The universe before them was not merely a new world—it was a living tapestry, woven with the light of time and the thread of creation.
Orion and Lyra appeared at the intersection between worlds, a liminal plane where space folded and time hesitated.
There, everything was possible.
Constellations slid like serpents of light, nebulas pulsed like newborn hearts, and gravity behaved like a child playing between realities.
No ground supported them, yet they floated as if the entire universe were the bed beneath their feet.
To the left, Etherion—a colossus of life, conflict, and ambition.
To the right, Elysium—the ethereal throne of the gods.
And between them, the Ascension Portal, spinning like a cosmic eye, closed to the unworthy, open only to those who dared to become legend.
"We are on a plane that should not exist" said Lyra, observing the spirals that intertwined like cosmic veins around the Portal. "Between birth and eternity... between blood and star."
Orion crossed his arms, his golden eyes reflecting the infinite. "Perfect. This is where we begin our new story."
Etherion…
Etherion was born from the ruin of hundreds of worlds, collapsed during the Great Convergence.
An event so catastrophic that it reshaped the laws of magic, cultivation, and matter.
From chaos, harmony rose: a world where entire civilizations danced on the brink of apocalypse and glory.
Skies with multiple suns.
Oceans that rose like liquid walls.
Planets connected by cosmic veins of spiritual energy.
In Etherion, dragons slept in celestial craters. Elves cultivated trees whose branches touched the stratosphere. Floating cities, submerged kingdoms, wandering fortresses. Technology and cultivation did not compete—they intertwined, fusing steel and soul into weapons capable of sundering mountains.
There, time was not constant. For high-level cultivators, yesterday was visitable, and tomorrow, mutable.
From rank E to rank RRR, each step toward divinity was paved with choices and sacrifices.
"Etherion is not just a testing ground" commented Orion. "It is a mirror. It reflects back whatever cultivators project."
"In other words," said Lyra, raising an eyebrow, "an entire world fueled by the will to become something more."
Above Etherion, beyond the borders of the soul, floated Elysium. Not a planet, but a cosmic archipelago where each island was the domain of a god.
Unborn—yet forged.
Each deity there emerged from the faith, screams, loves, and hatreds of mortals.
A pantheon in constant war, for eternity did not guarantee stability.
The islands were absurd in size and beauty. One was made entirely of crystal. Another, of an eternal sea where the waves conversed. There was one where the sky never darkened, for its inhabitants burned in flames.
The gods divided themselves between alliances and disputes, and all kept their eyes on Etherion, from where their next rivals or successors would emerge.
"Here, not even the gods sleep in peace" murmured Lyra. "Every eternity is a crown of thorns."
"Then let us give them something new to fear" said Orion, smiling with the kind of arrogance only an eternal being could have.
It was then that they chose.
An abandoned island on the edge of Elysium—forgotten, ignored, perhaps out of fear or disdain.
The sky there was a deep purple, dotted with stars that seemed suspended in cosmic oil. The trees had translucent branches growing in random directions. The gigantic, pulsating flowers reflected constellations that existed nowhere else.
"This place has been erased from the gods' memories" commented Orion, touching the living stone ground. "Perfect for a fresh start."
Lyra closed her eyes, feeling the void around her.
Orion then raised his arms, and with a gesture, the earth trembled.
From their thoughts, a floating citadel was born. Black and gold towers, enchanted walls, rivers of energy coursing like blood beneath the bridges.
"My art. My desire. My reality."
Lyra walked to the center of the island. A temple arose around her—what was there, vanished.
Where she stepped, form gave way.
But it was beautiful.
A sanctuary of the void.
"And where everything vanishes..." she whispered, extending her fingers, "...there is room for everything to begin again."
From afar, on the islands of the greater pantheons, the first echoes were felt.
An alteration in the rhythm of the Dao.
A tremor in the divine runes.
The oracles screamed.
The prophetic books burned.
On an island of thunder, the God of Judgment slammed his staff into the ground.
"Two newcomers... shaping void and creation? What insolence is this?"
But others merely smiled.
"The games begin anew" said the Goddess of Madness. "And I love new games."
The forgotten island, now shaped by Orion and Lyra's will, began to pulse with a different presence. The winds sang melodies that no mortal ear could understand. The ground, imbued with creative will and the essence of emptiness, became a living sanctuary. Time hesitated there. The world's laws bowed.
And then, it began.
The island called.
Not with words. Not with signs.
But with echo—a subtle vibration that traversed the layers of the multiverse, touching only those hearts that had not fully surrendered to the gods' order.
In Etherion
On the fragmented fields of the Northern Celestial Province, where crystal plains stretched for thousands of leagues, a young cultivator trained in silence.
Seon, orphaned by war, rejected by all sects for his "lack of talent," had meditated for a hundred days under a rain of flames. He possessed neither divine lineage nor celestial eyes. Only will.
At dawn on the hundred and first day, when his breath had become indistinguishable from the wind, the ground beneath him vibrated. A golden thread of light appeared, streaking across the sky like a comet.
Seon opened his eyes.
And saw the call.
"What... is this?" he murmured.
His soul burned.
Not with pain.
With recognition.
"Come" said the energy. "Here, the impossible is allowed."
Seon rose.
And walked.
He was not alone.
Others heard it too.
A princess sealed by her family in a jade prison.
A blind cultivator, who heard the Dao in the stones.
An old general, abandoned by his kingdom after a hundred victories.
A child born half-demon, half-celestial, who never truly belonged anywhere.
All of them, at different moments, looked to the sky.
And saw the island.
The promise of something the gods had denied for ages: true freedom.
In the Heart of Elysium
The Goddess of Order, dressed in galaxy-woven robes, watched with crystalline eyes.
"They do not follow the rules" she said.
Around her sat other gods: the Lord of Chains, the Solar Judge, the Lady of Time, the God of Gauntlets.
The God of Judgment rose.
"If we allow these two to shape their domain, they will create a new pantheon. A pillar outside the balance. Faith will be divided. Power, dispersed."
"And so?" The Goddess of Madness appeared from nowhere, perching on the Solar Judge's shoulder. "What do you fear? That mortals will see it is possible to be god... without kneeling?"
Silence.
"I will go" said the Solar Judge. "But not to destroy. Not yet. I will observe."
They knew: a direct war would shake the firmament.
But a subtle war… could be fought behind the scenes.
On the Forgotten Island
Orion watched the stars.
Each one now reacted to his presence.
Not as servants.
But as accomplices.
Lyra sat atop the crystalline ether lake, her feet touching the surface without sinking.
"They will come" said she.
"Gods cannot bear not being at the center of creation" commented Orion. "So let us put on a show for them. Let us show them how to create a world… where fear no longer governs destinies."
Lyra smiled. A calm smile, both mortal and divine.
"Shall we welcome the first disciples?"
Orion raised his hand.
And over the island, seven circles of light opened.
From each emerged a being: young, old, forgotten, hated, outcast.
But all with a spark in their eyes that no temple had ever allowed to cultivate.
The spark of those who finally could choose their own path.