Isola Krein did not change for anyone.
The western continent remained heavy, ancient, its gravity pressing not only on the body but on intent itself. Even Nyk, who could shatter continents if he stopped holding back, felt the land insist that power here be earned, not flaunted.
Azelar poured more tea.
The old man's movements were unhurried, deliberate—each gesture refined by centuries of watching students come and go, worlds rise and fall. Steam curled upward between them as Rayon stood before him, hands relaxed at his sides, darkness restrained but ever-present.
For the first time since arriving, Rayon spoke without humor.
"Everything changed."
Azelar gestured to the seat across from him. "Then sit. Start at the beginning."
Rayon did.
He spoke of memory returning—of knowing the first darkness, of remembering existence before time learned how to flow. He spoke of the End, of the figures that stood untouched when every timeline collapsed into nothingness. He described the Endless Abyss—not as a place, but as an absolute. A domain that predated death, hell, reincarnation, and even oblivion.
"I am not just in the darkness," Rayon said quietly. "I am what it returns to."
Nyk leaned against the stone railing, arms crossed, expression serious for once. Christine sat straight-backed, listening carefully, eyes sharp with realization rather than fear.
Azelar did not interrupt.
When Rayon finished, the old man took a slow sip of tea.
"So," Azelar said calmly, "the abyss finally remembered its name."
Rayon looked at him. "You knew."
Azelar smiled faintly. "I suspected. You were never just a vessel, Rayon. You were containment—until you weren't."
He set the cup down.
"And the end you speak of?"
Rayon's eyes darkened. "It already happened. Somewhere. Somewhen. The timeline is looping toward it. What I saw wasn't prophecy—it was memory bleeding backward."
Silence settled.
Then Azelar stood.
"Well," he said, brushing imaginary dust from his robe, "that certainly complicates my retirement plans."
Nyk barked a laugh despite himself. Christine smiled faintly.
Rayon turned toward them.
"Nyk. Christine."
They stepped forward.
"This is Azelar," Rayon said. "The man who taught me discipline when destruction came naturally."
Nyk raised a brow. "So… you're the reason he doesn't nuke cities when he's annoyed."
Azelar chuckled. "Among other things."
Christine bowed her head slightly. "It's an honor."
Rayon continued, "They're not ordinary awakened. Nyk is the Primordial of Ruin. Christine is a vessel of Continuance. They'll be central to what's coming."
Azelar studied them both now, truly looking.
He saw Nyk's absence of fear—genuine, complete. A ruin that didn't crave destruction, but accepted it as consequence.
He saw Christine's steadiness—the kind of power that stabilized systems rather than broke them. The quiet strength civilizations were built upon.
"They're strong," Azelar admitted. "But strength alone won't be enough."
"I know," Rayon said. "That's why I'm asking you to train them. Not just as allies—"
He met Azelar's gaze.
"—as disciples."
The word carried weight.
Azelar was silent for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
A deep, warm sound that echoed against the stone.
"Of course you'd ask me this now," he said. "When the end of all things is knocking."
Nyk smirked. "That a yes?"
Azelar looked at him. "That depends. Can you endure being told you're wrong?"
Nyk shrugged. "Been happening my whole life."
Christine added quietly, "I want to understand my power. Not just survive with it."
Azelar nodded once.
"Then I'll take you," he said. "Both of you."
Rayon exhaled.
"There's more," he added.
Azelar raised an eyebrow. "I assumed as much."
"I'm leaving," Rayon said. "For nine months."
Christine stiffened. Nyk frowned slightly.
"To train alone," Rayon continued. "I need to go somewhere time doesn't interfere. Somewhere I can stop holding back and not worry about consequences."
Azelar already knew where that was.
"And before I go," Rayon said, turning back to his mentor, "there's something else."
Azelar waited.
Rayon's voice softened—just a fraction.
"I'm having a child."
The old man froze.
Then slowly—very slowly—he smiled.
"Well," Azelar said, eyes glinting, "about time you complicated your own existence."
Rayon continued, "You taught me restraint. Perspective. Humanity. I want you to be part of that child's life."
Azelar blinked once.
"…You're asking me to be a godfather."
"Yes."
The wind passed through the trees. The continent itself seemed to listen.
Azelar laughed, this time openly, stepping forward and pulling Rayon into a brief but firm embrace.
"I'd be honored," he said. "Though I pity the child already."
Rayon smirked. "They'll be fine."
Nyk grinned. "Kid's gonna be broken."
Christine smiled softly. "Or balanced."
Rayon stepped back.
"I'll return in nine months," he said. "Stronger. Clearer. Ready."
He looked at Nyk. "Don't get reckless."
Nyk scoffed. "I'm always reckless."
Rayon looked at Christine. "Trust him—but trust yourself more."
She nodded.
The darkness rose.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
Just… inevitability.
A portal opened behind Rayon—not to a place, but to an absence so profound it swallowed light, sound, and thought alike.
Before stepping through, Rayon paused.
"If the end accelerates," he said, "you'll feel it. Hold the line until I'm back."
Then he stepped forward.
There was no arrival.
Only presence.
Rayon stood everywhere and nowhere at once. The Endless Abyss did not greet him—it recognized him. Darkness folded inward and outward simultaneously, revealing structures that weren't built, entities that weren't summoned, and laws that did not pretend to be fair.
Time loosened its grip.
Here, nine months was both nothing and eternity.
Rayon removed all restraints.
His aura expanded.
Day ceased to exist.
Even night felt too bright.
He closed his eyes.
And began to train.
Not to gain power—
But to understand what it meant to use it.
Far away, across countless layers of reality, something ancient stirred.
The darkness was no longer sleeping.
And it was preparing.