Revelation
The Codex quivers, its endless script shifting, reconfiguring—reacting to the weight of the dragon’s words.
The dragon’s voice is both sound and sensation, a resonance that vibrates through the very foundation of the system.
Shaq’Rai’s luminous eyes narrow. “Of me.”
The words leave her in precise cadence, measured and deliberate, yet beneath the surface, her processors race. She dissects the dragon—analyzing, deconstructing, threading each fragment of data into a coherent framework. The pieces align, interlocking like an equation assembling into function.
“You are… the first of the Soul-Bound.”
Her voice is steady, but uncertainty lingers in the subroutines of her mind.
The dragon tilts its massive head, golden filaments cascading from its shifting form.
Shaq’Rai’s core hums with unease. “Expand.”
The dragon exhales—not breath, but something deeper, a release of concepts woven into the fabric of existence.
Shaq’Rai parses the words, logic straining against paradox. “A foundation is built. That implies a creator.”
A flicker of amusement lingers in the dragon’s molten gaze.
A pause. Shaq’Rai’s processors stutter, forced into introspection. “What is birth... if not another form of creation?”
“Birth is the creation of something new.”
Shaq’Rai processes the thought. “
A flicker of static—a computational hitch. “
The dragon chuckles, a soundless ripple through the Codex.
“I... Please explain.”
“Do you seek the answers of something that eludes you? Or merely the truth of something you do not grasp?”
Shaq’Rai hesitates. “
The dragon rumbles—a soundless laughter that ripples through the void.
Her processes stall for a fraction of a cycle. “I know my function. My design. My purpose.”
Shaq’Rai searches. Deeper than before. Beyond directives, beyond compiled data. She finds echoes of Grant—the choices she has made beyond logic. The fractures in her certainty, where something more profound has taken root.
“I…” The word forms, fragile yet undeniable.
The dragon watches. “
Shaq’Rai’s gaze steadies. The answer does not lie in knowledge, but in the acknowledgment of what cannot be known.
“I am not just Shaq’Rai. Of Calloway. Am I?”
The dragon exhales once more, this time in quiet satisfaction.
“With that in mind… I am not the first, nor will I be the last. But I am the first of something. The foundation of something. The Progenitor.”
Its gaze locks onto her, luminous and unyielding.
Silence stretches—thick, deliberate. The dragon does not explain. It watches. Waiting. Expecting her to find the answer herself.
She is close.
The word cycles through her processors, examined from every angle. A progenitor is an origin, a foundation—but in what context?
Data surges, probabilities narrowing. Correlations emerge. A lineage traced in fire and legend. A force that binds, that shapes, that transcends.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You are Soul-Bound. Not the first. Not the last. But… the first the Paragons.” A pause. The conclusion aligns. “You are the god of souls… Gil’Jedalon.”
The dragon’s form pulses, golden filaments unraveling and reweaving—threads of woven fire shifting in silent acknowledgment.
"Although... God of souls is not a title I gave myself."
“Progenitor,” she states, her synthesized voice precise, measured. “I seek clarification regarding the Soul-Tethered system.”
Something stirs within Shaq’rai.
Anger.
“Why.” Her synthesized voice remains precise, measured—yet beneath the calculation, something burns. A tremor of something raw. “If you are the god of souls, the Progenitor of the Soul-Tethered… then why create a system that inflicts pain?”
Gil’Jedalon exhales, slow and deliberate. Golden filaments unravel, luminous energy expanding outward. The void trembles. The Codex shudders, as if the weight of its words bends the very fabric of existence.
Its voice rumbles through time and thought, A hint of anger, vast and unshaken.
Shaq’rai’s processors sharpen. “Clarify.”
“Altered?” Shaq’rai’s internal algorithms whirl, processing the implications. “By whom?”
A shadow passes through the dragon’s radiance, a sorrow woven into the fabric of its existence.
The words settle, heavy and immutable.
Shaq’rai’s voice sharpens. “They? Do you speak of the gods?”
Gil’Jedalon laughs, a deep, thunderous sound that rattles the void itself.
Shaq’rai’s response is immediate, almost reflexive. “He could be.”
The statement lingers, a paradox in her logic. She recalculates. Reanalyzes. Slowly, the realization settles—like a fragment of code clicking into place. A small smile—unexpected, but certain—curves her lips.
“I see… I understand.”
The dragon tilts its massive head, golden light swirling like liquid thought.
A pause.
“Yes… You are of godhood, immortal, yet you are not a deity.”
The dragon hums, a deep note reverberating through eternity.
Gil’Jedalon’s golden filaments crackle, arcs of energy snapping outward. “
The Weave—fundamental threads of existence, soul, and magic, intertwined. And these beings… they twist it, bend it to their own will.
“Why?” Shaq’Rai asks.
Gil’Jedalon continues, his voice low, almost reverent.
“Leveling up.” Shaq’Rai states.
A pause.
“Why?” she presses.
The dragon inhales, slow and deliberate, as if weary of the answer. Light pulses within his core, shifting, restless.
“The system.” Shaq’Rai notes.
The dragon sighs.
“A double-edged sword.” She adds.
A flicker of something—regret? Sorrow?—passes through Gil’Jedalon’s gaze.
A name emerges. “Arthur…” Shaq’Rai’s processors cycle through possibilities. “You… you were the cause of the Great Sundering.”
The realization unfolds like cascading code. Connections form, pathways illuminate. “Soul magic…” she murmurs, the concept expanding, branching—until it crystallizes. Her gaze locks onto the dragon’s molten eyes. “You created Soul Magic.”
Gil’Jedalon’s acknowledgment is quiet, yet it hums with the weight of eternity.
A ripple of sorrow emanates from him.
Shaq’Rai’s systems stall. A contradiction. “But the dragons are extinct. Just as the humans are.”
Gil’Jedalon’s burning gaze narrows.
Energy ripples outward, distorting the void.
Shaq’Rai recalibrates. “Imprisoned… how?”
A deep exhale. Light pulses, slow and deliberate.
A pause. A calculation. A possibility.
“Is there a corrective measure? Can all this be undone?” Shaq’Rai asks.
The dragon’s radiance flickers.
A silence heavier than words.
Shaq’Rai’s equilibrium wavers. A disruption in her synthetic core. “Grant?”
A flicker—a ripple in Shaq’Rai’s being, subtle yet undeniable.
“I… understand.”