NOVPUBWorld after world.
Year after year.
A thousand realms drifting along the Heartroot's branches—each one different, each one filled with broken or forgotten people clinging to the remnants of existence.
And Argolaith… endured them all.
He taught warriors to lay down swords and lift tools.
He helped farmers in fractured lands reclaim poisoned soil.
He taught dragons to speak, automatons to feel, ghosts to remember.
Some worlds took decades. Others took centuries.
But he never turned away.
He did not age—not a wrinkle, not a gray strand of hair. But his presence changed. His voice deepened with resonance. His eyes held stories that transcended lifetimes. His steps carried quiet gravity.
He had walked through the pain and potential of one thousand planets.
And each one remembered him.
When he left, the people and creatures he helped carved his name into stone, bark, and sky. Some sang his stories as lullabies. Others crafted statues or songs. Many gave him artifacts—tokens of gratitude and remembrance.
By the end, his storage ring contained a museum of wonders:
A flute carved from the bones of a dream-beast.
A mirror that reflected not your face, but your fears.
A necklace woven from starlight silk gifted by sky-walkers.
An ever-blooming crystal flower, grown from the song of a child who could not speak.
Each item was placed gently in his ring—not for power, not for pride—
But to remember.
To never forget any of them.
When the last world shimmered and faded, and the final people waved with tears and song in their hearts, the path returned.
The invisible road led him back through the quiet void, now far more familiar.
And at its center, the Heartroot waited.
He approached in silence.
Its branches rustled without wind. Its bark glowed with reverent pulse.
Argolaith stopped at the base of the cosmic tree and placed his palm against it.
He didn't need to speak.
The Heartroot responded, its voice thunder and whisper, deep and infinite.
"You have returned."
Argolaith closed his eyes. "The first trial is complete."
The tree pulsed.
"Two thousand, one hundred and four years have passed here."
"Forty-two weeks on Morgoth."
Argolaith let out a slow breath. "I still remember the wind on that mountain."
A pause.
Then the Heartroot answered:
"Then you are ready for the second trial."
Argolaith straightened, gaze lifting. "What is it?"
The tree answered:
"You must create something."
"Not with runes you've learned, nor tools you've been given."
"It must be useful."
"It must be enduring."
"And it must be something that has never existed."
Argolaith blinked once, brows drawing together.
"Something new…"
"Yes."
"Something this realm, or any realm, has never seen."
"It must not merely exist. It must be needed."
"And it must be born entirely from you."
Argolaith stood there for a long time, mind turning. This was not a trial of strength. Not a test of endurance. But of creativity. Insight. Vision.
And everything he had learned across the thousand worlds now hummed within him like an unseen forge.
He didn't know what he would make yet.
But he would.
Because that's what a creator did.
He stepped back from the Heartroot.
And smiled faintly.
"I suppose I better get started."
Argolaith sat alone beneath the Heartroot's shadow.
For the first time in over two thousand years, there was no village to rebuild, no tribe to guide, no dying child to save. The silence felt deeper now—not empty, but patient.
The Heartroot waited.
His second trial had begun.
And it demanded something that no sword or spell could conjure.
A creation.
Not copied. Not inspired.
New.
And needed. 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓅𝓊𝓫.𝒸ℴ𝓶
He closed his eyes.
Let the worlds within his memory pass through him.
He thought of the child who sang to stones.
The broken god who learned to farm.
The feral elves who once feared fire but now tamed it with laughter.
Thousands of cultures. Thousands of artifacts.
So many tools. So many inventions.
He summoned the crystal-flower harp one girl had given him, played by weaving light instead of plucking strings. He remembered a city that stored its language in glowing silk. He recalled glass that bent gravity and bridges made of sand that never crumbled.
None of that would do.
It had all been done.
Not by him.
Not by just one hand.
But by someone, somewhere.
He rose from the soft void-grass and summoned a crafting table from his ring—simple wood, smooth surface, touched by the hands of a thousand grateful artisans.
He took a deep breath.
And began.
The first attempt was a memory vessel—a sphere that could hold a moment, not just a sound or image, but the feeling of a moment. The sorrow of a goodbye. The warmth of an embrace. He shaped it using soul-thread and resonance roots from three of the worlds he had once healed.
It hummed beautifully.
And then cracked.
Not because the form was wrong—but because it already existed.
On the thirteenth world, a race of whisper-keepers had done the same, using crystalized breath and moon-pulse echoes.
Failure.
The second attempt was a time braid—a woven loop of stardust and bloodthorn bark meant to slow time around a person, giving them more time to think rather than act. Useful in war, healing, or meditation.
He activated it.
It worked.
For six seconds.
Then it vanished, destabilizing from paradox.
And worse—he remembered teaching something similar to a people who bent time instinctively using their own heartbeat as anchor.
Not new.
Failure.
The third attempt?
A book.
Not for reading.
But one that wrote back.
A reflection of your inner self. You'd open its cover, and instead of seeing what you wanted to learn, it would show you what you needed to confront.
He carved it from voidstone bark. Inked the pages with his own blood.
He opened it.
The first words written inside?
"You are trying too hard to prove you are worthy."
He laughed.
Soft. Bitter.
Truthful.
And then the book caught flame on its own—returning to ash and scattering into the void.
Failure.
But not wasted.
Because he learned something each time.
He sat again.
Pulled out a ring from his storage.
A trinket from the third world—a charm made of glass and song that shimmered in response to music.
He held it in his palm.
And asked himself the question that would guide him forward:
What do all of them need?
Not just one world.
Not just one type of being.
But every soul.
Not for power.
Not for convenience.
But for something deeper.
He didn't have the answer yet.
But the spark had been struck.
And sparks, he knew… were the first sign of fire.
