The Ouroboros drifted once more, a leaf on the river of spacetime. Astra's journey was now one of pure reminiscence. He visited the echoes of his past, not to interfere, but to observe the long-term fruits of his labors.
His first stop was the world of the K'tharr, the psychic species he had gently nudged toward community. He did not land, but observed from a high orbit. Their world was transformed. The silent, lonely towers were now connected by beautiful, arching bridges of solidified light—tangible representations of their new psychic networks. He felt the hum of their collective consciousness, a symphony of interconnected minds, vibrant and creative. They had not just learned community; they had perfected it, creating an art form from empathy itself. A quiet pride warmed him. The seed had grown into a forest.
He journeyed to the Ideosphere, the planet of concepts. The canyon of "Discord" was still there, but it was now called the "Canyon of Dialogue." The Herald of Ancestors and the Voice of the New Dawn were no longer warring entities, but partners in a perpetual, creative debate, their conflict now the engine of their world's dynamic evolution. The concept of "The Synthesis" was now a fundamental law of their reality. He had not brought peace, but he had turned a war into a dance.
Finally, drawn by a deep, personal curiosity, he returned to the one place that had started it all: the world of That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime.
He emerged from the jump at the edge of the Jura Tempest Forest. The magicule density was even higher than he remembered, the air thrumming with power and prosperity. The forest had expanded, and at its heart, the city of Tempest was a marvel of monster and human cooperation, a bustling, thriving metropolis that dwarfed his memories of it.
He saw Rimuru Tempest, no longer just a powerful Slime, but a true Demon Lord and a wise ruler, surrounded by loyal friends and a nation that adored them. Astra felt a swell of fondness. This was where he had been given his Name, where he had taken his first real step into the multiverse. He had been a lost infant then; Rimuru had been a fellow newcomer. Now, they were both ancient, powerful beings who had shaped their corners of reality.
He did not reveal himself. Some friendships were perfect as memories, untouched by the weight of intervening eons. He watched for a day, smiling as Rimuru dealt with a diplomatic incident involving a missing shipment of high-quality honey with the same earnestness they once had when naming a lost Saiyan baby. Some things never changed.
As he prepared to leave, a familiar, bubbly psychic voice brushed against his mind, a gentle probe, curious but not hostile.
"Hey... you feel familiar. Really, really old familiar. Like, 'first-Naming' familiar. Is that you, Astra?"
Rimuru had sensed him. Even after all this time, the bond of the Name held.
Astra sent back a wave of warm, fond energy, a psychic hug across the centuries. "It is. You've built a wonderful world, Rimuru. Just as you promised."
"Whoa! It is you! You gotta come down! Shion will make a feast! Veldora will want to challenge you to a fight—don't worry, he's harmless now, mostly..."
"Another time," Astra projected, his tone gentle but final. "I am just passing through. I wanted to see that the garden we both started is still thriving. It is more beautiful than I imagined."
There was a moment of understanding from the Slime. "Yeah... okay. I get it. You're on your own path now. But hey... the offer for honeyed roast always stands. Friend."
"Always, friend."
With that, Astra severed the connection. The Ouroboros turned away from Tempest. He had closed another circle.
The Echo in the Hall of his life was a comforting, harmonious sound. Everywhere he looked, the seeds he had planted had grown, often in ways he never could have predicted. There were no more loose ends, no more crises waiting. The universe was in good hands—its own, and those of the countless beings he had helped along the way.
He was a satisfied artist walking through a gallery of his own finished works. And the greatest masterpiece of all was the peace he now carried within himself. The journey was truly, completely, his own.