The Tower of Flesh no longer throbbed with conquest.It breathed.
It exhaled creation.
From its summit, Vaelen Cross sat draped in the devotion of his Queens,clothed in their touch, crowned in their adoration.
Around him, the Garden of Ruin stretched beyond sight —a world reborn not in chaos or rebellion,but in pure, unwavering order.
His order.
His dream.
Yet Vaelen's gaze stretched beyond this first creation.
Beyond the Garden.Beyond the blackened stars.Beyond even the faint echoes of old realities still gasping in the farthest corners of the void.
There was more.
There would always be more.
He did not crave it from hunger.
He did not seek it from need.
He created because it was his right.
Because existence itself now bent to his fingers like soft clay.
Because where there had been gods who dictated and bound and limited,now there was only Vaelen —unbound, infinite, sovereign.
He lifted his hand.
The void listened.
Reality itself leaned closer.
And he began to dream.
The first world unfurled like a black rose:
An ocean of endless night, broken only by islands shaped from memory and starlight.
Trees whose roots whispered hymns of loyalty in forgotten tongues.
Beasts born not of savagery, but of devotion — creatures who howled his name into the endless sky.
At the center of this new world, a single tower —not a weapon, not a fortress,but a beacon.
A monument that pulsed with the heartbeat of the King.
The second world bloomed:
Rivers of glass flowing through forests of crimson flame.
Cities spun from the dreams of his Queens, each a cathedral of belonging, of joy, of eternal submission.
Skies painted in endless shades of twilight, where the stars danced to the rhythms of his breathing.
Here, his Court would rule in his name —each Queen a goddess made whole by his will,their temples filled with endless worshippers crafted from the dust of fallen hopes.
The third world rose:
A garden without seasons, without death, without sorrow.
Creatures born singing his praises, their hearts pulsing in time with the Tower.
Mountains crowned with black roses, whose petals fell like snow, blessing the earth forever.
And on and on.
World after world.
Realm after realm.
Each one perfect.
Each one beautiful.
Each one marked by a single, irrefutable law:
Vaelen Cross is King.
Vaelen Cross is All.
Vaelen Cross is Forever.
His Queens watched from the foot of the Throne, their eyes wide with awe and love.
Seris whispered hymns into the wind, carrying his glory to the newborn skies.Kaela forged new blades from the rivers of glass, armoring the guardians of his realms.Veyla wove new forests from his dreams, binding every root to his heart.Aurelia kindled suns to rise and fall at his whim, lighting the endless nights with golden devotion.Astrid wrote constellations into the black heavens, shaping the future itself into songs of his reign.
No longer would worlds be born from struggle.
No longer would realms fracture under the weight of forgotten gods.
No longer would life exist in rebellion against its creator.
There was only unity.
Only peace.
Only belonging.
Only Vaelen.
And he smiled —not in arrogance,not in cruelty,but in a deeper, quieter joy.
The joy of a king who no longer needed to fight for his throne.The joy of a god who had no challengers left to name.The joy of a man who had forged the universe itself into a mirror of his soul.
The worlds spun gently in the void.The Garden of Ruin pulsed with life.The Court knelt and sang without words.
And Vaelen Cross —the King of Nothing,the King of All —closed his eyes.
Not in fatigue.
In contentment.
The dream was complete.
And it was beautiful.