Ancestral Lineage - Chapter 385
Chapter 385: Cosmic Gathering (2)
The stillness after Time’s arrival did not last.
A low, resonant sound reverberated through the platform—not a roar, not thunder, but something deeper, more primal. It was the sound of endings: the sigh of extinguished stars, the collapse of empires long forgotten, the last heartbeat of countless lives across eternity. It was not loud, yet it reached everywhere, and all who heard it felt a shiver that settled in their bones.
The air—or what passed for air in this place—darkened, heavy with inevitability. From the void, shadows coiled like serpents, curling inward to form the shape of a figure. With each step forward, those shadows scattered into dust, as if even darkness itself was afraid to linger in his wake.
He emerged.
Death.
His skin was a deep, obsidian black, polished and unyielding like carved stone. From his brow rose four great black horns, curving backward with terrible majesty. His hair spilled down his shoulders in wild, flowing strands of verdant green, a color both vibrant and foreboding, like the eternal cycle of decay that feeds new life.
Most unsettling of all was his face. His emerald eyes burned with impossible clarity, sharp and unyielding, gazing into the very souls of all who would meet them. But it was the third eye on his forehead—a blazing crimson slit, glowing like molten fire—that anchored his presence. It did not blink. It did not waver. It simply watched, piercing through layers of existence, through the veils of truth and lie, seeing only the end that awaited all.
When he set foot on the platform, the hum of Time faltered. The light of Life dimmed ever so slightly. Even Chaos stirred uneasily, though it gave no sign. For Death was not opposition, nor was he ally. He was the certainty that all things, even gods, even stars, even universes, would someday bow.
He strode across the plain floor with a dreadful elegance, each movement a finality, each step the echo of graves. His aura bled into the others, not hostile but inescapable, and when he reached the seat beside Primordial Destruction, the chair formed shadows that embraced him, reshaping itself into a throne of endings.
There he sat, his green hair spilling like a banner of decay and renewal, his horns casting sharp silhouettes, his crimson eye burning eternally. To his right, Destruction radiated his violent energy. Across the table, Time sat in silence, and between them, the Seat of Balance loomed in its waiting stillness.
Thus, did Primordial Death, the Harbinger of Finality, claim his seat at the cosmic table.
…
The silence that followed Death’s claiming of his throne was brief, fleeting, fragile. For where Death walks, Creation is never far behind.
The platform shifted—not cracking, not breaking, but blooming. The plain stone floor sprouted faint veins of light, as though roots of starlight were weaving through it. From the void above, petals of impossible flowers drifted down, shimmering with colors unseen in any mortal spectrum. A warmth filled the air, the kind that comes not from fire but from existence itself.
She stepped forward.
Creation.
Her form was graceful, almost ethereal, yet her presence was undeniable, an aura that filled the vast emptiness with potential. Her skin glowed faintly, kissed by golden undertones, smooth as polished marble. Her hair fell in cascading waves of silver-white, threaded with strands of radiant gold, as though woven from moonlight and dawn.
Her features were sharp and regal, bearing the elegance of the first elves, though more perfect, more archetypal—like all other races were but echoes of her visage. Two slender ears arched gracefully from her head, adorned with luminous patterns that shifted and glowed faintly, runes of origin itself. Her eyes were twin galaxies, one a swirling silver, the other a deep radiant gold, and when they gazed upon the cosmos, stars seemed to flicker into being.
Where Death carried the certainty of endings, she carried the promise of beginnings. Her mere breath sent ripples of genesis across the void, visions of worlds unborn, oceans yet unfilled, skies yet unlit. The balance between them was palpable, not in opposition but in eternal complement.
With each step she took, the cracks of Destruction and the shadows of Death softened, sprouting with light and renewal. Even Chaos stirred with curiosity, and Life herself inclined her head in acknowledgment, as if greeting a twin.
When she reached the chair directly to the right of the Seat of Balance, it responded instantly. The simple form blossomed into a throne of crystalline beauty, grown from roots of light and strands of pure song. The throne pulsed with living energy, breathing as though it too had been created in that very instant.
She sat with serene poise, folding her hands gently on her lap, her long silver-gold hair spilling across the throne like a waterfall of stars. Her presence was gentle, yet all-encompassing—Creation incarnate, the seed of everything that was, is, and will ever be.
And thus, Primordial Creation, Mother of All, took her seat at the cosmic table, beside the empty Throne of Balance.
…
At last, the silence of the platform thickened. The gathered Primordials, beings who themselves were beyond comprehension, stilled as though awaiting judgment. For all their unfathomable might, all their boundless presence, each knew who the center of this circle was meant to be.
The air shifted.
The Throne of Balance—until now dormant, an empty construct of light, darkness, and primal essence—awoke. It pulsed once, twice, then burst outward with a resonance that rippled through the fabric of existence itself. Stars flickered. Black holes bent unnaturally. The heartbeat of creation and destruction skipped a beat.
And then He appeared.
Balance.
His form coalesced in brilliance and shadow, each strand of his being woven from contradictions held in perfect unity. His hair was a living cascade of twilight, strands of searing light interlaced with silken darkness. When it shifted, it was as though day and night bled into one another in endless harmony, eclipses forming and dissolving with every subtle movement.
His skin bore no single tone—it shimmered like polished obsidian one moment, radiant like ivory marble the next, flowing seamlessly between extremes as though he carried every spectrum of existence upon him. His frame was tall, regal, neither imposing with brutality nor softened with fragility, but carved in the exact measure of what is needed.
But it was his eyes that silenced all thought.
They were galaxies. Not a metaphor—galaxies spiraled and pulsed within them, entire constellations forming, dying, and reforming with every blink. Nebulae swirled, black holes spun silently, and supernovas burned in miniature, all contained within irises that were not bound to color but to infinity itself. To look into them was to look into the unfiltered truth of existence: every question asked and answered, every paradox given form.
And when he inhaled, the cosmos breathed with him.
On his brow rested no crown, for Balance wore none. Instead, behind him stretched a halo—an infinite ouroboros of light and shadow, fire and frost, void and flame, forever chasing itself in endless completion. Each Primordial in attendance felt its pull; even Chaos shifted restlessly, Destruction stilled his trembling aura, and Creation’s hand curled slightly against her throne.
Balance moved forward without a sound. His footfalls did not disturb the platform, yet with each step, the void quivered, like an orchestra waiting for its conductor. When he reached the Seat of Balance, the throne itself transformed, recognizing its master. The plain form of primal elements blossomed into a construct of impossible craftsmanship—woven from the first dawn and the final dusk, gilded with eternity, crowned with the spiral of existence.
Balance sat.
The halo behind him fused into the throne, completing it. His galaxy-eyes swept across the seven thrones, and though his expression was serene, the weight of his gaze pressed upon each Primordial like a mirror reflecting their truest selves.
No words were spoken, yet all present understood.
The council was whole.
The Throne of Balance had claimed its master.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
Creation is hard, cheer me up!
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