Author's Note
Before anything else, I want to thank you for choosing to read my book. That means a lot to me, and I hope the story manages to touch you in some way. But I need to be honest: you might find some mistakes in the English translation. I sincerely apologize for that, in case something doesn't sound natural or causes any confusion.
Portuguese is my first language, and English... well, let's say it's not my strong suit. I'm not very proficient or fluent in it, and that limited me quite a bit. To bring this story to you, I used artificial intelligence to help with the translation. It was the best resource I had at hand, but I know it's not perfect and some slips might have gotten through.
Writing this book in Portuguese was something I did with a lot of care and dedication. I wanted to share this journey with readers in other languages, and the English translation was my attempt to make that happen. Even if the result has its flaws, my wish is that the spirit of the story still reaches you.
So, I ask for a bit of patience and understanding. If you can look past the possible mistakes, I hope you find something special in the pages I wrote. Thank you for being here and for giving my voice a chance!
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His will stood resolute, quiet yet unshakable. Without hesitation, he strode toward the dominion of the Central Core. To others, this path was a gauntlet of loss and ordeal; to him, it was a rare chance to reshape his own fate. With the finesse of a master craftsman, he fashioned a false core—a creation woven from illusion and raw power. Stepping into the first realm of this illusory core, he began to refine it, peeling back its layers one by one, each stride bringing him nearer to the truest part of himself. He forged it into a real core, lifting it to the second realm. Yet this was no ordinary construct. In its third and final form, it became what they called the golden core—though its essence defied a single shade, swirling instead with a tempest of vivid colors, alive with an almost tangible vitality.
At the heart of this enigmatic storm, something extraordinary glimmered: a purple seed, its hue so foreign it seemed to hail from beyond this world. This was no mere trinket but an inexplicable relic, born from the daring sacrifice of 400 points on a treasure cloaked in mystery—the Purple Pearl. Far from a lifeless jewel, it pulsed with breath, drawing in the spiritual energy around it and releasing it as a transformed, singular force. Unlike the Essence of Chaos, which Nael wielded with ease, this energy shone clear and crystalline, yet it bore an unfinished void within.
"It's as though the universe has handed me a fragile thread to grasp amid a savage sea," he mused, caught between awe and a faint tremor of unease.
The Purple Pearl sustained him effortlessly. His starved body drank in its power like cracked earth greeting rain after centuries of drought. Veins widened, organs shifted into harmony, muscles writhed and expanded in a symphony of total renewal. Nael felt his being unfurl into realms beyond the flesh—a dance of agony and bliss that carried him past the boundaries of the tangible. The energy fused with his essence, bearing a haunting mystery: immense yet incomplete, as if it cradled a truth destined to unveil itself in time.
He cultivated without cease, time slipping past unnoticed. His form brimmed with vitality, and within him, something new took root—a power that stretched beyond his own grasp. Every leap forward exacted a price, and he knew it well. Something was coalescing, pulling him toward uncharted realms where answers lingered, veiled in shadow.
When the transformation at last took hold, Nael beheld his creation. He had forged a supreme Central Core, a concept too vast for mortal minds to fathom. Within it, radiant colors spun in a dance of chaos and order, each motion a testament to his rise above the mundane. Yet satisfaction eluded him. The quest knew no end, and without a moment's pause, he pressed onward.
Shattering the bounds of the nine supreme foundations, he ventured into nameless territory: the Supreme Core of 81 Turns—a phenomenon no known law could contain. In a fleeting, dreamlike moment, 81 tiny dragons of pure energy emerged around his core, weaving a silent ballet of might and mystery. These were no mere shadows of triumph; they were shards of ancient wisdom, reclaimed as part of him once more.
And so, amid the silent expanse of the cosmos, Nael moved forward—free of emotion, free of doubt. A lone witness to the uncharted, he sculpted his own essence.
"Everything unfolds as it must…" he murmured to himself, his voice steady with the conviction of one who had brushed the impossible.
Lost in his trance, a spark within his core burned on. A primal, almost instinctive urge refused to settle for what he'd achieved. Even without conscious thought, his being flowed in harmony with cosmic tides. Effortlessly, without intent, his soul drifted into the fourth domain—the realm of the spiritual sea.
