians—imposing figures of the sect's highest echelon.
Some were personal masters like Valeria Ignis, her magma hair flowing, and Kieran Vale, whose sword aura was as sharp as eternity, along with others claimed by the companions. The rest were sect elders and peak enforcers, their auras spanning from Ninth Calamity to Peak Stellar Sovereign—presences that made the platform subtly tremble, space bending around the most powerful.
At the forefront stood one of the lesser sect's Guardians—a Peak Stellar Sovereign elder named Eldran Myriad, an ancient human with silver hair cascading like starlight rivers, robes woven from threads of every race's essence, eyes holding the depth of countless galaxies. His aura was a gentle but absolute pressure—like standing before the universe itself, calm yet capable of crushing worlds.
He raised a hand, and silence fell instantly—ten thousand disciples holding breath.
"Disciples of Myriad," Eldran's voice boomed, resonant yet warm, amplified to reach every ear. "You stand here because you are the future. Today, we depart for the Galactic Gates—the nexus controlled by the Stellar Gate Lords, linking Venia to neighboring galaxies."
Murmurs rippled—excitement, nerves.
Eldran continued. "In five months' travel, we arrive at the Grand Interstellar Sect Conclave—a gathering of the strongest sects from Venia and beyond. There, you will compete in trials of combat, deduction, creation, survival, and unity. Resources beyond imagination are at stake: relic worlds holding lost inheritances, ancient formations, forbidden knowledge."
He paused, eyes sweeping the crowd.
"Our goal is clear: secure at least one slot in the top one thousand. Anything higher is glory. Fail to place a single disciple in the top thousand… and Myriad's name dims."
The personal masters nodded—Valeria's magma hair flaring, Kieran's sword humming.
Nia smirked, flames flickering at her fingertips as she sent a mental message through their private Nexus link to the other seven Originat women.
'Hehe, isn't this perfect to spread the Originat Clan? Surely, Ashy will reward me if I get the top spot~'
Vaeloria's blood-moon eyes glinted, a faint blush touching her cheeks as she replied mentally, hand resting on her sword hilt with cold resolve.
'Reward? You just want him to praise you again. But… yes. Top ten at least. He'd expect nothing less.'
Seris twirled a dagger subtly between her fingers, ash-blood mist coiling playfully as her mental voice came sultry and teasing. 'Oh please, Nia, we all want that praise. Imagine him smiling at us after we dominate the whole thing.
"Good girls~"
I'll take top five—more time for… personal celebration.'
Yonna's winds whipped excitedly around her, hair lashing as she laughed mentally, voice bright and competitive.
'Top five? Dream on, Seris. I'm claiming first. Ash loves storms—he'll be all over me when I blow the competition away.'
Sonna strummed a soft, melodic note on her harp—illusions of blooming flowers drifting briefly—as her mental voice joined, gentle but with a playful edge.
'You're all so loud~ But… I wouldn't mind if he noticed me too. Top three, maybe? My dreams could use a little more… him.'
Nia's flames flared brighter, mental pout clear. 'Hey! First is mine! I've been burning for him the longest!'
Vaeloria's mental chuckle was low, almost husky. 'Burning? We all are. But let's not fight—we'll take the whole podium. Originat sweep.'
Seris's mist formed a winking illusion face. 'Deal. But I get to sit on his lap first when we win.'
Yonna snorted. 'In your dreams.'
Sonna giggled softly aloud, drawing a few curious glances from nearby disciples.
Thalion adjusted his glasses, mental voice dry but amused. 'Ladies… focus. Though a sweep would be statistically satisfying.'
Eldran raised his hand again. "Prepare. We depart at dawn."
The crowd dispersed—excitement buzzing like mana storms.
The eight Originat shared one last mental laugh—bond unbreakable.
Five months to the Conclave.
They were ready to burn the cosmos.
----
Another two months passed swiftly, and in that time, a certain war had begun to flip on its head.
