Die. Respawn. Repeat.

Chapter 198: Book 3: A Tale of Three Stars

It took Gheraa a while to piece it all together. Part of the problem, he thought, was that there was a part of him that didn't want to put it together. He understood now why the higher ranked Integrators kept it secret—there was something about the truth that was... uncomfortable, for lack of a better word. Trying to pry open this secret felt wrong.

He kept going anyway. If there was any chance that this was going to be important, then Gheraa felt he owed it to the people of Earth to try.

That didn't mean he needed to stay still while doing it, though. The storm around him was beginning to worsen, a little like the dungeon had finally sensed and recognized the danger of his presence here; more concerning, however, was the fact that he could sense a disturbance elsewhere in the dungeon.

That was strange. Gheraa hadn't expected to be interrupted. There were few individuals on Hestia that could survive the pressure of the Intermediary combined with the soulrot of an Integrator's death. The Hestian Trialgoers could, perhaps, but Gheraa couldn't think of a reason they'd be interested in the Intermediary. Maybe if they were trying to repair it, but that would require them to have initiative.

There was another possibility, of course.

He'd been told that Ethan was trying to bring him back. If there was anyone strong enough to both survive the Intermediary and cause a disturbance he'd be able to sense, it was him.

Gheraa pushed himself back to his feet and began to walk, trying not to look particularly hurried. As he did, he continued mulling over the fragmented images in his mind, slowly piecing together the core of the secret he'd found. The warning? He still wasn't sure exactly what it was.

Even when he'd mostly pieced it together, it felt more like a particularly horrifying children's tale or a myth of creation than it did a forbidden secret locked within the Firmament of all Integrators. It was strange, to say the least.

It went a little like this.

A long, long time ago, when the galaxy was still being born, three beings of untold power began to shape it.

One was a creature of imagination. She took that which existed only in the mind and made it real, though that could last only for a moment before it winked back into the ether. Idea to reality: she was a god of creation. In her realm, all things were possible, albeit ephemeral. To worship her was to guarantee a brief glimpse of perfection.

One was a creature of change. Though he could not create, he could bend the path of things, alter their natures. His was a mind that could be wielded like a hammer; where he struck, he altered things permanently. The river of fate was but a thread he could bend to his whims. To worship him required work, for he did not grant things freely, but under him all things became possible. Empires were built and ruined in his name.

The last was a creature of expansion. His presence was bound initially to a single idea and a single whim, but that whim spread rapidly, joining with everything it touched. His strength lay in sheer, unparalleled range—there was no corner of the galaxy that lay out of his sight. Artists and creators revered him, for it was under his guidance that their works were talked about and spread.

Such was the way of things for an eternity and an eon.

But it was not to last, for each of the three envisioned bigger and better things for the galaxy they called their own. Their power, they knew, would not be enough for any of their creations to withstand the might of the greater universe, let alone the planes above. There were threats out there that were beyond imagining even for them.

But perhaps it did not need to stay that way forever.

It rankled at Imagination above all the others. The idea that there might be forces out there that were beyond her? Absurd. There had to be a way to grow, she thought: a way to gather enough power to undermine the fabric of things. To overthrow the hierarchy wrought upon them.

And if there wasn't, she could make one. Was that not the very core of her being? Imagination and creation?

Only she soon realized she could not do such a thing alone. Anything she created did not last—no path to power would be sufficient with the mere extent of her abilities, mighty as they were. So she reached out to Change and spoke to him, a sensuous lilt in her voice.

The specifics, alas, were muddied. Fragments of Firmament claimed that it was Change that wanted all that accumulated power for himself. Others said it was Imagination, stealing and hoarding secrets about the new form of power they were creating. Still others implied it was Expansion, whispering lies and untruths into the ears of anyone that would listen, ending the era of trust in the gods.

The truth of it, at the end of the day, mattered less than the result:

Change was imprisoned. After the battle was done, he was locked away in the center of the galaxy and used as fuel for the new form of power he'd helped create.

But a power as great as that of Change could not truly be imprisoned. Limited as he was—with almost no reach, without the power to create, with even his biggest strength locked away to almost nothing—there was little he could do. Anything he tried would take centuries to culminate to any sort of fruition, and in that time both Expansion and Imagination would have long since left the galaxy.

But Change was patient, and a revenge best served was one no one saw coming.

So he bided his time. He made the small, miniscule changes he could from within his prison. He plotted and prepared. What he needed was for his changes to slowly accumulate, and accumulate they did—enough to eventually birth an entire new species.

A species nomadic in nature, destined to go on a galactic pilgrimage, empowering him whilst seeking the key that would unlock his prison.

And in the meantime?

Well. Even within his prison, he could benefit from the system they had created. He could gather his power and grow. From Shallow to Submerged, from Submerged to Sunken... Just as they'd predicted, the new system they'd created allowed them to move entire tiers beyond what they'd been able to do before.

Such was the tale of the Sunken King.

He would return. He would tear apart that which he helped create, consume it along with all that remained of the Founding Three and their legacy. If needed, he would swallow the galaxy whole—that would be enough to bring him to the depths of power needed to track down his so-called companions and get his answers. Enact his revenge.

Even if they'd left, they wouldn't be able to hide the trail of their power from him. It could be obfuscated, perhaps. Hidden. But that trail still glimmered in the annals of history, in the place he'd once been betrayed and locked away.

After the conclusion of an experiment in a place that had once been called First Sky.

Gheraa wasn't sure what to make of the vision, in truth. A lot of what he'd seen felt like it was painted in metaphor, too abstract to be of any use—the broad strokes of what he'd seen were likely true, but it was vague enough that he couldn't be sure.

Though there were one or two truths in there that threatened to shake the foundation of everything he'd ever known, so it was possible he was just trying not to think too hard about it.

The Integrators as an artificial race, created to free some being known as the Sunken King... except if the vision was right, then the Sunken King was either already back or in the process of returning. How long had they been Integrating and completing Trials? How many more needed to be completed before he was free?

If he was free already, then surely far more would have changed—and yet Gheraa couldn't shake the dread that was beginning to settle over him like a shadow.

Another disturbance shook the dungeon, and Gheraa broke into a run.