Ripples Across the Worlds
Chapter 8: Ripples Across the Worlds
The instant Philip's eyes snapped open—slick with sweat, chest heaving—the very fabric of reality shivered.
Unseen by any ordinary eye, a pulse of raw, ancient energy burst from his body, cascading outward like a stone dropped into the still surface of a cosmic lake. It raced beyond the walls of his hotel room, past the city limits, through clouds and satellites, piercing Earth's atmosphere—and far, far beyond.
Across dimensions, the ripple spread.
To the uninitiated, it was nothing. A faint shiver. A flicker in the air. But to those who had waited—patient, bitter, ravenous—it was a flare in the night sky.
A call.
A promise.
A beacon.
In a ream where light had forgotten to shine, a colossal hand twitched. The creature it belonged to had not moved in millennia. Its prison—a cavern sealed in obsidian chains, buried under a mountain of broken moons—shuddered.
Eyes long closed snapped open, burning with the hue of dead suns.
Beneath the trenches of a living ocean on a world that once mirrored Earth, something stirred among the bones of leviathans. Serpents made of void and flame slithered through the wreckage, drawn to a pulse they had not felt since the fall of the First Throne.
"He returns," one whispered.
"No," hissed another. "Not he. A new one. A new Emperor."
In the Hollow Spiral—a prison outside time—fractures appeared in the walls. Eldritch kings in chains, bound by runes older than stars, began to whisper.
Some screamed in joy.
Some wept in rage.
All remembered.
The last Emperor, in his quest for balance, had hunted them down, one by one. He had cast them into the cracks between existence, far from the reach of mortals or gods. He had nearly wiped them out.
But nearly… was not enough.
Those who survived had waited for a sign. The signs had been faint over the centuries—false candidates, broken souls, corrupted bloodlines.
But this ripple was different.
This meant something.
A spiral gate within the Library of Time cracked open briefly before sealing shut. The Librarian, blind and hooded, lifted her head for the first time in a thousand years. Her ink-stained hands trembled as she turned a blank page—and words began to write themselves in fire:
"A candidate has been chosen."
Back on Earth, Philip sat on the edge of the tub, unaware that the simple act of waking up had shaken creation.
The red gem in his forehead pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
Somewhere, the stars held their breath.
The world thought it had witnessed the rise of a new Emperor.
But this was only the beginning.