(From the Six Ancients' POV)
The Silent Call
We felt it before we understood it.
A tremor not through stone or star —but through soul.
Something deeper than gravity.Older than time.
Something we had waited for without knowing.
We were scattered then,across ruined worlds,sleeping tombs,forgotten halls.
The multiverse had left us behind —ghosts of clans too ancient to matter.
Our bones cracked with age.
Our minds dulled by loneliness.
But when the Call came —
we remembered.
Everything.
The Throne.
The endless blackness.
The moment when, so long ago,before stars had names,we had seen it.
That first glimpse of something so vast,so final,so true —that we could only kneel.
Without question.
Without pride.
Without needing to understand.
"If ever He rises,""we are His.""Forever."
We had spoken those words in silence,unwritten in any scroll,but carved into the marrow of our being.
And now —the promise ignited again.
The Gathering of the First
One by one,without speaking,without planning,we returned.
To the Silent Abyss.
To the Throne that had burned itself into our memory.
We appeared across the vast black plain —six fading souls drawn like moths to a star older than thought.
The Abyss churned beneath our feet.
Above us, the Black Throne blazed with cracks of black-silver light.
The Cocoon of Authority,that ancient veil,shuddered with each breath of Sovereignty breaking through.
We said nothing.
We needed no words.
We understood.
We knelt.
All at once.
Without command.
Without hesitation.
Six ancient beings —all that remained of the first bloodlines:
Varek of Kozurai — whose hands had never dropped a blade.
Xeron of Xavora — whose mind had never broken under exile.
Myrthus of Myraku — whose patience had outlasted empires.
Zavrek of Zorak — whose ambition still burned like a hidden flame.
Selvara of Selvane — whose dreams still carried whispers of the original Night.
Ravena of Ravael — whose wrath had never been spent.
Our faces pressed against the black stone.
Our foreheads kissed the ancient dust.
Our souls opened wide,stripped of pride,offering everything.
We were not gods.
We were not kings.
We were servants.
And we were home.
Only the Worthy Witnessed
We felt them beside us —Seraphis, Empress of the Primordial Otsutsuki,already kneeling at the first step of the Throne,her golden hair stained with tears.
And Caelora, the First Knight,her sword planted into the ground,her body shaking with silent devotion.
No others came.
No mortals.
No petty gods.
No broken worlds.
Only us.
The first.
The faithful.
The few who remembered.
The multiverse slept in ignorance.
They did not feel the Throne's pull.
They did not hear the silent command woven into the fabric of creation itself.
They were never invited.
The Cracking of the Cocoon
A low hum —deeper than death,older than beginnings —rose from the Throne.
The Cocoon fractured further.
Veins of black-silver light spread across the stone,spilling rivers of pure Authority into the Abyss.
The Throne pulsed once.
And the Silent Plane bent inward,drawn toward its rightful master.
We pressed lower to the stone,our hearts thundering with reverence and terror.
Not terror of death.
Not terror of failure.
Terror of witnessing the return of something we had no right to gaze upon.
The Empress whispered through trembling lips:
"At last."
"He is waking."
We dared not lift our heads.
But we felt it:
The eyes opening inside the Cocoon.
The Sovereign Gaze falling upon us.
The ancient oath recognized across every layer of reality.
He saw us.
He remembered.
And in that moment,though no words were spoken,our souls were marked by his favor.
The King —our King —was almost awake.
And we would be the first to rise beneath his banner.