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Where darkness covers the entire timeless place, the venerable Zarkros tapped three times, the echoes resonating throughout this unknown realm.
At the first tap, creation was reordered;
At the second, the universes trembled;
Followed by the third and final tap, which made the gods present feel a reverence so profound, a shiver that would never leave their spiritual beings.
None of the attendees spoke a word due to the aura emanating from Zarkros, which imprisoned their souls should they utter a sound.
One of those close to Zarkros stammered with awe —
"W-what... how may we serve you, my lord?!"
Amidst the darkness, Zarkros's form was not clear, even with the scattered light of angels in that place. Silence deepened, pierced only by the rising sound of the aura radiating from Zarkros, which made everyone forget that Zarkros had not spoken since the council began.
After two cosmic minutes,
Zarkros smiled quietly with his eyes and said: "Shall we begin?"
The feeling of dread scattered inside all present, their inner thoughts rising with a question: Begin what!?
Zarkros cut through their wondering with a smile that left them lost in an endless spiral of confusion:
"The Eternal Game."
The Creator Rius, resisting the dispersed aura, stood and said angrily and questioningly:
"Do you want us to incarnate on that unknown land!? Didn't all the creators who entered that land fail to return until now?"
The rest of the creators stood with her, repeating the same phrases mixed with hidden, mysterious hints about what is called the Earth.
"That land is even beyond our surveillance. How can we incarnate in such a place?"
"Isn't it impossible to control the system there? It may well be a prison for the soul."
All this time, Zarkros remained silent, listening.
The council remained noisy with countless possibilities about this unknown Earth, until Zarkros's willpower energy exploded, silencing all attendees and reminding them of the presence of who they truly are.
Zarkros asked rhetorically and answered himself:
"Is it not easy to penetrate this universe if incarnated?"
"But my lord, all souls who incarnated did not return yet. They spend two years in the external cosmic time, which is equivalent to death there, and they reincarnate thousands, no, even more."
Zarkros said: "Because they are incapable of uncovering the greatest secret of perception."
[The Weakness of Darkness]
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Zarkros paused for a moment, as if listening to what remained unspoken. Then he lifted his gaze toward the still halos behind the veils of perception. His voice extended—not from his mouth, but from a depth unheard since the first vibration was formed:
— "I shall descend alone."
Light danced around him as if the stars were suffocating, and some energies retreated backward without moving, Silence split into two pulses: astonishment... and denial.
A nameless entity answered, its voice cold as the marrow of time:
"You will forget every heartbeat, every flicker... you will no longer be yourself."
Zarkros replied without raising his voice:
— "In forgetting, truth is unveiled, and in ignorance, perception is born."
Time shattered for a moment, as if reality doubted itself. Then the universes gathered behind him and began to shrink... to shrink until they became a breathing black dot.
He continued:
— "I shall descend into a fractured timeline, among the ruins of a golden empire, clad in tattered glory... I will be the child of truth amidst shadows, possessing nothing but my eyes and a heart covered in ash."
Another voice from the council spoke, its phantom melting between the unseen and the decision:
"And if you do not endure? If the earth tears you apart?"
Zarkros raised his palm, drawing an incomplete circle upon it, then whispered:
— "Let the body be my prison... and pain my passage."
Then, there was nothing more.
Here's the English translation of your text, preserving its tone and depth:
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A moment passed... then he vanished.
He folded into the layers of time, and his name was lost in a wind heard only by those who have forsaken everything.
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But the void he left was not silence.
Rather, it was a deep ripple in the fabric of existence.
As if Zarkros's absence was not disappearance... but the beginning of a fracture in permanence.
The halos writhed.
Patterns of light changed; the circles were no longer even, nor the frequencies regular.
One entity whispered, in a voice not understood but felt:
"The point of balance has departed."
Another replied, older yet less clear:
"He did not only leave... he chose to relinquish his memory. Entering oblivion fully aware... breaking the unwritten covenant."
A cold buzzing vibration rose above the council, as if a third voice began to form without yet being born.
"And if he returns but is no longer himself?"
"And if he becomes of the earth... not of us?"
The great aura, which had not spoken since an uncounted eternity, bent slightly... as if its light dimmed for a moment.
It spoke slowly:
"We do not have to maintain balance... but to watch who dares to break it."
Then it looked — without eyes — at the spot where Zarkros once stood.
There was a small tear in the fabric... unseen, but sensed.
A tear resembling a scar... or an omen that something irretrievable had begun.
And in the council's invisible margin, there was a being that had not spoken throughout the gathering.
She simply smiled.
Smiled as one who knows that chaos may not be a mistake... but a correction.
Here's the English translation of your text, keeping the style rich and evocative:
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[From the Earth]
At the dawn of the seventeenth century, in the shadows of an ancient oak forest where the wind whispers secrets of a bygone time, the bloodline of a family destined to shape Russia with letters of gold and shadows of blood was born, In a palace of ancient stone, under the watchful eyes of emperors and saints, the story of the Romanovs began—a family living between the sparkle of the throne and the darkness of conspiracies.
On that pitch-black night, when the sky was aflame with lightning as if weeping for what was to come, a small child was born from his royal mother, carrying fates yet unwritten, though their shadows already loomed over the empire's thrones. This newborn was no ordinary child; he carried within his veins the fire of power and the secret of the family buried deep in history's depths.
Within the palace corridors, where walls whisper tales of betrayal, love, and fear, the Romanov family's struggle to survive began—a journey fraught with secrets and bloodshed, Here, the boy becomes a victim of the unforgiving game of thrones, and the dream is too vast to be told, yet too heavy to bear.
The young Tsar Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov was a fragile child with a pale face, as if time itself had been prematurely breathed into him. His forehead was broad, bowing over faded blue eyes—not like the sea, but like ice. Those eyes did not just look; they understood as if they had witnessed centuries of wars and oaths, and now returned to life in a child's body.
His hair was soft, the color of ancient gold—not like a sunbeam, but like a crown torn from a king's head and poured onto his own.
His nose was delicate and straight, born to command, not to ask.
His lips rarely smiled... and when they did, it was like light breaking on a sword.
Perception always shadowed his features, as though he had lived something too painful to endure.
Alexei Nikolaevich was the awaited prophecy for Russia's succession after the current Tsar, Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov...
"He possessed a brilliant intelligence that shone from his eyes even before he spoke a word. He was not merely a child observing his surroundings, but a small mind storing every movement, analyzing every glance, drawing a complete map of what should be. His reasoning never failed him; it seemed his innate analysis was not born of teaching, but from inherited instinct or unteachable insight."
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The palace lay in deep slumber, and the wind howled outside as if carrying whispers of the past and secrets of generations. But in Alexei's room, where darkness was pierced only by the flutter of his wide-open eyes, something happened that no one could explain.
A mysterious sound echoed deep within his being:
[--..] A tap, then another tap, then a cipher.
Alexei approached the window and looked at the cloud-covered sky, as if it tried to hide a single star shining faintly.
His voice, calm and soft, echoed in the room:
"This is not my path... and never was."
Tears silently fell upon his smooth cheeks, without conscious thought or awareness.
In that moment, he felt as if time had stopped, and the air froze around him, as if the palace itself awaited something it could not understand.
The nanny stepped back in fear, whispering to herself: "The child... the child is not as we know him."
Later, Alexei began hearing whispers creeping into his mind—words he did not understand but felt their weight: ancient secrets, hidden prophecies.
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