His soul's first act was to shatter the walls confining his spiritual sea, wielding the vibrant core—golden in name alone—to unlock its depths. In an instant, a surge of power flooded his essence. Common cultivators confine their seas to a mere meter's span; the gifted stretch it to seven; the rare few, with supreme foundations of nine turns, reach ten. But he…
"My sea bows to no petty limits, or I'd have no right to stand here," he reflected, as it swelled to ten kilometers—an endless expanse mirroring his boundless grandeur. Even unrefined, his spiritual sea outstripped all others, even those of the eighth domain. Transformed, he had shed his mortal shell, ascending into a cosmic entity ever-expanding.
With his spiritual sea awakened, Nael crossed into its opening realm and advanced to the second stage: the forging of spiritual pillars. Each pillar that rose marked a pinnacle of power, a singular foundation. He summoned eighty-one—precise in count, unmatched in strength—an army of energy columns to uphold the spiritual realm he crafted. Towering like titans, they bore the weight of his burgeoning soul. These were primordial roots, unique in all the universe, beyond replication or understanding.
Yet the zenith of his metamorphosis lay ahead. His next step was to enter the realm of the purple mansion—the crafting of an inner sanctum, a pure reflection of his essence, far beyond the reach of ordinary cultivators. For others, spiritual abodes lay bare their longings, fears, and deepest desires—mirrors of the soul, extensions of the mind. But what Nael shaped defied convention, though it adhered to the laws; he was no outlier, despite all he bore.
"My abode lacks nothing… perhaps this has always been my truest wish," he declared inwardly, his voice laced with an emotion he held tightly in check.
His spiritual abode transcended a mere temple. It was a world unto itself, a haven severed from reality. Every inch thrummed with energy that seemed to echo from time's dawn. The sky, a serene blue, stretched without end, while fields of rare blossoms erupted in a sea of vibrant hues. Towering trees, their leaves gleaming like gold beneath an eternal sun, graced the landscape. Rivers of pure energy carved the earth, tracing mystic patterns steeped in secrets. The air carried an unshakable peace, a harmony beyond words.
It wasn't the obvious beauty that set this place apart, but its essence—a quality that surpassed perfection itself. This was a sovereign domain, a sanctuary untouched by meddling, where time bent and eternity took form. There, in that ethereal expanse, his soul found solace—not stillness—absorbing every fragment, every spark of power that filled this new world. The silence, far from empty, bore a weight rich with meaning. What began as a spiritual sea had blossomed into a cosmos of its own, a sign that his journey had only just begun.
The silence that settled was absolute—not a mere absence, but a crushing void, thick as eons pressed into a single breath. The spiritual sea stood complete—a fathomless abyss, vast and unspeakable, a reflection of something even gods would hesitate to name. Nothing more needed crafting; only waiting remained, a pause heavy with promise, dense as a yet-unseen omen.
Within this spiritual sea, the golden sea unfurled—not a metaphor or whimsy, but a living, breathing truth. More than a reservoir of power, it was a mirror of what Nael might become—and what he must never touch. An ocean of possibilities, each droplet a glimpse, brimming with something nameless, as if the universe itself held its breath, poised to break free.
At its heart, an island cradled a small golden lake, still and serene, its surface reflecting a sky that wasn't there—a blend of calm and menace. Beyond, as if reality had warped, a miniature golden ocean sprawled across nearly the entire spiritual sea, so immense that even the keenest eye lost itself in its breadth.
Yet, though its maker, Nael could not claim it. Something within defied his command, mocking all reason. The golden sea was no gift—it was an entity apart, a secret not to be defiled.
"What is this?" he whispered, his tone steeped in acceptance, yet devoid of wonder.
He teetered on the edge of crossing that line, but something held him back—not a physical wall or a faltering will, but an ancient gaze peering from the depths. As magnificent as it was, the golden sea offered no reward; it was a warning—a vision teetering on the brink of reality, or a torment lying in wait.
Shadows and light wove together around it, forming an unseen pattern—something that shouldn't exist. With every passing moment, Nael sensed shifts—not just in body or spirit, but on a plane so profound he could scarcely name it. Something irreversible had begun. The silence endured, the spiritual sea lay still, and in the gloom between now and the unknown, destiny readied its next move. Unhurried. Unmerciful. Utterly certain.
The silence returned once more, complete—not an empty hollow, but a presence that pressed down, like ages distilled into a single sigh. The spiritual sea was finished; no further shaping was required. Only the wait persisted, a pause brimming with intent, like a harbinger yet to reveal itself.
At the core of this vastness, something hovered—motionless yet alive, an anomaly that didn't belong, yet undeniably was. The fifth domain—the Awakening of the Soul—couldn't be seized by force or deliberate will. It lay beyond the mind's veil, out of reach so long as thought clung to oblivion. This was no mere step forward, but a plunge into a state that mocked the rules of being.
