Chapter II
Gemma Sevarian
All of these Years
-Gemma, circa 3498 — [the Year before the Swan]
[One Year Earlier on the Outskirts of the Great City-State of NeoHalaas, positioned in the very center of the Progenitor Faction Region. ]
-{36 Days away from the birth of Seneca}
In the labyrinth of our minds, we must first accept the paradox of knowing and unknowing. For it is only in the void that clarity can be born—where chaos and order do not merely coexist, but illuminate each other in a dance of creation. Every thought, every truth we seek, exists not as a single thread but as a vast tapestry woven from the infinite potential of the universe, bound by the will to understand.
What is a thought but a spark from the ether, a fragment of cosmic awareness descending into the human vessel? A seed sown in the fertile ground of the subconscious, nourished by experience and time, yet forever untamed by the limitations of form. Here, in this vast space, we find the duality of creation itself—just as the mind holds the capacity for both illumination and obscurity, so too does the soul walk the line between salvation and damnation.
So let us speak, not in absolutes, but in currents of inquiry. For in the questions, we find not the end, but the eternal unfolding of wisdom. A voice is not merely to be heard, but to be felt in the deepest recesses of our being, echoing the pulse of existence itself. Let us create a dialogue not bound by the constraints of time or place, but by the recognition of the ever-present “Now,” where every idea, every insight, is both ancient and new, both personal and universal.
What are we if not the sum of all that we question, all that we challenge within and beyond ourselves? And in this, do we not craft the very essence of the world itself? Through our minds, our voices, we transcend.
There exists a secluded grove, folded among the waves of a powerful ocean body, where an island has emerged, deep like a twisted-molten blade in the heart of the planet Neos Arcadia, where many things have begun to end. Amidst the Arcadian landscape, an abomination feasts upon a distinct City-State. The sky, mirroring the horizon, afflicts the clouds that approach, only to entice those who still look up.
Nature’s riches have been repeatedly corrupted and consumed before manifesting in today’s time. The Progenitor Faction believes this has something to do with the color of the sky. After epochs of human suffering, the atmosphere itself became bruised, painting the firmament—or as the Elders call it, Welkin—a deeply-azure purple hue. This is the result of a long-fought conquest, a power struggle likely attributed to an entire race of people throwing themselves against an indomitable wall. Up and against itself until it becomes shattered in its totality, broken, unable to find its strength.
Like most civilizations when their time of glory ends, such ends would not expel themselves cathartically. That is to say, the land reflects not just a Divinity’s purpose, but the very nature of the scum and scabs that defile its inner workings—the people. We feel strong in our rotted roots; however, a mighty tree will soon fall.
All of us, Worm-Food, feasting together, gnawing on a limb. That is how the Universal-Worm will feed. I have spent the entirety of my Archeo Genesis in preparation for this 33-day Conception Period, from which my mind cannot help but idle. The Elders of House Aeternus have mapped my Mindscape, and within some obscure route, there is great incentive to believe that I alone will conceive the prophetic Vessel, my Anima, Seneca, who is yet to be born.
This is who the Progen people have entrusted with protection of their welfare; foretold for eons in stories as the Thelesi Ton Arkios, who is to control the Universal Brain Worm or Underlying Being Within and awaken a legendary Mindscape to conquer all of Hamartia and the realms of Neos Arcadia. Blood in pressure vessels waiting to burst. Pipes, awaiting a great rupture. Primitive walls, soon to fall. A sixth crusade lays dormant.
I find great security in the shadows of the Prophetic fortune and divine responsibility. I have intuitive means within the capabilities of my Archeo Genesis Mindscape, to control the fabric and threads of these realities and their undoings are mine alone to behold and manipulate. From a great House I serve. House Aeternus. I am the Progenitor who will awaken the vessel of Thelesi Ton Arkios.
Chapter III
{edit}
Seneca Aeternus
The Thelesi of Platform 8
Mindscape Realm
[Year 1,399 A.S] [Unknown Time]
Castle Aeternus, Platform 8, Lookout
In the twilight of this new age, the shadows of Old Nights stretch along and across the Ridges of a bleeding Sky; firmament hues of crimson and azure, a new day is on the rise. The Ancient walls will crumble, neither by force nor the silent- relentless tide of Destiny.
We stand now along the ridges of a Vast Unknown space. This space will inhibit the precipice of change which stir along in the Coastals of Tomorrow..
Such aforementioned Threads of an Eternally woven Fate, whose governance and manifestation of Control seek to limit the bounds of Spiritual Exploration and Intuitive Enlightenment, with clouded-perceptions of Gray Doubts and Blue Worry. I find myself in prayer, seeking the repentance of a Prophet’s forgiveness-to-Will
- .- A vastly unconquerable, Universal Worm that wreaths its bodily movements just beneath a Surface, however always just enough below the limits of the Man who fixes to Confront it.
∆
The Worm itself has not a Mouth made for screaming, but ever-still, it Consumes in Damnative effort and will continue to do so until something even Higher, even above It. What then should materialize from the Mindscape to affirm Its presence atop this Hierarchy that positions itself amongst Old Gods.
