Scholars of old proclaimed:
The brightest suns burned the briefest.
The weight of the universe erupting,
The flame of my divinity flares,
As ten thousand silver moons erupting out of my cornea,
Waterfalls of light crashing through my skull,
Pouring out onto the static, primordial void.
All comforted, created, contented in me.
Destroyed then reconstituted, birth following death,
Brought back once more into the feverish curious of life.
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A lone figure stood at the peak of the machinery cathedral. In the center of the cathedral, a glamorous and sparkling stained-glass clock rests. Smaller spires rose beside him like jagged mountain tops, piercing through low-hanging storm clouds that drifted and dissolved around him like specters.
Gazing below, the man counts all his enemies, all those who had slain his family, his civilization. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven leaders, seven targets. The structure’s ironwork and vast architecture stand as a monument built upon the blood and bones of his people, an engine of progress fueled by their sacrifice.
The man’s cloak billows violently behind him, a banner of his defiance. Shadows deepen in the crevices of the cathedral’s blackened iron, stretching like tendrils to wrap around his feet. He inhaled the storm’s breath, tasting the coming rain mixed with the ghostly incense of centuries past.
The clock strikes twelve, and with this final gong, the death knell struck, shattering silence, and the cathedral trembles. This moment marks the beginning of the end, drenched in his retribution.
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The original sage had become one with the cosmos, and as she was, new beings were formed.
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The anguish they felt more terrible than any anguish flow has ever felt, their bliss was higher than life’s bliss, they had the storm of the flares and the peace of death, they had abhorrent and grand vices, abhorrent and grand virtues.
To them she gave language, different from that of actual use, a language full of compounded print and rhythmic cadence, made delicate by fanciful rhyme, jeweled with wonderful words, and enriched with lofty diction.
Five souls entrapped within a singular vessel, from the royalties and divinities to the grimiest and drabbiest. The resonant music and sweet rhythm, how obscured.
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The climb had been relentless—ninety-eight floors, ninety-eight civilizations—all to reach the tower master, overseer of the death theocracy. Only through confrontation can this hell be reconstructed, from the top down.
***
His voice, hoarse yet clear, escaped as a whisper towards himself.
"I had one job."
Only silence echoed throughout the cracked abyss.
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Staidly perched atop a lake, was a blue-haired woman. Her breathing barely noticeable, slowly blending, morphing, conforming herself upon the environment. An endless expanse of silence and solidarity, no noise or movement have ever disturbed this plane.
Then, ripples formed around a single spot on the gilded surface. Clouds of silvery-platinum color drifted from that point in a roundabout fashion. A perfect seam through space and time, invisible to the eye yet felt on a spiritual level manifested. When the fabric parched itself together, the woman reappeared in her original position.
Her eyes opened slowly, and an observer would find that her pupils are now a deep, pale azure blue, if there were a watcher.
Again and again. Again and again. The series of movements repeated for eternity. The sun never seemed to set, always hung in the firmament.
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“Exa Nori, the copper mind once spoke: “Only through equilibrium of body, mind, and spirit may one find what they search.”“ The ninth forge master sneered while speaking, fully exemplifying his tempering mindset.
“One only needs to train the body. If a temperer falls to one who trained the mind or spirit, it is not the problem of tempering, but of themself.”
The one who holds the majesty of the stars, the overseer of the forges, the ruler of the astral plane, however, is weak in body but powerful in spirit.
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3…
2...
1...
Liftoff!
***
A cacophony of shrieks, beeps, and alarms resound deep within the spacecraft. Dozens of giant scars etch the outer plating of the rocket, and only half of the team of researchers are still alive.
***
A lone capsule streaks through space, covered in dust, dried blood, and metal scraps.