The Speaker sat cross-legged on the smooth, moss-covered rock in the center of the cliffside pond, its waters cascading down in a silver ribbon over the edge into a valley of breathtaking beauty below. The valley stretched endlessly, carpeted in wildflowers of every imaginable color—violet, crimson, and gold—all swaying gently in the breeze. Giant flowering oak trees dotted the landscape, their branches stretching wide, adorned with blossoms as large as a person’s hand. Sunlight filtered through their leaves, casting intricate patterns across the vibrant green grass.
As he sat, a warm gust of wind rose, carrying with it motes of light, each glowing like a tiny sun. The motes drifted toward him, their path lazy and meandering at first, like fireflies in an eternal dance. They circled him, weaving through the air until they quickened, pulsing in sync with the gentle rhythm of his breath, gathering close around him like old friends bearing heavy news.
The Speaker opened his silver eyes, filled with curiosity as he looked at the motes. A soft smile curved his lips as he addressed them, his voice warm, touched by a timeless wisdom.
“Ah, my friends,” he murmured, his voice a low hum that blended with the soft rustle of the trees and the distant sound of water cascading into the valley. “You come with tidings, don’t you? I can see it in your glow. Tell me—what have you witnessed?”
The motes pulsed in response, dimming for a brief moment as if burdened by the weight of what they carried. The Speaker’s gaze grew sharper, a faint frown tugging at his serene expression.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with an intensity that broke the tranquility of the scene. “The Cult of the Harbinger. What have they done this time?”
The motes drifted closer, their light growing faint, as if mourning, and the Speaker’s expression fell further, his silver eyes darkening. He nodded slowly, feeling the sorrow that emanated from the motes, his hand pressing to his heart in an unconscious gesture of empathy.
“Oh… how terrible. How sickening, that cruelty could flourish so deeply,” he whispered, voice laced with sadness. “To think they have fallen so far, lost so utterly in their devotion to annihilation.”
The motes pulsed dimly, almost like a sigh of despair, and the Speaker’s shoulders trembled. A tear traced a line down his cheek, catching the sunlight for just a moment, and he brushed it away, his gaze cast downward, reflecting the depths of his sorrow. The valley stretched out before him, the flowers and trees a quiet witness to his grief.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, feeling the sorrow fill him, letting himself mourn for the innocence and beauty lost to the cult’s dark acts. But then, a sudden force swept across the valley—a wave of power, as fresh and fierce as the wind that had first carried the motes. It stirred the wildflowers below, setting them to dancing, lifted the leaves of the oak trees until they shimmered like emeralds in the sun, and surged upward, spiraling around him in a burst of energy.
The Speaker’s eyes flew open, and his face lit up, his sorrow replaced by awe and elation. His mouth opened in astonishment, and he felt his heart swell, his soul trembling with a recognition he had almost forgotten. His voice, filled with a mix of wonder and pure joy, broke the silence.
“He has returned!” he cried, his words ringing out over the valley, echoing back from the towering oaks, filling the space with a life and energy that felt as ancient as the Omnirealm itself.
The motes brightened, pulsing rapidly, their warmth intensifying as they danced around him, their glow matching his newfound joy.
“Yes,” he said softly, nodding to the lights as if he could see their own excitement. “The Void Walker… his presence resonates with the Omnirealm again. Such a force, so full of potential… It has been ages, hasn’t it?”
The lights circled him in affirmation, their golden glow casting a radiant aura around his figure, illuminating the cascading water and the vivid valley below.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with reverence. “So much darkness in this world, and yet… he has returned. The Walker will bring balance. He always does, doesn’t he? Even against forces so foul… even when faced with shadows so deep…” His voice trailed off, and he gazed over the valley, his silver eyes shimmering with the hope he felt rising in his heart.
At last, he turned his attention back to the motes, a newfound strength in his gaze, as he straightened his shoulders and stood, his robes flowing around him like ripples in the pond. “Go, my friends,” he commanded, his voice carrying a warmth and authority that filled the valley. “Gather the council. Summon every god, every guardian, every watcher who stands for light. The Void Walker has awakened. The time has come.”
The motes scattered, spreading outward in a brilliant shower of light, drifting up and out into the Omnirealm, each one a tiny beacon bearing his message. The Speaker watched them go, a radiant smile on his face, his heart thrumming with joy and anticipation.