Within that same spiritual sea, the golden sea rose anew—not as poetry, but as a pulsing, breathing reality. It mirrored all Nael could aspire to, and all he must never graze. An ocean of potential, each ripple an invitation, dense with something unspeakable, as if the cosmos, coiled tight, awaited the perfect moment to unfurl.
In the center of this boundless golden sea, upon the island, a tranquil lake rested, its flawless surface reflecting the infinite. Above its calm waters floated a sword—dark, steeped in enigma. Its black blade devoured the golden light only to cast it back, weaving a mesmerizing play of shadow and gleam. This was no common weapon; it radiated an ancient aura, defying the very notion of existence. Arcane runes traced its edge, shifting like living shadows, dancing to a rhythm no one could unravel. Each mark whispered forgotten truths, a call to those bold enough to face its mystery.
It was more than a sword—a manifestation, a bridge between realms, a paradox made tangible. To the careless, it seemed ordinary; to those who knew its origin, it was the impossible given form. Forged from a supreme innate embryo and tempered with essence and soul, it possessed its own spirit. More than an object, it was alive.
Then, in a moment that shattered all expectation, it changed. The blade quivered in the air, rippling like a reflection on restless water. In a heartbeat, where steel once hung, a girl appeared—small, light as a breeze, no older than five. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her large black eyes fixed on something far beyond sight.
Her feet never touched the ground; she floated, still as stone, caught between time and nothingness. Something about her unsettled the soul. She didn't move like the living, didn't blink—just existed, a presence that shouldn't be, yet reigned over the heart of that domain. There was no anger, no warmth—only a deep void and a silent vigil.
The greatest riddle lay in the sword's making. To craft something so grand demanded more than skill or knowledge—it required a spark beyond reason, a flame as rare as the supreme primordial fire. A force that shaped both matter and soul, transcending the limits of what is. Something singular, uncopyable. The contradiction gnawed: such a creation called for an awakened mind, a power beyond Nael's wildest dreams—yet it had emerged from the shadowed depths of his unconscious.
It was an unsolvable enigma, a living impossibility. The black blade hovered above the Golden Lake, patient. The girl, its gothic embodiment, drifted nearby, watching, waiting—a secret unbroken, a key to something beyond comprehension.
And still, there it lingered—the sword in its primal form, dark blade etched with cryptic runes. It hung above the Golden Lake, guarding its mysteries in utter silence, awaiting the one who could decipher its purpose. More than a weapon, it was a gateway between worlds, poised to open for whoever was fated to wield its might. Somewhere, in some distant time, it awaited the next chapter—the moment when the slumbering soul's mystery and the sword's secret would blaze into light.
In the dark and the quiet, destiny wove its unveiling. Without rush. Without mercy. Only certain.
When awareness returned, silence greeted me first—not a gentle hush, but an absolute void, suffocating in its weight. Something had shifted. Something irrevocable. My spiritual sea was unrecognizable—a bottomless chasm where chaos once reigned. What had been a fractured field of power and promise now thrummed with a stillness that pressed down, like a beast slumbering until summoned.
The orbs—once monuments to the strength I'd amassed—were gone. Not shattered or strewn, but erased, as if they'd never existed. In their place lingered only an echo, a shapeless memory, a void where my claimed power should have dwelt.
"What have I done? What has my soul become?" I rasped, my voice rough with an emotion I fought to contain.
A low, joyless laugh escaped me.
"So this is the way of the Chaos Sovereigns?" my voice reverberated through the emptiness, tinged with a revulsion that slithered into my thoughts like a quiet venom.
"This is why I loathe what comes without cost."
My recklessness had nearly unmade me. I'd let myself be swept up by the lure of power without price, and they—silent, patient—had waited, poised to consume me the moment I stumbled. They sought rebirth, with me as their bridge.
"It'd be absurd if beings so ancient and mighty embraced their end willingly. Now I recall that old saying: the higher one climbs, the more they fear the fall; the older they grow, the greater their dread of death," I thought, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
I shut my eyes, clawing for control. To feel was a waste, yet for a fleeting second, I nearly gave in. Still, a question gnawed at me, echoing in my depths: what had my soul become? How far had it reached? I'd given everything—every fragment, every breath—999 trillion points. And it hadn't failed me.
Every word, every shift, was a note in the melody of a destiny that never stilled, brimming with riddles and revelations. I, Nael, pressed on through the unknown, between shadow and light, certain that true power lay in transcending one's own existence—even as the universe murmured that such a thing should never be.