THE LUMPS OF FOREVER

Shortly after the groups settled down and started drinking inside a rather wide and well-lit tavern, Lino withdrew silently from the place, going on a cloaked walk across the city currently housing all the newcomers. A fairly shocking mix of architectural styles popped off with practically every new corner, giving even more gravity to the diversification present in the small corner. As to how it would play out, he was uncertain, as with many other things.

The Agents-to-be have departed and were already undergoing the first course of their training. It could be either months or even years until he sees any of them again, and, in the meantime, there was very little for him to actually do. At last, he could refocus, settle back, and pursue the desires of his heart. Not yet, however; he decided to give himself a bit of leeway, a few months, during which he'd simply… live. Go to sleep whenever he felt tired, eat whenever he felt hungry, meet up with people whenever he felt lonely, spend time with Aaria, enjoy the seeds of his labor in peace.

He eventually reached the city's edge, standing in front of the sloped entrance, looking down at the plains that, in the distance, gave way to a breathtaking forest. A gentle wind whipped past him, startling his rugged clothes and hair awake, bending them sideways in concert. He had his hands in his pockets, standing entirely still, his gaze sharp and focused.

He ripped open the s.p.a.cetime continuum and spun through it, appearing back in the forest, just outside the training grounds. They were currently eerily empty, as Lucky, who was in charge, was absent, yet he could still hear an occasional shout and cry from the few that showed up in their free time. All were kids in their early teens, yet he hardly found it in himself to encourage them, standing on the side. He wanted to say there was no reason for them to bleed and fall asleep with their entire bodies aching, that they could pursue other paths, but that was impossible; not because he needed them, but because they needed it.

Whether he liked it or not, he'd become a h.o.m.ogenous symbol of the Empire – the solitary figure standing so far above, that even the sky was kneeling before him. And, throughout their childhoods, kids are told stories of his heroics, of his journey filled with world-shaking battles and overcoming the difficulties; very few manage to maintain a calm heart, and not get dragged into the immediate fiery pa.s.sions. Not everyone is built to fight, and not everyone should be asked to do it – yet, these kids continue to throw themselves against the invisible walls in vain hopes of following in his footsteps.

There was no way for him to change this mindset outside simply forbidding the very mention of his name in all of the schools; it was, however, something that would change with time. Right now, the entire history is fresh – recent – and everyone is still enamored by his name. Time, however, will pa.s.s – and people, both as individuals and as groups, will slowly start forgetting. In the far distant future, the Emperor would become an enigma suffocated in myths that nary a few would believe were true. And that was his intention.

Pa.s.sing the crown and the throne over onto Aaria, and then her doing the same for her children, and so on down the generational line, the Emperor or the Empress would merely become a symbol of unification. He had no intention of holding a tight grip on power or even micromanaging the world and its inhabitants. Despite the solemn and fiery speech he'd made during the ball, it was simply to quench the early flames of a conflict that might arise in the current power vacuum. In the end, he couldn't remodel the very nature of man – in time, it will regress. There will be wars. There will be dissents. There will be new Kingdoms and nations created by chopping up the Empire's borders. And he had no intention of preventing that from happening.

He would let the world run its course however it wills, in whichever direction the winds of change take it. No crown is eternal, and no crown should be eternal; thought can't ever be truly uniform, and people shouldn't be forced into that perceived uniformity if they didn't want it. He'd experienced it. Hannah had experienced it. Alison had experienced it. Eggor had experienced it. Everyone had felt the hand of conformity wrap around their throats and suffocate them at one point in their lives. And, right now, chances are that billions of people were feeling it as well.

They didn't want to become a part of this newborn, fledgling Empire; they had their own cultures, traditions, beliefs, and systems of rule that were all snuffed out overnight. The same discontent he and many others felt before, they are feeling right now.