The valley below seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, the flowers brighter, the trees more vibrant, as if the world itself had sensed the shift in fate. And as he stood on the cliff’s edge, bathed in sunlight and hope, he whispered one last thought to himself, the words a quiet prayer to the Omnirealm.
“May his path bring peace,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the gentle roar of the waterfall. “And may he find his way… for he is the light that even the void itself cannot consume.”
With that, the Speaker turned from the cliff’s edge, his mind already preparing for the gathering ahead, a council meeting like no other. And in his heart, the quiet joy of hope continued to bloom, bright and unwavering.
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Kenji leaned against the wooden wall of the horse stable, his heart thudding in his chest as he strained to hear his parents’ conversation. He’d been working the farm as usual after school, mucking out stalls and refilling water troughs, but when he’d seen his parents standing close, their expressions heavy with sadness, he couldn’t resist creeping closer.
Hiding behind the wall, Kenji kept his breaths shallow, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. Snickers, his horse, was nearby, nosing around the hay and letting out his usual snickering sound—a habit that had earned him his name. Kenji was grateful for the distraction; Snickers’ noise would cover any rustle or misstep he might make. He held his breath, listening carefully.
His father’s voice was low, but he could pick out the tremor of sorrow in it. “I only found out because of Taro… he still keeps in touch, doesn’t hold anything against us for moving,” his dad was saying. “But my parents… Mom and Dad… their health has taken a hard turn. Taro says it’s been rough. Really rough.”
Kenji’s mom, Emily, reached out, her hand resting on Aiko’s shoulder. “Aiko… I’m so sorry. I know how much you’ve wanted things to be different with them. It’s… it’s so hard, being on the outside like this.”
Aiko shook his head slowly, and even from where he hid, Kenji could see the sadness etched into his father’s face, a sadness he hadn’t seen before. His father looked out toward the distant hills, his gaze heavy, as if the weight of the whole world pressed on him. “I just… I keep hoping that maybe they’ll come around. Maybe someday they’ll see that we’re family, and family should be enough. I thought, after all these years, with Kenji and the kids growing up…” His voice trailed off, laced with regret.
Emily gave his shoulder a squeeze, her voice soft and comforting. “I know, honey. You’ve done everything you could. You’ve raised our children with kindness and respect for both sides of who they are. You’ve honored your family’s traditions here, even though it would’ve been easier to let go of it all. That’s more than most would have done.”
Aiko let out a long sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if they even remember us. If they remember me. It’s… it’s a strange kind of loneliness, Emily. Knowing you have family, but never feeling their support, their closeness.” He paused, and his voice lowered, thick with emotion. “It makes me think about Kenji, you know? About how he’s growing up without them, without that connection. I wanted him and the kids to know my family, to know where we came from. I just wish…”
Kenji leaned in closer, the sadness in his father’s voice drawing him in, filling his chest with a dull ache he didn’t fully understand. A part of him wanted to step out, to tell his dad that they didn’t need anyone else—that they had each other, that they didn’t need his grandparents or uncles or aunts to feel whole. But he stayed hidden, feeling the complexity of what he was hearing, realizing that this was something beyond his grasp.
Just as he was straining to hear the next part of his father’s words, he felt a nudge against his back. Before he could react, Snickers, his ever-curious horse, gave him a playful shove with his nose. Kenji stumbled forward, caught off balance, his foot scraping against a loose stone that clattered loudly to the ground.
He froze, heart pounding, as his parents turned toward the noise. Their faces shifted from shock to realization as they saw him standing there, flushed and wide-eyed, caught in the middle of his eavesdropping.
“Kenji…” his mother said, her voice soft but filled with surprise. She exchanged a glance with Aiko, her hand still resting on his shoulder.
Kenji shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting down to the ground. “I… I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he mumbled, the words coming out in a rush. “I just… I saw you both talking, and you looked so sad, and…” His voice trailed off, unsure of what to say, the ache in his chest growing stronger as he thought about what he’d overheard.
His father’s expression softened, the sorrow in his eyes giving way to a quiet understanding. Aiko gave a small, sad smile and let out a gentle sigh. “It’s okay, Kenji. You don’t need to explain. Sometimes… sometimes things get heavy, and we don’t always want to share those things with you kids. But it doesn’t mean we want to hide them, either.”
