Ancestral Lineage

The sky bled in colors not known to mortals. Reality frayed where Ethan and Ashtora had stood, fought, and reshaped existence with every swing, clash, and thought. Mountains lay cracked open like eggshells. Valleys had turned into canyons. Rivers of molten psychic ash flowed between the splinters of once-pristine mindstone monoliths.

Ashtora was staggering.

Her glowing form pulsed erratically, flickering in and out of focus as her psychic structure struggled to hold. Ethan stood before her—blood-drenched but not broken, light swirling around him like obedient stars. His blade hung loose in his hand, no longer necessary.

She screamed—not in fear, but in defiance.

And then, she invoked her final rite.

The Crown of the Forgotten Mind.

A radiant crown appeared above her head—wrought from countless thoughts devoured over the centuries, each one bound by psychic pain and regal will. It hovered above her like a second soul, ancient symbols burning with lost languages and the authority of a thousand broken minds.

The world shuddered.

The clouds above twisted into spirals, pulled into the vortex of Ashtora's ascension. Her body expanded, not in mass but in scope—her presence began to wrap around the entirety of the Will Planes. Time itself slowed in her presence, caught in the gravity of thought.

Her voice—no longer hers alone—thundered across reality.

"I AM THE FIRST MIND. THE LAST WORD. THE UNYIELDING WILL. ALL THINGS SUBMIT TO THE E'Sheril QUEEN. EVEN SAINTS—"

She raised her hand.

And the world paused.

Ethan stood there, unmoving, his red hair slick with blood, his body humming with unlocked resonance. He was not afraid. Not surprised.

Not proud.

He simply closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again—they were no longer mortal.

No longer bound to species, race, or history.

They shimmered with a Path—his true nature revealed in full, not through rage, nor instinct, nor vengeance… but understanding.

The Path of Order and Mysticism.

Where all things had a name, and by that name, could be called.

Where all things had a law, and by that law, could be judged.

Ethan stepped forward, and the stars around him bent into a mandala of perfect geometry—eight-pointed, thrumming with sacred patterns. The seal under his feet burst into layered circles. His Saint Power shifted in color, a spectral bloom of silver and gold, laced with quiet, divine authority.

And then…

He spoke.

Only one word.

But it echoed through every layer of Ashtora's power like the tolling of a cosmic bell.

"Enough."

The Crown of the Forgotten Mind flickered—hesitated—and then froze, caught mid-spin, shuddering under an unseen weight. Ashtora's expression collapsed into disbelief as her psychic storm halted without resistance. Her countless projections screamed and vanished. Her limbs locked in place.

Her will—her unbreakable force—obeyed.

Because before Order, even the oldest chaos must kneel.

And before Mysticism, even the unknown finds its name.

Ethan stood over her, not as her enemy.

But as her superior.

Not because he had more power.

But because his Path was true.

She fell to one knee, gasping, her psychic form unraveling and reassembling as if unsure how to react. The Crown cracked above her, one fissure at a time, until it dissipated into quiet motes of thought.

Her voice came soft.

"...What are you?"

Ethan's expression didn't shift.

"I am Ethan Kael'Dri Smith of Anbord. Son of Fire and Blood. Bearer of the Path."

She met his eyes—and saw no hatred. No judgment.

Just sovereignty.

And for the first time in centuries, Queen Ashtora bowed her head.

Not from defeat.

But from recognition.

The Obsidian Groves fell silent.

The battle was over.

The shattered skies slowly began to knit themselves back together, as if the world had taken a breath after holding it far too long.

Queen Ashtora, still on one knee, her aura dimmed and restrained beneath Ethan's command, looked up at him—her voice soft, uncertain, almost mortal.

"So what now? Will you k…" Her words faltered, laced with a quiet acceptance of fate.

Ethan smiled faintly, that dangerous calm ever in his gaze. "What about you become my subordinate?"

The silence that followed was palpable.

"You… you're not angry?" Ashtora asked slowly, confused. "After everything I've done? After all the minds I've devoured?"

"I don't know any of them," Ethan replied, his tone steady, unbothered. "Although it may sound harsh… that is the fate of the weak. If I were weak, do you think I'd have made it here? If you were weak, would you have become queen?"

He tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly beneath his blood-streaked hair. "That's life, Ashtora. The strong wield power. The weak can only succumb to it. I won't kill you. We don't have any real enmity."

Her brows furrowed. "But… you attacked me for a reason, didn't you?"

"Oh, that?" Ethan chuckled lightly. "One of my companions—her mother was taken by you. So we came to get her back."

With a casual snap of his fingers, a golden ripple formed beside him. The portal shimmered for a second before parting like a curtain, and through it stepped Onyx, followed closely by Saareiya and a regal, but visibly shaken woman—her mother.

All three paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the aftershocks of divinity still lingering in the air.

Onyx's eyes widened. "How… Master!"

In a blur, she launched herself forward—arms wrapping tightly around Ethan's torso as she collided with him like a missile. The others looked on with a mixture of dry amusement and disbelief.

"I'm okay, Onyx." Ethan laughed softly, effortlessly holding her in his arms like she weighed nothing. His tone grew slightly teasing. "How was your battle?"

"Meh." She pouted, still snuggled into his chest. "They were all weak. Except one. He was… decent. But he's dead now."

"You don't always get what you want," he said with a shrug.

Then, unexpectedly, Queen Ashtora's voice cut through the moment. Quiet. Fragile.

"…I'm sorry."

Everyone turned toward her.

"Huh?" Saareiya's mother blinked in surprise.

Ashtora remained bowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I had to do it. I… I discovered there was a chance to evolve further. To gain an eleventh spike. But the requirements… they were harsh. They demanded sacrifices I wasn't proud of. So I…"

She trailed off, shame darkening her once-undaunted expression.

Ethan watched her for a moment, but said nothing.

Then, softly, Saareiya's mother stepped forward, her expression unreadable. But instead of anger, she simply murmured, "I understand. You don't have to apologize."

A quiet breeze stirred through the ruined groves. No one else spoke.

Ashtora's gaze lifted slowly to Ethan. "Then what happens to me now?"

Ethan met her eyes. There was no cruelty in his voice. Just authority.

"You'll serve under me. The E'Sherils will no longer live in isolation. You'll rebuild… and follow my law."

Ashtora swallowed once, then gave a solemn nod.

"So be it… my king."

From across the scarred land, the winds carried whispers that the Queen of Minds had knelt not in defeat… but in allegiance.

And from that moment on, the Obsidian Groves bore witness not to a conquest—

—but the rise of a new sovereign force.