That is why he couldn't continue to pop up everywhere – his image would become a reminder, and however little people would admit it, it would terrify them into submission. The best thing he could do for the world was… withdraw from it. Ensure that in the next few hundreds of years, the newest generation will even begin to doubt his existence – and, in time, that will breed the sort of discontent that cannot be snuffed out. The Empire will be broken up, and it has to be broken up – it is far too big to be sustained. He will direct Aaria to do the same, and Aaria will direct her children to do the same, and the enigmatic, royal family that had once taken over the world will become all but a symbolic myth of a cult-like mentality of the past.

Glancing at the still-fighting kids one last time with a sigh, he spun and walked out of the building, out onto the eerily empty streets. Over time, the fortress would cease being anything more than a floating hunk of stone in the sky that may or may not house that mythical royal family. All who live here will spread out into specific regions, and all the shops, all the buildings, everything that was built in the past few decades… will grow hollow.

He didn't mind it, however; he didn't have the heart to chain people to this place and cut off their wings. Let them go wherever they may. Besides, his eyes had long since begun looking beyond Noterra itself – it was no longer the task of his heart to fight for this world within it, but without it. He only had to ensure all those scuffles, all those inspiring stories of him turning into mere legends and myths, all the changes that will unfold… can unfold in the first place.

Everything will, eventually, become ancient history. The Writs. The Imperial Dynasty. The stoked fires of insurmountable conflicts every member of that structure had undergone. People will forget about the Empyreans and Elysians, they will forget about the Creator and the Destroyer, and they will forget about their Agents – there would be no battles outside Noterra, just a sea of stars inspiring bards and poets. He didn't need to instruct anyone for this to happen – it will happen naturally. The older generations will continue to clamor about him, but the younger ones will, slowly but surely, begin to doubt all those stories more and more because they will be so far removed from their everyday reality, they will seem impossible.

And, eventually, new Age of Heroism will begin; corners of the Empire will sp.a.w.n their own heroes, and those heroes will fight to cleave themselves away from the behemoth. And then they'll fight to make their own corner a behemoth. And, once again, as in all ages before, the heroes will clash, and new histories will be written, new names praised and remembered.

In the end, he'll become a footprint in the tomes and volumes of history books – his name most-likely overtly written with 'allegedly' and 'according to legends' next to it. The world will normalize, return to its natural state of conflicts and progress. Just like it always has, no matter how shaken it's gotten.

This reality hardly filled him with a sensation of loss; walking down the streets of the fortress, he was at peace. The young heart that once brimmed with the desire to prove himself, to carve his name out into the pages of history, had long since matured. It had realized that no matter how tall a statue one builds of oneself, time will wane and destroy it, and, just the same, the name itself will vanish. There was no point in living for the future in which you were dead – he'd long since learned to live for today, and for tomorrow. To live in such a way to create the memories of his own, rather than memories of him in others.

Immortality in the lasting memories was a comfort food; the happiness found in such a vain pursuit was hollow, and forever hungry. If he wanted, he could maintain the current situation until the end of time – but… what for? He'd merely be suffocating the world's natural progress. He would slowly breed hatred against himself and his family. He might be ineffable and undefeatable, but Aaria isn't. Neither will his grandchildren be. His vanity would simply put all those he loved in danger. And billions more in the perpetual life of discontent.

That was why he decided to slowly fade; he would always be there, a hidden shadow, the hidden light guarding the world's autonomy, ensuring nothing untoward happened to it. But he wouldn't try and change it – self-correction is the blissful reality of everything. Cruel tyrants will rise, but so will those who will fight back and overthrow them. Nothing is forever – it is for now. Just like his current image in the public, just like his name, his stories, and the face that not even one percent of the world had ever seen personally. He decided to let them fade in the obscurity of time, as all other things do; there was no longer a place for him amidst the surging river of life – and trying to carve out that place wouldn't do anyone any good. Just bring more misery, something he spent his entire life fighting. And will continue to do so indefinitely.