Kenji’s mother moved closer, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Your dad and I…we were just talking about family, about things that happened long ago,” she said gently. “You know your father’s family lives far away, and we don’t see them much.”
Kenji nodded, biting his lip. “But… why? Why don’t they want to see us? Did… did we do something wrong?”
His father’s gaze dropped, and he rubbed the back of his neck, as if struggling to find the right words. “No, Kenji. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “It’s… complicated. When we left Japan, there were some people in my family who didn’t understand. They… they didn’t agree with the choices we made.”
A flash of anger surged through Kenji. “That’s not fair! You’re their son, and Mom’s family too. We’re family, right? Shouldn’t that matter more?”
Aiko’s lips tightened, but he placed a gentle hand on Kenji’s shoulder. “I know, son. It should matter more. Family should always come first.” He looked away, his gaze turning distant as if remembering something painful. “But sometimes… people get caught up in what they think is right, what they think they should be, and they lose sight of what really matters.”
Kenji’s mom gave Aiko a soft, encouraging smile before turning back to her son. “Your dad has worked hard to keep us connected to both sides of who we are, Kenji. He wanted you and your siblings to know where you come from. Even though his family hasn’t been here, he’s tried to make sure you knew about them, about Japan.”
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Kenji felt a pang of guilt as he realized how much effort his father had put into keeping those connections alive, even when there was little reciprocation from the other side. “I… I didn’t know it was so hard for you, Dad,” he said quietly, his anger giving way to an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Aiko’s face softened, and he gave Kenji a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about it, Kenji. It’s my burden to carry, not yours.” He paused, and then his gaze became more thoughtful, as if trying to explain something important. “Sometimes, Kenji, being a father means doing things that hurt a little, things that might not make sense. I wanted you kids to know where you came from, to have the chance to know that side of your heritage. Even if it’s not always easy.”
Emily nodded, her hand still resting on Kenji’s shoulder. “We’re not alone, Kenji. We have family here too. You have Uncle Michael, Aunt June, and your cousins…people who love you and care about you just as much as anyone in Japan would. Family is what you make of it, and we’re lucky to have the people we do.”
Kenji looked at his parents, feeling the weight of their words settle on his heart. The sadness he had felt at seeing them like this softened, replaced by a quiet sense of understanding. He reached out, placing a hand over his father’s.
“I get it, Dad,” he said, his voice steady. “And… even if they don’t see it, I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad we’re family. And… if you ever feel sad about it again, you can talk to me, okay?”
Aiko’s expression softened, a hint of pride in his eyes. He gave Kenji’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, son. That means more than you know.”
Kenji managed a small smile, looking down at Snickers, who was now quietly munching on hay, completely oblivious to the moment he had caused.
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Kenji sat on the roof of his house, legs dangling over the edge as he looked out over their farmland. The sun was dipping low, casting a warm orange glow over the fields, stretching long shadows across the land. The sky was painted in swirls of blue and fiery orange, with the faintest hint of purple creeping into the edges, a quiet, fading beauty. He wrapped his arms around his knees, his gaze drifting down to where his father was finishing up his last tasks, moving with a steady, purposeful grace even as the day came to an end.
Aiko Nakamura, his father—a man who had always been a rock, solid and unmoving in the face of whatever life threw at them. He was firm, almost stubborn, about what he believed, about how things should be, yet never harsh or unkind. Kenji’s mind drifted back to the stories his father had told him growing up, tales of samurai and honor, of their ancestors who stood for what they believed was right even when it was difficult. Those stories had painted Kenji’s childhood in vivid colors of valor and loyalty, teachings from a past that was both distant and strangely close.
His father had always been adamant about those values but in a way that was flexible, thoughtful. “These are old ways, Kenji,” he’d say with that quiet conviction of his. “Times change, and it’s our job to understand the spirit of these traditions, to carry forward what’s worth keeping and make it our own.”
Kenji let out a slow breath, feeling a tightness in his chest as he thought of how his father’s own family had turned their backs on him, on all of them. How a man like Aiko—honest, steadfast, always ready to help and guide—could be scorned by his own blood was something Kenji couldn’t understand. It hurt to see, to know that his father bore that weight, that he kept those old values alive even when the people who’d taught them had left him out in the cold.
The colors of the sunset deepened, the last traces of orange giving way to dusky purple as the day faded. Kenji watched his father in the field, a quiet determination in his every movement. He felt a swell of pride, a fierce respect for the man who had given him these stories, these values, and the strength to hold onto them, even when the world seemed to stand against them.