Within the Realms of the Physical Plane, this embodied figurehead of the aforementioned Deity, presumably, would be the means to some primordial ends. What conflicts, what veins of Gray-Thought will soon Bleed themselves, becoming at long last riddeen from their impiety?
†
There is an Ancient Prophecy that predates the origins of the Four Great Factions and the very Region of Archaea itself. Its message is said to have originated from one of the Fractal, Primordial Mindscapes, existing above the physical boundaries of Space and Time.
The Faction Houses fear and give rise to the tumultuous fates they inhibit, in some ways, are but a warning sign that dispels the arrival of a Sixth and Final Crusade, ensuing such perilous’ Calamity. .
Ơ
An everlasting and irreversible effect will emerge from the destructive Agent being enacted upon and engaged with. These consequential ripples will be of belonging to each side and not but One in Particular. They will abandon past resolutions and only exist, surely, to become eventually devoured by the Worm. The Primordial, Universal-Brain-Worm.
The Ancient Progenitor (Progen) House-Faction has begun to expose the Worm for a Greatly Prospective, – suspected fraud.
The Progen claims that UBW does not have within its possession any Natural-Means of acquiring data from an ephemeral User synthesis-Covalence of Gnosis.
Instead, either of the Divisive Forces that require a certain position within Primordial Ideation are to be instead, everlastingly, Internally-Bound or Externally-Spent. This however, could themselves Service the Worm.
[ it all the way across the Earthly Distances a Divine – Reservoir of Power that would be necessary to displace or stop it entirely. That force is Alchemically or Spiritually propelled however it hums to itself to a divine repose. I must, for us all, Trust in the unseen currents that guide us, for they carry us to a place where the light of the past meets the darkness of the unknown, birthing a realm of unparalleled harmony.
There is presumably brewing a vast and distantly unknown chasm of curiosity, which has now begun to reach its simmer; an intellectual pursuit into the context from which a great-story has yet to unfold.
In the realms of Neos Arcadia, a catalytic-continent, conglomerates and divides its people into Houses of Great Power, which belong to 1 of the 4 Ancient Factions. Our people have lived dispersed in search of a Divine facilitator. A product of ancient prophecy, the Thelesi Ton Arkios, master of Mindscapes and ruler of all Archaea. By means of inexplicable fortune, I bestow inherent Archeo Genesis code from an Ancient Race of people from within the Progen Faction, known as the Archeo Klonos, which through means of transgressive, conceptual techniques, managed to propagate themselves throughout the epochs of time’s continuum.
Eons upon eons had passed before 2 specific Bloodlines from within the Ancient Faction Houses: Aeternus and Severia. This Ancient Clone Collective, known geographically in areas central to the Progenitor Region of Neos Arcadia as, the Archeo-Klonos, are said to be the Ancient bloodline of Clones who till this very day continue to propagate themselves into the ruling classes and Noble Houses of Aeternus and Severia, which vie for control over Mindscapes, (mental landscapes), which occupy within inhabitants of the vast and ever-dynamic continent of Neos Arcadia [Archeae].
The air tasted of ash, laced with the faint bitterness of forgotten wars and dying stars. Siet stood there, alone, his gaze fixed on the sky that wasn’t really a sky but a wound in the world, a wound that stretched across the heavens, bruised and bleeding light like a thing in pain. Above him, Neos Arcadia hung heavy, as if the city itself had grown too tired to stand beneath the weight of its own secrets. The high spires and tangled streets reflected a hollow existence that had forgotten itself long ago.
How many times had he stared at this horizon, only to feel it pulling him further away?
He had lost count. He didn’t belong here. Never had. The Sky Region wasn’t a place for those who knew their own bones were just another form of shackles, just another cage carved by prophecy and fate. And Siet knew. He always knew.
The edge of the platform felt cold beneath his feet, solid and indifferent. One step, that’s all it would take. One movement, and he would be free from this suffocating city, from the unrelenting hum of prophecy that gnawed at his mind like a curse that had overstayed its welcome. Below, the dark stretch of NeoHalaas twisted like a living thing, its streets snaking out in every direction, arteries of a city that never slept, never cared, never stopped moving.
And yet, here he stood, frozen.
Was this truly the moment? Would this fall—this final act of rebellion—mean something in a world that had already decided his fate long before he’d even drawn breath? Or would it be just another echo, lost in the vast emptiness of Neos Arcadia, forgotten the moment his bones shattered on the stones below?
His hands shook, though he willed them to be still. The Crimson King’s Anima Klonos, it pulsed inside him like a second heartbeat, a constant reminder that he wasn’t just Siet anymore. He hadn’t been just Siet since the Fourth Crusade, since the bloodlines had tied him to something older, darker—something that still whispered to him in the silence of his thoughts.