For two centuries, the Necroshade Empire—masters of death and darkness, their fleets cloaked in eternal night, soldiers wreathed in necrotic mists—and the Radiant Eternal Order—guardians of life and light, their armadas blazing with holy radiance, warriors armored in solar-forged plate—had been locked in a cataclysmic struggle.
It was a war of opposites: shadow against brilliance, decay against renewal, endless night clashing with eternal dawn. For most of those centuries, it had been a brutal stalemate—border raids, poisoned worlds, fleets annihilating each other in silent void battles that left nebulae of wreckage.
That was until ten years ago, when Vexar experienced his last regression.
His arrival changed everything.
What started as small ideological clashes erupted into all-out war—countless worlds consumed, billions lost, galaxies left scarred. The Necroshade took the upper hand, with Vexar's insight turning deadlocks into crushing defeats.
For the past six months, the real prize had driven everyone to the brink: Ebonheart, a Ninth Era world—4.5 million years old, unclaimed and hidden until scouts happened upon its secret coordinates. In Venia, where the oldest known worlds were from the Thirteenth Era and already held by legendary specters, it was a treasure beyond imagining.
An unclaimed Ninth Era world? Game-changing.
The war became all-out conquest—both sides throwing everything to claim it.
Yet amid the carnage, Vexar pursued his true goal.
He stood before a decaying treasury hidden deep in Ebonheart's heart—a shattered vault of obsidian stone streaked with faded runes, its doors warped by centuries, the air heavy with dust and lingering, ancient power.
Vexar's grin was wide—genuine, almost boyish, eyes alight with long-awaited triumph.
'Well… it's been over 3,000 years since I've had my things,' he mused, brushing off the strange loop of time. It was a puzzle he'd never truly solved, but his treasures had always been there, waiting.
He stepped inside.
The vault roared to life.
"Welcome home, Master."
Millions of shadowy figures emerged from the darkness—pure void given shape, faceless yet exuding immense power. Countless Peak Void Emperors stood among them, with Early Cosmic Overlords at the forefront, their mere presence distorting space and making the vault tremble under their combined might.
At the forefront stood three:
Nyxara bowed low, shadows curling around her. "We have waited through countless cycles, Master. As ever."
Vorath's massive frame rumbled. "Your legions are ready."
Elyssar's many voices murmured. "All records remain intact."
Vexar smirked. "Good to see you too. Now—my ring."
Vorath lifted a colossal hand, revealing a black mana ring etched with infinity runes that pulsed with ancient power.
Vexar slid it on.
Paragon-ranked armor formed around him—shadowplate of absolute void, edges etched with glowing blood-red runes, a cape of living darkness swallowing the light, and a helmet sealing into place with a visor of endless night. Power surged through him, his aura magnifying the strength of millions as the vault quaked.
"Home sweet home," Vexar murmured with a widening smile.
They departed the realm—millions flooding out like a tide of eternal night, the vault collapsing in their wake.
Chaos tore through Ebonheart's battlefields.
Necroshade forces—stationed along siege lines, necrotic fleets suspended in the void—were frozen in disbelief. Vexar wasn't their emperor, just their most gifted talent and unmatched strategist. Yet legions of Peak Void Emperors and Early Cosmic Overlords rallied to him—armies vast enough to crush empires.
The Radiant Order's defenses buckled under the assault. Their own millions of Void Emperors fought back—holy armadas blazing, warriors clad in solar plate—but their Cosmic Overlord hadn't been deployed yet...
The slaughter was merciless.
Shadow beings swept through—silent, unyielding, tearing light barriers apart like paper. Radiant champions fell, their holy auras consumed, solar armor reduced to dust, their screams fading into the void.
Necroshade soldiers watched, caught between awe and dread, as Vexar wielded power beyond reason. With each death—Radiant or Necroshade—his talent awakened: Eternal Shadow Ascension, a force beyond Paragon rank. Every fallen soul returned as a shadow-forged warrior bound to his will, stronger than before, their power steeped in darkness.
Light's defenders became dark champions.....
As death only swelled his ranks.
Ebonheart bled—skies blackening, worlds fracturing. Amid the chaos, Vexar stood smiling.
"It's time to end this war..."