Kenji’s mother’s voice echoed up from the kitchen, calling out for dinner, and he scrambled down from the roof, quickly brushing off the dust before making his way inside. When he reached the dining room, his two sisters and younger brother were already seated, and his father had just come in from the fields, washing his hands and settling down at the head of the table. As they all sat down, they joined hands briefly, bowing their heads in silent respect for the meal, a small ritual they’d always kept from Aiko’s heritage. Then, as they always did, they dug in, the clatter of utensils and quiet conversation filling the room.
As Kenji reached for the rice, he noticed his father watching them with an unusual expression—one that didn’t quite fit with the calm, steady man he was so used to seeing. There was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, even hesitation, as he looked at each of his children, like he was gathering himself, preparing for something difficult. Kenji’s curiosity prickled, but he held back, waiting as his father cleared his throat.
“We… have an announcement to make,” Aiko began, his voice steady but softer than usual. He glanced at Emily, who gave him a supportive nod before speaking as well.
“Your father and I… we’ve made a decision,” she said, her voice kind but laced with a hint of gravity. “We’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and it wasn’t easy for us to come to this point, but… it’s important.”
The clinking of forks quieted as the children looked between their parents, the atmosphere around the table suddenly thick with anticipation. Kenji’s heart beat a little faster, sensing that whatever was coming was big.
Emily took a deep breath. “We just heard from Hiroshi. You remember, he was here not too long ago.” She looked around, meeting each of their eyes, pausing at Kenji’s. “He’s sick. He’s been getting worse… and the doctors finally found a tumor. It’s cancer.”
A silence fell over the table, a sudden weight pressing down on them all. Kenji swallowed hard, his mind racing back to the last time he’d seen Hiroshi—his older cousin who’d always been like a quiet, guiding figure in his life. The news felt surreal, too harsh to fit into the ordinary rhythm of their lives.
But Emily continued, her voice steady, though her expression was heavy. “It’s… not just Hiroshi,” she said. “Over the past few years, your father’s family in Japan has faced a lot of hardship. There have been several deaths, and… it’s left many of them struggling. Widows, young children, people barely holding things together. They’ve reached out to us, asking… asking for help.”
Aiko’s gaze softened as he looked at each of his children in turn, lingering on them, as though committing their faces to memory. “They want us to come home,” he said quietly. “They… they believe that our family can help them get back on their feet. That I should be there… especially with my parents’ health declining too.”
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling heavily around them, like the deepening shadows of dusk outside. Kenji looked around at his siblings, seeing the same mixture of surprise, worry, and confusion mirrored on each of their faces.
Aiko’s eyes met each of theirs, one by one, a calm determination finally replacing the uncertainty in his gaze. “We want to move back to Japan.” Seven words, spoken clearly, with a quiet resolve that left no room for question.
Kenji felt a swirl of emotions rising in him—shock, confusion, a bit of anger he didn’t fully understand. Moving back to Japan? The idea seemed so far removed from everything he knew, from the life they had here. He looked at his mother, but she nodded gently, her gaze steady, reassuring him in her own quiet way.
For a long moment, no one spoke, each of them processing the announcement in their own way, the weight of the decision hanging in the air.
The room erupted.
Kenji was the first to speak, his voice laced with frustration. “Are you serious? You’re asking us to move back to Japan for people who’ve done nothing but scorn us? People who wouldn’t even reach out unless they had no other choice?” His hands clenched into fists, the tension clear in his posture. “How can you expect us to think this is anything but crazy?”
His sisters chimed in, their voices overlapping. “They’ve always looked down on us!” one of them exclaimed, her voice tight with anger. “Every time we hear from anyone in that family, it’s to remind us that we’re not ‘real’ Nakamuras.”
The youngest, their little brother, nodded fiercely, his face scrunched in a mix of confusion and defiance. “They don’t even like us. Why should we do anything for them?”
Kenji felt the words coming faster, harder, as he looked from his father to his mother. “We have a life here. Friends, family… Uncle Michael, Aunt June, everyone who actually cares about us. And now you’re telling us we should just… uproot everything for people who’ve made it clear they want nothing to do with us?”
