There, seated in perfect silence, was Orion.
His posture carried the weight of ages—not as a burden, but as awareness.
With eyes closed, he allowed his perception to expand.
This was not meditation.
Nor trance.
It was... transcendental vigilance.
Like the heart of a world listening to all its pulses at once.
He felt the plazas teeming with life.
The fields rippling with golden crops.
The small temples where disciples chanted mantras.
The laughter of children and the sighs of weary artisans.
Every detail of existence in Eryndor resonated in his spirit like a silent symphony.
But there was a dissonant note.
A subtle trace—a doubt. And it came not from without, but within.
When he opened his eyes, the ice-blue glow of his gaze illuminated the chamber.
He inhaled deeply, the air sweet with mist from the imperial gardens—a blend of celestial lavender and essences that bloomed only from soil shaped by his hand.
Yet... the emptiness lingered.
He rose.
His footsteps, serene yet firm, echoed through the hall.
Each touch upon the floor seemed to calm the very walls of the palace.
Reaching the white jade balcony, he gazed upon the gardens stretching in infinite layers.
There was peace.
But peace, at times, carried the weight of all it demanded to exist.
"Is this... what eternity means?" he murmured.
The crimson-stained sky seemed to listen.
Orion knew the peace was real. That every soul welcomed into Eryndor had been saved from misery and injustice. Every child running through fields, every elder teaching in plazas—all fruits of his choices.
But... was it enough?
With a gesture, he conjured the Living Map of Eryndor.
Every city pulsed with its own light.
Every field shone with productivity.
The academies flickered like stars in constant fusion of knowledge and cultivation.
Yet even in this harmony, Orion noted subtle tremors:
A village where tension grew between masters and apprentices.
A temple where a priest nurtured quiet ambitions.
A garrison where zeal slowly morphed into authoritarianism.
Cracks always began unseen.
"The power I gave the advisors... was necessary. But strength without direction becomes poison."
The words hung like a promise to himself. He knew: building an empire was one thing. Guiding it beyond its first generation... another.
The map shifted. Borders shimmered. Beyond them, other realms emerged.
Orion narrowed his eyes.
Some watched with fear. Others, desire. And a few... with dangerous silence.
"They will come," his voice held only acceptance.
Back in the hall, dusk's glow bathed ancient tapestries.
Among them... the emergence of a new symbol: himself.
Orion had no wish to be a god. Nor a tyrant.
But he accepted the burden of being a pillar—something older and more necessary than any glory.
He sat.
Closed his eyes.
Felt Eryndor.
Not as a map.
But as life.
And this time... he felt something more.
The same memory as before.
Not his.
But... ancestral.
The silence was absolute.
No time. No form. No color.
Only void.
Incomprehensible.
Raw.
Eternal.
A space without past.
Without future.
Like the echo before the first sound.
Then... something happened.
A snap.
Not physical. Not audible. Just... real.
And then...
A voice.
Male. Calm. Yet terrifyingly powerful.
"Let there be light."
Orion shuddered.
It was the second time that memory had invaded his mind with impossible clarity.
His eyes flew open. The throne remained beneath him. The gardens still bloomed. Peace endured.
But that recollection...
He knew it was no mere vision.
It carried a weight even his eternal consciousness couldn't decipher.
But not now. Not yet.
"This... can wait."
He turned to the horizon, where the starry sky stretched like a living tapestry.
Below, the people of Eryndor laughed, sang, worked, dreamed.
That was what mattered.
With a faint smile, he thought:
"The priority... is Eryndor."
He remained there in silence.
Not as emperor.
But as guardian.
Guardian of a future that, though unwritten, was already eternal.
The silence still hung over Eryndor when Orion left the throne.
That flicker of memory—that voice in the void—echoed like a gentle yet insistent tide. Still, he pushed it aside like a breeze skimming a calm lake's surface.
One certainty outweighed all mysteries:
His duty to his people was absolute.
But not all duties demanded rigidity.
Sometimes, maintaining an empire's balance required lightness. External perspective. Presence beyond its walls.
It was time to open another frontier: culture.
And Orion... though transcendent, felt human curiosity.
"Time to see what our neighbors cultivated while we rebuilt."
He strode through the palace corridors. Crystal torches burned with steady flames. Imperial guards bowed in silence.
None dared interrupt.
Reaching his private chambers, he hesitated before the traditional attire: crimson and gold robes, the living symbol of his divinity.
But that wasn't the message he wished to convey.
"I don't want to represent absolute power. I want to represent... presence."
With a gesture, he reshaped his garments.
Flowing robes of deep blue, embroidered with constellations that danced under moonlight. A translucent silk belt floated unattached to his body. It was as if night itself walked between worlds.
Before the crystal mirror, he sighed—half solemn, half amused.
"This will definitely cause some fainting spells."
And so, without formal announcement, procession, or ritual, he departed.
No roaring portals.
No beams of light.
Orion simply... vanished.
Days later...
The sky was more vivid.
Clouds looked like brushstrokes of time.
Floating towers dotted the horizon, connected by bridges of solid mist.
Trees breathed.
Birds left trails of energy.
Orion emerged from the forest with serene steps.
Leaves bowed in greeting.
Flowers bloomed in his path.
Even spiritual insects hesitated to buzz, as if sensing the moment's sanctity.
In the distance, the gates of Aurelion rose.
Then, the side effect of Orion's presence began.
By the gates, the city guards were veterans. They'd seen arrogant cultivators, eccentric prodigies, even disguised emperors.
But this?
This wasn't normal.
The approaching man was a storm in human form.
Red hair floating like calm fire.
Eyes of ice that seemed to hold celestial orbits.
An aura too light... too gentle. And precisely for that, overwhelming.
"You... seeing this?" whispered one guard.
"Trying not to," muttered another, gaze lowered.
The third clutched a jade rosary, trembling.
"Think he's an ancestral spirit of beauty... or divine punishment."
Orion, meanwhile, walked with effortless ease.
As if he hadn't frozen three squads of soldiers with mere existence.
He stopped before the gate.
His voice was gentle.
"How may I enter the city?"
A simple question.
But the tone...
Ah, the tone.
It was music composed by constellations. Thunder wrapped in velvet.
The eldest guard, a veteran of three wars, answered with dragon-slaying courage—and internal trembling.
"T-Ten bronze coins, sir..."
Orion smiled.
A kind smile.
And handed over the coins.
"Thank you."
He passed through the gates as if the city already knew him. As if space itself had been designed to welcome him.
When his silhouette vanished between jade pillars, one guard fell to his knees.
"I... think I'm in love."
"Shut up, Marco" said the other.
"Just... shut up."