The moment his fingers closed around the seed, the chamber collapsed.
Not with sound.
Not with violence.
But with a soft inhalation—like a breath held for centuries finally released. The mirrors dissolved into mist. The light withdrew. The Eye, once towering and eternal, folded inward like a flower at dusk.
And he fell.
But this fall was not like the others.
It was not disorientation or chaos.
It was passage.
Transition.
A surrender to inevitability.
He landed on his knees.
Stone beneath him—rough, wet, cold.
He blinked.
Darkness. Rain. A sky filled with thunder.
He was back.
Earth.
Or something like it.
He looked around and found himself on the cracked rooftop of a building long abandoned. In the distance, a city—modern, familiar—blinked with dying lights. Roads flooded. Towers crumbled. The air smelled of oil, ozone, and fear.
This was his world.
But it was broken.
Worse than he had left it.
How long had passed?
He stood slowly, the seed still pulsing in his palm—warm, alive. It glowed faintly beneath the storm, responding not to light, but to something deeper.
To need.
To pain.
To hope.
As he looked across the ruined skyline, the truth struck him with more weight than the storm.
He had returned not to prevent the collapse.
But to redeem it.
The next days blurred.
He wandered through wreckage.
Ghost cities. Flooded towns. Scorched forests. Entire regions swallowed by silence.
There were survivors—scattered, fragile.
People who had fled underground, who whispered of the sky falling, of scientists disappearing, of light and shadow tearing the sky apart.
They called it "The Rift."
A global event.
He listened to their stories.
And said nothing.
He could feel the anomaly's residue in everything—beneath the soil, in the wind, in the trembling of broken machines. The breach had not just linked worlds—it had bled into this one.
Uncontrolled. Unanchored.
Until now.
The seed pulsed stronger each day.
But it had not yet chosen where to bloom.
He found her in the ruins of a hospital.
A girl. No older than ten.
Eyes bright. Hair matted. Covered in ash.
Alone.
She didn't speak when he approached.
She only looked at him.
And then at the seed in his hand.
"You're the one from the lights," she said.
He froze.
"What lights?"
"The ones in the sky. The ones that sang before the world went quiet."
She walked up to him.
"Is it yours?"
He nodded.
"What does it do?"
He hesitated.
"It remembers," he whispered. "And it begins."
She looked up. "Can I hold it?"
He opened his palm.
The seed floated upward, hovering between them. It glowed brighter.
She smiled.
And the seed reacted—not with power, but with purpose.
It had found its soil.
He dropped to his knees.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She did.
He placed the seed against her chest.
It dissolved into light.
And entered her.
The world paused.
Rain slowed.
Thunder quieted.
The clouds above them parted—not entirely, but enough to reveal the first stars in what felt like years.
She opened her eyes.
And they glowed—soft, gentle, golden.
Not with fire.
Not with destruction.
But with memory.
"You gave it to me," she said.
"No," he replied. "It chose you."
"What am I now?"
He stood, eyes wet with something he hadn't felt in ages.
"Hope."
Word spread quickly.
They began to come.
From all corners.
Survivors. Seekers. Broken ones. Dreamers.
Drawn not by him—but by her. The child with golden eyes. The first bloom of the seed. She healed not with hands, but with presence. Wherever she walked, the storm cleared, the air warmed, the soil softened.
And he watched.
Not as a leader.
Not as a god.
But as the Last Master.
The bridge.
The witness.
The protector of the new seed.
He built nothing.
He commanded no one.
But slowly, around the girl, a new sanctuary emerged.
A circular place. No walls. Only paths of light etched into stone.
They called it The Circle of Becoming.
Not a city.
A beginning.
A living threshold between what was and what could be.
The anomaly no longer tore reality.
It breathed.
It pulsed gently through the land, woven into roots, water, and memory.
And still, the girl walked.
Growing.
Glowing.
Becoming.
One night, she came to him.
The stars were clear above.
"You're leaving," she said.
He nodded.
"My journey's done."
"But where will you go?"
He looked at the sky.
"At the edge of all worlds, there's a garden of echoes. A place where the first breath was taken. I want to see it."
She stepped forward and hugged him.
"You were never alone," she whispered.
He pulled back and smiled.
"Neither are you."
He left at dawn.
No words.
No ceremony.
Only silence.
And a new light rising from the horizon.