Aiko sat quietly, his gaze steady, listening to each of his children as they poured out their frustration and hurt. His expression didn’t waver, though his eyes held a quiet sadness. He let them speak, allowed them the space to voice every question, every doubt. Finally, as the room settled into silence, he drew in a slow breath, his gaze steady as he looked at each of them in turn.
“When have I ever taught you that kindness was easy?” he asked, his voice calm but filled with a deep strength. His eyes softened as he looked at his youngest, then at each of his other children. “What have I always taught you about what kindness really is?”
The youngest boy hesitated, glancing around at his siblings before answering in a small voice, “Kindness is… helping.”
Aiko’s face lit with a gentle enthusiasm as he nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Yes, that’s a part of it. But there’s more.” He leaned forward, his voice growing stronger. “Helping isn’t necessarily kindness. A criminal can be forced to help others through community service, but that doesn’t mean they’re kind, does it? Kindness is something different. It’s pure, unconditional love. It’s doing something not because you expect anything in return, not because someone else deserves it, but because you choose to give freely of yourself.”
He paused, letting his words sink in, his gaze still steady and unyielding. “What I’m asking from you isn’t about duty, or what our family has or hasn’t done for us. I’m asking you to search your hearts and find that love, that kindness, the kind that doesn’t keep score or demand anything back. Because despite their faults, there are people in Japan who need us. Families who are hurting, widows and children who are struggling. And Hiroshi… who has shown all of us kindness, who needs us now.”
Kenji swallowed, feeling his anger waver under his father’s words, replaced by something he didn’t entirely want to admit—a sense of guilt and a pang of understanding. His father wasn’t asking them to do this for pride, for acceptance, or even out of duty. He was asking for something harder.
Aiko’s gaze softened as he looked at each of them, his voice quiet but powerful. “I know this is difficult. And I know you have every reason to feel the way you do. But I also know that the person you are, the people you’ve grown into, are strong enough to be bigger than your anger, bigger than your pain. I’ve always tried to teach you to be the bigger person. Not for those who wrong you, but for yourselves.”
He paused, letting his words settle. “I don’t expect you to understand right now, and I don’t expect you to decide this moment. What I’m asking is that you take time to think on it. Look past the anger, past the hurt, and consider what it would mean to offer that kindness. Not because they deserve it, but because you’re strong enough to give it.”
The silence stretched, his words filling the room with a weight that wasn’t oppressive but felt like a challenge, a calling to something greater. His children looked down, each one of them wrestling with his words in their own way, their anger cooling into something more reflective.
Aiko gave them a small, gentle smile. “I don’t want you to answer me now. I want you to think about it. Take the time you need, and when you’re ready, come and talk to your mother and me about it in earnest. We’ll answer any questions, but we want you to come with open hearts, ready to consider what kindness truly is.”
Kenji looked away, feeling his father’s words settle deep within him, sparking a conflict he hadn’t anticipated. He wanted to hold onto his anger, his resentment. But his father’s words left no room for an easy answer. As always his father showed true conviction of belief while also being showing immense kindness.
His father’s gaze lingered on them all, calm and patient, his expression one of quiet, unconditional love. And as they sat in the stillness of that moment, each of them felt, in their own way, the weight of the decision that lay before them.
”I love you, more than I can ever express. And I also love my family despite the pain they cause me. Now let’s get ready for bed, there will be plenty of time to discuss before a decision is made.” Aiko standing up and smiling at them warmly but sadly before walking towards their parents bedroom with Emily trailing behind him.
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The Council Hall was a grand, towering structure—a massive dome stadium, ancient in its design yet pulsing with lights that floated and shifted like stars across a night sky. Seated in its tiered rows were beings from every corner of the Omnirealm: gods and guardians, astral guides and ancient forces, entities that ranged from human-like to bizarrely alien, some barely visible as shifting shadows or shimmering lights, others towering and solid, made of rock, crystal, or energy. The sheer variety of shapes, colors, and auras filled the space with an overwhelming sense of presence, a testament to the vastness and diversity of the Omnirealm.
At the center of it all, beneath the dome’s darkened sky, stood the Speaker—a figure of quiet authority, clad in robes that shimmered with a thousand colors, as if he wore a piece of the cosmos itself. His eyes, silver and sharp, scanned the assembly with a gaze that was both soft and piercing. As the lights dimmed throughout the hall, leaving only a single golden beam illuminating the Speaker, a hush fell over the council. Murmurs and whispers ceased, replaced by a silence so deep it felt as though the entire universe were holding its breath.
