CHAPTER 520: THE SOVEREIGN

Ashwing noticed first. "It’s syncing with you again. I hate that. I hate all of this."

Nysha ignored his panic; her gaze was fixed on the walls. "These markings... they’re not language. They’re diagrams. Or memories."

She touched one of the glowing lines. It rippled outward like water disturbed—images swirling briefly across the surface, a vast battlefield under three suns, a colossal serpent made of starlight, a sphere of golden fire falling from the heavens, a humanoid silhouette dissolving into motes of brilliance.

Then the wall stilled, and the images faded.

Nysha pulled her hand back quickly. "They’re showing us what happened here."

"Not just what happened," Lindarion said. "What was lost."

The corridor widened suddenly into a chamber—not vast, but intimate in its enormity, the kind of place where sound dared not echo. Runes shaped like spirals and constellations floated in the air, weightless and slow, orbiting a circular dais in the center of the room.

On that dais lay a sarcophagus.

Not of stone.

Not of metal.

But of something that looked like crystallized sunlight—transparent and luminous, yet unbreakably solid. The runes drifting overhead cast their glow through it, revealing the silhouette sealed inside.

Nysha froze.

Ashwing’s jaw dropped.

Lindarion’s pulse hammered once, hard.

A person lay in the sarcophagus—tall, slender, their body encased in armor unlike anything he’d ever seen. Plate segments flowed like petals, overlapping seamlessly, each piece inscribed with symbols older than the epoch itself. Their hair was long, braided with threads of starlit silver that still faintly flickered, as though refusing to go dark.

But their face—

It was eerily similar to Lindarion’s.

Not identical.

But close enough that Nysha inhaled sharply. "Lindarion... that—"

"I know."

He stepped forward, drawn without thought, without resistance—pulled by a force that wasn’t the inheritance but something older.

Something blood-deep.

Ashwing scrambled onto Nysha’s shoulder. "Is this a relative? A clone? A future-you? A past-you? A cosmic mistake? Please pick one I can emotionally handle."

Nysha didn’t answer. She watched Lindarion—watched the rigidity in his shoulders, the way his eyes darkened with recognition he hadn’t expected.

Lindarion reached the sarcophagus.

Its surface warmed beneath his palm.

And then—

The runes orbiting above the dais froze.

The chamber breathed.

The sarcophagus dissolved into golden particles.

Nysha swore. Ashwing screamed.

Lindarion didn’t move.

Because the body inside—

slid upward,

stood,

and opened its eyes.

They were not the eyes of the dead.

They burned with layered colors—gold, white, and a deep starless black. Ancient. Heavy. A weight of knowledge that spanned epochs.

The figure looked at Lindarion with a recognition that was neither joy nor sorrow but something far more complex.

When it spoke, its voice was several voices at once—harmonic, echoing, layered with ages of memory.

"Descendant of my remnant," it said. "Bearer of the fractured inheritance. You have finally reached the tomb of the First Sovereign of the Fourth Path."

Nysha nearly choked. "Sovereign—? Fourth Path—? How many paths were there!?"

Ashwing whispered, "We’re going to die. We’re absolutely going to die."

Lindarion didn’t blink.

"What are you?" he asked.

The figure stepped off the dais. The runes parted around him like respectful attendants.

"I am the echo of the one who defied the Devourer before any epoch had a name. The one who held the first form of what you call inheritance."

Its gaze sharpened.

"And I am the reason you exist."

Nysha’s eyes widened.

Ashwing fainted dramatically.

Lindarion’s voice remained quiet. "Explain."

The Sovereign raised a hand.

The room darkened.

Space itself warped.

And an illusion—no, a memory—unfolded around them, golden and terrible.

"Then listen well, child of the broken future."

The golden memory unfurled outward like a blooming star. The chamber vanished beneath their feet; the air changed, the temperature changed, even gravity felt different—as if they were stepping into a world that no longer existed.

They stood in a sky of fractured light, suspended above a battlefield spanning the curve of the horizon. Armies of impossible scale clashed beneath them—creatures of light, shadow, flame, and water; titans whose footsteps carved valleys; winged beings whose screams split mountains; serpents made of cloud and starfire weaving between collapsing worlds.

It was not war.

It was extinction.

Nysha staggered, grabbing Lindarion’s forearm. "This... this can’t be real."

"It is real," the Sovereign said. He walked across the illusion as if gravity bent to him. "This is the end of the Second Creation. The moment the Devourer reached its peak."

Ashwing peeked from behind Lindarion’s hair. "This looks like a painting having a panic attack."

Lindarion stayed silent, eyes fixed on the heart of the battlefield where a colossal form moved—too large to comprehend, too dark to define, yet unmistakably alive. Tendrils of void leaked from it, warping the world around each pulse.

