Chapter 22
The storm that had tried to claw its way into the island was gone, yet the Black Shore was far from calm. The entire island throbbed with a subtle tension, as though every stone and shadow was waiting for the next calamity.
Orion stood atop a ridge overlooking the dark sea. Below him, waves rolled in slow, unnatural circles—still reacting to the lingering distortion he had shattered moments ago. The air hummed, carrying a scent of metal and something older, something like dust from a forgotten star.
He could feel the island watching him.
Not with eyes, but with presence.
It recognized him.
Finally, fully.
The merging with his past self had completed the bond.
He placed his palm against a black stone pillar rising from the ridge.
It pulsed once—then opened, revealing a path of floating steps that led deeper into the hidden heart of the island.
This path had never existed before.
The island had created it for him.
"Show me," Orion murmured.
He stepped onto the first floating stone.
It glowed crimson.
The next one lit up silver-white.
Then black.
A rhythm.
A heartbeat.
His.
A Throne Buried in Silence
The path carried him upward until he reached a suspended plateau. The sky here felt different—thicker, darker, as if layered between dimensions.
At the center of the plateau stood a throne.
Not carved.
Not forged.
But grown from the island itself.
It looked like obsidian shaped by a colossal, unseen hand, with red veins pulsing beneath the surface like molten blood. Star-dust flickered along its edges, hinting at its origin: not earthly, not celestial… but something born between realities.
As Orion approached, the throne reacted immediately.
The air tightened.
Reality vibrated.
The throne spoke—not with sound, but with direct resonance into his soul:
"You are the rightful keeper.
Sit."
Orion didn't obey immediately. He walked around the throne, inspecting it quietly. The back of the throne was covered in carvings—scenes of battles, beasts, and titanic wars that even he didn't recognize.
At the very top was a single symbol:
A black ring intertwined with a silver ring.
Space and Time bound together.
His symbol.
Orion placed his hand on the armrest.
The response was immediate—and violent.
The Crown of the Silent Throne
Crimson fog exploded upward.
Stars ignited in the sky.
Space bent violently around him.
The throne forced him into a test.
A figure emerged from the fog.
At first it seemed shapeless—a twisting shadow of nothing but malice and density. Then it solidified into something familiar:
His mythical creature form.
But not exactly.
It was a mirror version, forged from the throne's judgment. A beast born from the Crimson Abyss, wrapped in tentacles of fog, with six burning wings of red and six wings of pale light. Its singular azure eye opened slowly, staring at him with a cold intelligence.
A trial of the self.
A trial of the beast within.
Orion smirked.
"So that's how it is."
The mirror creature struck first.
Reality tore open behind it. A black claw emerged from a split in space, aiming straight for Orion's chest. He didn't move. Instead he inhaled, letting the Crimson power flow through him like wildfire.
Fog erupted around him.
The claw slowed—then stopped entirely—caught in a sphere of distorted time.
He flicked his fingers.
The claw shattered.
The mirror creature roared, opening its jaws and unleashing a beam of collapsing space. The ground vaporized. The sky cracked. Shadows scattered.
Orion countered with a calm wave of his hand.
A veil of crimson fog rose, absorbing the blast, swallowing it like a beast devouring prey.
"You're strong," Orion admitted. "But you're incomplete."
His wings unfurled.
The world shook.
The Clash of Two Paragons
The battle that followed didn't resemble combat—it resembled a rearrangement of existence.
The mirror beast leaped forward—time shattered in its wake.
Orion met it with a punch lined with temporal fracture. Their blows collided.
The sky inverted.
The sea rolled upward.
Stars flickered violently.
The island groaned, trying to withstand the pressure.
Both forms moved faster than sound, faster than light—fighting in fragments of seconds, in loops of time, in folds of space that twisted the horizon like a ribbon.
Finally, Orion gathered fog in his palm.
"Enough."
The fog expanded into a sphere of total silence.
No sound.
No light.
No motion.
The mirror creature froze.
The fog sphere closed around it—compressing reality, compressing time—until the mirror beast cracked like a fragile crystal and shattered into fading fragments.
The throne vibrated with approval.
Ascension of Authority
A crown formed above the throne—a floating circlet of black-gold metal, dripping with star-light and shadow-liquid. Twelve wings of energy spiraled around it.
It drifted toward him.
Orion straightened, allowing the crown to descend. When it touched his head—
His mind expanded.
The island expanded.
The entire Black Shore became visible inside his perception like a living map of crystal veins, fog arteries, and dimensional anchors.
He heard its voice again:
"Keeper of the Silent Crown.
You are now the sovereign of the Black Shore."
Power surged through him—not strength, not combat ability, but authority.
The ability to command the island itself.
The ability to let it devour intruders.
The ability to release its true form.
He sensed something then.
A distortion in the sea.
A giant entity approaching slowly from beyond the horizon.
Not the same as before.
Stronger.
Smarter.
Another being drawn by his awakening.
He placed his hand on the throne.
The island responded.
Fog rose in waves.
Black bamboo bent.
The shoreline reshaped.
The sea parted slightly, making room for the coming fight.
Orion stood atop the plateau, wings spreading behind him, the new crown pulsing faintly.
"Come," he said to the distant distortion.
"I will greet you properly."
The ocean trembled back.
The enemy was almost here.