The Speaker cleared his throat, a small sound that seemed to echo, somehow reaching every ear in the stadium with the intimacy of a whisper, yet with the power of a shout. When he began to speak, his voice resonated through the vast hall, touching each being as if he were standing right beside them.
“Esteemed council members, guardians of the Omnirealm,” he began, his voice calm but carrying a weight of urgency. “I come before you today with information of great importance, received from the cosmos itself. Many of you may have sensed a tremor in the fabric of reality, a pulse that rippled through our realms—a momentous occasion has taken place. One that many may not yet have felt unless they are attuned to the forces of the cosmos.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the assembly, as if weighing each being’s reaction before he continued. “The Void Walker,” he announced, his voice deepening, “has emerged once more.”
The reaction was instantaneous. The hall exploded into a cacophony of roars, gasps, and whispers, some filled with fear, others with joy. Gods exchanged glances, guardians murmured, beings of light and shadow alike stirred with intensity, the implications of this revelation rippling through each corner of the dome.
The Speaker raised a hand, a gesture that alone held the power to silence them. Gradually, the noise settled into a heavy, charged stillness, every eye and every sense focused entirely on him.
“The Void Walker’s return is a sign,” he continued, his voice low but unwavering. “But this is a complicated development. For reasons not yet clear, they have not yet revealed themselves to the wider Omnirealm. It is possible they are unaware of their role… or are biding their time. But one thing is certain—this has not gone unnoticed by others.”
The Speaker’s face darkened, and a murmur of apprehension ran through the assembly. “The Harbinger,” he said, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic edge, “is on a warpath. His Cult spreads corruption and death, and his presence casts a shadow across entire galaxies. He has grown restless… and there is reason to believe that the emergence of the Void Walker has unsettled him, perhaps even threatened his purpose. Wherever he goes, he leaves devastation in his wake, his cult festering like a wound upon reality.”
There was a grim silence as the council absorbed his words, and the Speaker took a slow, steadying breath before continuing. “I ask each of you to be vigilant, to repel the forces of the Cult of the Harbinger wherever you find them. For now, our priority is to protect the realms under threat.”
A solemn, silent understanding passed through the hall. The Speaker’s gaze softened momentarily, his expression showing the faintest glimmer of sorrow for the struggles they all would soon face.
“But,” he continued, his voice lifting, “our purpose here today goes beyond even this pressing matter. The cosmos has deemed it time for a new universe to integrate with the Omnirealm.” He paused, letting the enormity of his words settle. “The Andromeda Galaxy—a fledgling universe on the cusp of cosmic awakening—is now ready to join us in full capacity.”
The council stirred with renewed murmurs, beings whispering, wondering, each recognizing the significance of the integration. The Speaker raised his hands, the golden light around him intensifying.
“The system will be implemented,” he declared, his voice filled with resolve. “And in the coming months, the beings of the Andromeda Galaxy will be introduced to their new reality. They will be offered the chance to evolve, to connect with the powers of the Omnirealm, to take their place in the grand tapestry of existence.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the council, his silver eyes meeting the gazes of the leaders and guardians in each corner of the stadium. “For this transition, we will need leaders. Guides. Guardians to assist these new beings, to ensure their integration is smooth and that chaos does not unfold.”
He took a deep breath, his voice softening. “The situation is… complicated. This universe was meant to integrate sooner, in a way that would have eased this transition, minimized risks. But the Harbinger…” The Speaker’s face darkened. “The Harbinger’s actions have caused ripples in the cosmic order, disturbances that have affected the integration process itself. These beings are already under threat from the shadows he has cast.”
A quiet unease settled over the room, each god, guardian, and watcher aware of the gravity of his words. The Speaker lifted his chin, his expression resolute.
“Because of this, I will be personally overseeing this integration,” he announced, his voice filled with determination. “The beings of the Andromeda will need guidance—and protection. And the Omnirealm must be prepared for what may come.”
With those final words, he looked out over the council, his eyes a brilliant silver in the dim light, filled with purpose and authority.
“Let us begin preparations,” he declared, his voice resonant, unwavering. “The Void Walker has returned. The Andromeda Galaxy will soon join us. And we must be ready for whatever challenges the Harbinger may bring.”
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