"Dythrael," Lindarion murmured.

"No," the Sovereign corrected. "Not the sealed fragment you know. This is the Devourer before it was shattered. Before the gods bound it. Before it tore epochs apart."

The air trembled as the vision shifted. A swirl of gold erupted from the center of the chaos, forming into a constellation of sigils.

And then—

A figure descended from the light.

Tall. Armored. Radiant. His presence cut through the darkness like a blade through silk. Lindarion recognized the armor—the same pattern, the same runic flow. This was the Sovereign in life.

Nysha whispered, "He... he looks like you."

"Not looks," the Sovereign said. "He is the progenitor of your line."

Lindarion’s jaw tightened. "My ancestor."

"Not merely ancestor." The Sovereign lifted a hand, and the image zoomed closer until they could see the intensity in the warrior’s eyes. "He carried a burden your blood still echoes. The Fourth Path."

Nysha frowned. "What is the Fourth Path?"

"A discipline forbidden by the god-forges," the Sovereign replied. "Neither light nor shadow. Neither creation nor destruction. A path built on balance—the control of opposites, the intertwining of divine and mortal essence."

His gaze lingered on Lindarion.

"The same energy now coiled inside you."

Ashwing squeaked. "So he’s basically you, but vintage?"

The Sovereign ignored him.

Below them, the illusion showed the Sovereign raising a hand—summoning a blinding sphere of intertwined gold and black. Light and void fused into a single force, spiraling into a storm that tore through the Devourer’s tendrils.

"Is that the inheritance?" Lindarion asked.

"No. That is the precursor. The First Form of the Balance Star—what you call inheritance is merely a fragment of his legacy."

The memory accelerated.

They saw the Sovereign carve a path through chaos, each step rewriting the battlefield. Titans fell. Demigods rose. Entire landscapes shifted under the clash of energies.

But with each strike—the Sovereign’s aura flickered.

Dimmed.

Cracked.

"His power was perfect," the echo said softly. "But his body was not. No mortal shell could contain the duality of creation and annihilation."

Nysha inhaled sharply. "He was burning himself alive..."

"A fate you now risk," the Sovereign said, eyes heavy. "Every time you channel both forces at once, you walk the edge of his grave."

The illusion shifted again.

The Sovereign—bleeding light and shadow—reached the Devourer’s core and struck with everything he had. The resulting explosion ripped the sky open, shattering the Devourer into fragments scattered across dimensions.

But the Sovereign fell too.

"His body died," the echo said. "His essence did not. Instead, it fragmented—echoes of him scattered through time, through futures that would never be. You are the culmination of those fragments, the stitched fate of his unfulfilled path."

Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. "So I’m his reincarnation?"

"Not reincarnation," the Sovereign corrected. "You are the convergence—the place where every broken thread of his legacy reconnects."

Nysha turned slowly to Lindarion, voice steady but trembling. "This... this is why the ruins awakened for you."

The Sovereign nodded. "Because you are the only one who can complete what he began."

Ashwing floated in a panicked circle. "Let me guess—fate, destiny, divine burden, chosen one, cosmic disaster, blah blah blah—"

"No." The Sovereign’s voice dropped, deepening the chamber around them. "He was chosen. You... are decided. The balance has already linked itself to you. If you do not embrace it, it will consume you from within."

The battlefield collapsed, the illusion fading back into the golden chamber. The Sovereign stood before Lindarion again—closer now, gaze level and solemn.

"You are the last inheritor of the Fourth Path. The Devourer awakens. And your fate is intertwined with its return."

Lindarion’s expression didn’t flinch. "What do I have to do?"

The Sovereign extended a hand.

"Take the mantle. Complete the broken path. And confront the truth that even I could not face."

Nysha’s breath halted.

Ashwing hid behind her neck again.

Lindarion stepped forward, eyes locked with the Sovereign’s.

"What truth?" he asked.

The Sovereign’s answer came quietly.

"The Devourer is not your enemy."

Silence pressed down on the chamber like a physical weight. Even the golden light of the inheritance dimmed, pulsing slower, as if the very memory of the place recoiled from the Sovereign’s words.

Nysha’s hand flew to her dagger. "Not his enemy? The Devourer slaughtered two civilizations. It nearly erased the entire Second Creation. How can it not be—"

"It is a calamity," the Sovereign interrupted, "but not an enemy."

Ashwing sputtered. "There’s a difference!?"

"A vast one," the echo replied.

Lindarion’s eyes didn’t move from the Sovereign’s. His voice was calm, but firm. "Explain."

The Sovereign stepped closer, the golden particles of his form drifting like embers in slow motion.