God’s Tree

Argolaith stood within the resonance chamber, surrounded by layers of glowing runes, floating charts, and suspended lattices of mana-weft constructs.

The first star of Elyrion pulsed gently overhead—a golden light that illuminated the spellwork below like a sun rising inside thought itself.

The core pulsed now with regular rhythm.

It was time.

Time to give the realm a body.

Not a soul. Not a sky.

But land—terrain that would define where dreams stepped, where mountains grew, and where rivers would eventually wind like memory.

Argolaith stood before the hovering realm-core and reached into his cube.

From it, he drew:

A sliver of red sand collected during his journey through the broken outer territories of Morgoth.

A feather of time-frozen ash taken from the burning cliffs of the Sixth Trial.

A tear-shaped shard of starlight obsidian given to him by the being sealed under the Twelfth Gate.

He placed each into a rotating spiral around the core, and spoke no words.

The cube understood.

So did Elyrion.

He extended his hands and wove terrain from silence:

Flatlands like a painter's breath. Broken hills layered with slumbering ley lines. Arching spires of rock shaped like memory towers. A great basin at the heart—lush, formless, waiting.

The land formed not from stone, but from intention made manifest.

And Elyrion pulsed again—stronger now.

A heartbeat.

But something strange began to happen.

Unseen by Argolaith at first, the pocket realm that held the Grand Magic Academy—a realm sealed long ago by over two hundred mages and two divine beings—shivered.

Its boundary layer, a translucent veil suspended beyond the sky, vibrated as if struck by a tuning fork.

At the far edge of that sky—deep within the void where only stars and cold light dwelled—something began to grow.

A silhouette.

Floating.

Forming.

A landmass.

It began as a mote of spectral dust, shimmering like memory-glass in the distance. Slowly, it gained shape—stone that glowed like it remembered walking, hills and broken cliffs that shimmered with faint violet-blue hues.

And then came the forms.

Not physical.

Not real.

Spectral.

Beings made of half-light and silent breath began to stir on the distant landmass. Tall figures with blurred features, flickering robes of translucent color, glowing glyphs etched into their chests. They did not speak.

But they moved.

As if waiting.

As if called.

Back in the chamber, Argolaith's cube suddenly flared.

Not in danger—but in response.

He staggered slightly, blinking.

"What…?"

He focused on the cube, then opened his senses outward.

And he felt it.

Not through vision.

Not through sound.

Through sympathy.

Elyrion's formation was resonating with the academy's pocket realm. Not destabilizing it—but echoing against its edges, like a twin heartbeat in a greater chest.

And in that distant place, reality had begun to mirror his design.

Unintentionally.

Uncontrollably.

And yet… The reference version of this chapter is on M*V*LEMPYR.

Not violently.

It was like Elyrion's blueprint was being reflected outward—its pulse shaping the nearest free canvas.

And the spectral landmass was the result.

A mirror fragment of Elyrion, filled not with flesh and stone, but spirit and light.

"The sky answered me," Argolaith whispered.

He reached out to the cube.

It pulsed once—and now there was another spell forming within it.

Not yet ready.

But close.

Something born from the interaction between realms.

From unintended creation.

From life born of reflection.

The walls of the academy trembled.

Not from spellfire, not from attack—but from the slow, widening breath of something unplanned.

The newly forming spectral landmass drifted silently at the edge of the void sky—its spiritual terrain glowing with runic veins, its ghostlike inhabitants standing in still watch. And though the realm did not speak…

The academy felt it.

Its foundation magic began to ripple.

Subtle fractures etched into skyward boundaries, seams along the old realm-barrier straining against interference they were never designed to accommodate.

The ancient runes hidden in the academy's core began to flicker—alarms not heard in centuries.

Within minutes, six of the Thirteen Elders arrived at the hidden chamber beneath the Grand Library in a synchronized warp spiral of authority.

Elder Arvail, with her runic braids coiled tightly.

Elder Mirith, her void-layered robes trailing liquid shadow.

Elder Solm, quiet and unreadable.

Elder Lynneia, radiating precision like a living glyph.

Elder Brevos, elemental energy cracking around his shoulders.

And Elder Veylan, arms crossed, his gaze heavy.

They didn't knock.

They didn't wait.

The door shattered inward with a pulse of nullification magic as Mirith stepped forward.

"Stop."

Argolaith stood calmly at the center of the chamber, hands lowered at his sides. The cube hovered beside him, silent. The realm-core of Elyrion flickered in midair, no longer expanding but gently pulsing, steady.

He didn't flinch.

"I felt it," he said evenly.

Arvail's voice was sharp. "It's not contained. Your realm's resonance is bleeding into ours—disrupting the foundational weave of the pocket dimension."

Lynneia waved her hand, projecting a diagram of overlapping magical fields in motion—Elyrion's pulse crossing harmonics with the academy's root-seal.

"The realm you're building is powerful enough to imprint its rhythm on this one. That shouldn't even be possible."

Brevos stepped forward, crackling with frustration. "Another few hours and the spectral island forming in the void might have tethered itself to the academy's ley spine. Do you know what that would do?"

Argolaith didn't argue.

He didn't challenge them.

He simply nodded.

"I know."

A moment passed.

Then, with full clarity:

"I won't make any more changes to Elyrion until I find a way to isolate it completely. I'll stop."

The words silenced the room.

Even Solm tilted his hooded head, watching more intently.

Veylan was the first to speak again, voice rough.

"You're serious."

"I am."

Mirith narrowed her eyes. "You're aware you could finish it now. Shape it in the next few days. You've come that close."

"I am aware."

Arvail folded her arms. "Then why stop?"

Argolaith looked up at the projection of Elyrion's core.

The light shifted across his face, catching faint lines of exhaustion beneath his gaze.

"Because if it destroys the world I came to understand myself in—then it's not worth building."

The silence that followed wasn't cold.

It was considering.

Eventually, Mirith stepped back, her magic withdrawing into stillness.

"We'll put a hold on containment proceedings. But if the spectral formation grows again, we step in."

Brevos nodded tightly. "We'll monitor the sky."

Lynneia glanced at the core with lingering curiosity. "…If you isolate it properly, I'd like to see the full schematic."

Veylan gave Argolaith one last look—then gave a rare nod.

"Smart decision."

They left as swiftly as they had come, disappearing in synchronized pulses of spelllight.

Only Solm lingered a moment longer.

His voice came like dust falling on parchment.

"If you want to hold a realm in your hands… remember that your heart must be stronger than its gravity."

Then he too vanished.

Argolaith stood alone again.

He looked at Elyrion's core—still pulsing, still bright.

The floating spectral landmass remained distant, unmoving. Like a ghost of a ghost. A fragment of resonance caught between two wills.

"No more changes," he whispered to the realm.

"Not until I understand why you echoed."

The cube hummed gently.

Not in warning.

In agreement.