He could feel it now, stirring beneath the surface, like the breath of a sleeping beast. It whispered in that ancient, guttural tongue, one that spoke of inevitability, of the ties between past and present, between power and loss. He hadn’t asked for this. But what did that matter? No one asked to be born into a prophecy.
“Is this it?” he muttered, voice hoarse. His breath fogged in the chill, the wind tearing through the silence, but no one answered. Of course, they didn’t. They never did.
Siet closed his eyes, but the weight didn’t lift. His chest felt tight, the heavy press of centuries pulling him down. The stories they told of the Fourth Crusade weren’t even half of the truth. No one remembered the price—what had been lost to seal the world’s fate, what had been bound to the future, tied to the will of the Crimson King, sealed in Siet’s bones.
In the end, maybe it didn’t matter. He was just the vessel. He was always just the vessel.
NeoHalaas stretched far beneath him, the vast cityscape shimmering under the bruised light of the heavens, and he imagined it swallowing him whole. Would it even notice his absence? Would anyone?
His fingers curled over the edge of the platform. The wind howled in his ears, and for a fleeting second, he almost believed the fall would free him. The ground seemed too far away to reach, too distant to care. But he knew better than that. The ground always came, whether you were ready or not.
A sharp pain tugged at his chest, deep in the marrow of his bones, and he flinched. The Anima Klonos was waking. It had been quiet for so long, simmering beneath the surface, but now it stirred, reminding him that even this moment, even this final act of rebellion, wasn’t his alone.
The Crimson King still held the strings.
Of course he did.
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. The sound felt foreign to him, like it belonged to someone else—someone younger, someone who hadn’t yet realized what it meant to be chosen. He wasn’t sure when he’d last laughed like that. Maybe back when the world still seemed malleable, back when he believed he could carve out his own piece of it.
But that was a long time ago. Before the Crusades. Before the prophecies. Before the King’s blood sealed his fate.
The Sky Region had always felt like the edge of the world, the place where reality bled into something darker, something less defined. The people of Neos Arcadia whispered about it, called it the place where the city’s heart had once beat strongest, back before the wars. Now, it was nothing more than a scar, forgotten by most, avoided by all but the brave or the foolish.
And Siet had been both, once.
Now, standing here on the edge, he couldn’t help but wonder if the fall would be enough. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find at the bottom. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was the point.
The Sixth Crusade was coming. He could feel it like the low rumble of a storm on the horizon, pressing against the fabric of the world, demanding to be seen, to be heard. The factions below, House Aeternus, the Progen Faction, they all felt it too. They moved through the streets like ants preparing for war, unaware that the war had already begun long before their time, long before anyone’s time.
It was always coming. That was the thing about prophecy—it didn’t care about time. It simply was.
The city was quiet now, though. Too quiet. The kind of silence that gnawed at the edges of things, made you feel like something was waiting just beneath the surface, waiting to pull you under.
Siet took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and stepped forward.
For a moment, there was nothing. The world fell away, the wind tearing at him, pulling at his skin like claws, and for that fleeting second, he felt weightless. Free.
But it didn’t last.
The Anima Klonos roared to life in his chest, and the weight came crashing back, pulling him down, down, faster than the fall itself. He could feel it surging through him, old and dark and hungry, the will of the Crimson King coursing through his veins like fire.
The ground rushed up to meet him, but there was no fear. There was no pain.
Only light.
Siet’s body hit the stone with a sickening crack, but he didn’t feel it. The world around him shimmered, distorted, as if the sky itself had cracked open and bled into the city below. His vision swam, his breath catching in his throat, but the pain didn’t come. It never came.
Because this wasn’t his fall. Not really.
The Anima Klonos thrummed in his chest, louder now, drowning out everything else, and he knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that this wasn’t the end. It was just another step in the story that had been written long before him.
The Crimson King had always been watching, waiting. This was never Siet’s choice. It was never his fall.
And as the light consumed him, as the weight of the world pressed down on him, he could feel the strings tightening once more.
*
When Siet’s eyes opened again, the bruised sky above him seemed sharper, more vivid. The Sky Region’s towers stretched overhead like the ribs of some great beast, framing the heavens in a twisted cage of metal and stone. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, but the Anima pulsed steady and strong, like a second heartbeat.
The pain was absent. It should have been there. The impact alone should’ve shattered every bone in his body, but there was only the pulsing, deep in the core of him. It was the Crimson King, a relentless reminder of his place in the world. Of what was still expected of him.
Siet lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, trying to remember how it felt to be alive, how it felt to be just him. The wind was a cold caress, whispering across his skin, but it did little to soothe the burn that simmered beneath the surface.
How long had he been falling?
The thought echoed in his mind, though he wasn’t sure if it was his thought or the Anima’s, some strange blend of his consciousness and the King’s influence. It didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. He was still the vessel.
It wasn’t your time, Siet.
The voice, low and guttural, rolled through his mind, uninvited, and he flinched. It wasn’t the King’s voice—not exactly. But it carried the same weight, the same cold authority. Siet forced his hands to his sides, trying to still the trembling in his limbs. He wasn’t ready for this.