The last of Raven's End's stinking stilt houses fell behind, and the air began to lose that characteristic bouquet of rotten fish, sewage, and the faint aroma of industrial despair that seemed to permeate everything in the city. It's impressive how a few minutes' walk in the right direction can make your lungs stop begging for mercy and start considering the possibility of not collapsing. The forest that hugged the city's borders was another world – one where the scent of damp earth and moss actually existed outside of dusty books and memories of greener lives. It's a constant reminder, this body. Of fragility, of transience. But also of the raw beauty that persists even in the most forgotten corners of existence.
[The Ether levels here are substantially higher. Approximately 73% more concentrated than in the urban epicentre of Raven's End,] Eos commented in my mind, always the life and soul of the party with her precise statistics, an anchor of logic in my ocean of experiences.
"You and your numbers, Eos," I murmured with a half-smile, nimbly leaping over a fallen log that looked like it had given up on life a good few centuries ago. "But yes, one can feel the difference. It's like taking a grimy sack off one's face." Or like finally breathing after being submerged for too long in the noisy superficiality of mortal concerns.
After three weeks exploring this green tangle, I already knew the paths like the back of my hand – if my hands weren't currently covered in soot and what I hoped was merely grease. My bare feet, calloused by more things than a six-year-old ought to have on their feet, found purchase where most people would find an opportunity to break an ankle. There's an honesty to the earth beneath one's feet. A reminder that no matter how many heavens you've traversed, gravity still has a say. The setting sun was putting on its private show, painting the sky and forest in shades of amber and crimson, transforming shadows into dancing, slightly menacing creatures. Every sunset is a memento mori painted in flames. And yet, there's a promise in it too. The inevitability of night, followed by the stubborn certainty of dawn.
[This crepuscular illumination evokes memories of your stay on Mount...]
"Mount Celestial, I know," I completed her thought, batting away a low-hanging branch that clearly had homicidal intentions towards my left eye. "Where I trained with the Eternal Cloud Clan, and the mornings had that same golden light filtered through the leaves, before they started chucking stones at us to 'test our reflexes'." Good times. Or at least, different times.
Finally, I reached my favourite clearing. It was a small natural sanctuary, almost indecently perfect – a circle of soft grass surrounded by trees so ancient they'd probably witnessed the invention of the wheel and thought, "passing fad." Their branches intertwined high above, creating a sort of living cathedral. A crystal-clear stream cut through the space, its murmur a constant song that, unsettlingly, reminded me of waterfalls where certain immortals with masochistic tendencies enjoyed meditating under freezing water. Cultivation, in all its forms, always had a touch of stubbornness to it.
The sun was beginning its descent on the horizon when I finally arrived. Another 'productive' day of jobs around the city – or as I like to call it: my private collection of dubious odd jobs for an adorably sociopathic six-year-old, conducting a real-time anthropological study on the minutiae of mortal morality.
Today was particularly varied. I started the day 'helping' Old Jim with some deliveries. He insists they're just 'rare medicinal herbs', which would explain why they need to be delivered down dark alleys, in the dead of night, to men with more scars on their faces than teeth in their mouths. Afterwards, I had the thrilling and acrobatic task of squeezing through the ventilation ducts of the Blackstone Factory – apparently, small, flexible children are perfect for 'emergency maintenance and safety inspections'. Curiously, a rather important folder vanished from the manager's office during my 'inspection'. Pure coincidence, I'm sure. I must have accidentally kicked it into a different duct. Life is full of such unfortunate coincidences, isn't it? Chaos has its own designs.
Lunch was courtesy of the shrewd Mrs Wei, proprietor of a suspicious noodle stall. This was after I 'accidentally' tripped and bumped into a rival merchant of hers, causing his entire stock of exotic (and probably illegal) fish to end up in the harbour sewer. "Oh, what a clumsy, adorable child!" she exclaimed with theatricality worthy of an Oscar, whilst discreetly slipping me a few coins under the counter.
"You know, Eos," I muttered as I settled onto my favourite rock near the stream, the one that was neither too cold nor too rough, "sometimes I wonder what these people's reaction would be if they knew they were outsourcing their petty and grand crimes to someone who, in a not-so-distant past life, commanded armies of the undead and had philosophical conversations with reapers of souls." After orchestrating the collapse of galactic empires, there's a certain… poetic symmetry to it. The universe has a wicked sense of humour, or perhaps just a love of irony.
[Considering you're currently covered in soot, with a faint whiff of fish and sewage, and sporting a teddy bear plaster on your left knee that you applied after tripping over your own feet whilst fleeing the factory manager... they probably wouldn't be overly impressed. Perhaps they'd ask for a discount on your services,] Eos replied, with her ever-impeccable tact.
"The poignant irony of existence," I laughed, shaking my head as I adjusted my posture for meditation. The work at the docks earlier had left my six-year-old muscles surprisingly sore. "I've been an immortal cultivator capable of splitting mountains with a thought, a legendary assassin whose name was whispered in terror across twelve dimensions, a primordial deity who wove reality with threads of pure energy... and here I am, a six-year-old brat doing dodgy jobs for pennies, whose greatest achievement of the day was pilfering an extra bun from Mrs Wei." It's the dance of reincarnation, this constant recalibration of perspective. The grand and the small, the divine and the mundane, all interwoven.
[Speaking of past lives and your vast powers... do you know what I've realised? You haven't visited any of the entities residing in your mental landscape since your birth in this current world,] Eos observed, with that calmness of hers that always precedes a slightly embarrassing realisation for me.
I paused mid-deep breath, the Etherano-rich air catching in my lungs. "Oh." The realisation hit me like a bucket of cold water on a winter's day. "Oh, indeed. That's been… six years, then?" Six years. A blink of an eye for them, a significant chunk of childhood for this form. It's easy to get lost in the details of the present when eternity is your norm.
[Precisely six years, three months, and twelve days. You possess, literally, some of the most powerful, ancient, and occasionally unstable entities in the multiverse inhabiting the confines of your soul, and you simply… forgot to pop by and say hello for over half a decade.] There was a tone in Eos's mental voice that I would interpret as pure, exquisite sarcasm.
I felt my cheeks warm slightly, which was ridiculous, considering what I am. "Well…" I scratched the back of my neck, a gesture I'd picked up from some particularly dim-witted peasant in a mediaeval life. "It's just that… frankly, there hasn't been a pressing need, has there? I mean, yes, I was born in a decrepit orphanage that would make Oliver Twist feel privileged, in a city that on its best days looks like a low-budget post-apocalyptic set, but…"
[But you're so cosmically bored with the triviality of this existence that you didn't even consider asking for help, advice, or perhaps just swapping notes on the impending doom of some neighbouring galaxy?]
"It's not boredom, exactly," I replied, settling myself again on the rock, feeling the discomfort of my own lapse. "It's more like… immersion. Sometimes, to understand the river, one must allow oneself to be carried by the current, even if the water is a bit murky. This life, with its brutal simplicity, has been… instructive, in its own way."
[Still, ignoring cosmic entities who share your mental space for six years… that's a new record for interdimensional social neglect, even by your standards,] Eos punctuated, and I couldn't disagree.
"You're absolutely right, as always. And you love to remind me of it." I sighed. "Let's remedy this little social gaffe right now."
The dive into the mindscape is always a… peculiar experience. The layers of mundane reality peel away like the skins of a cosmic onion, until… This place, this map of my soul, etched with the scars and triumphs of countless aeons. Each entity is a chapter, each broken law of physics a footnote.
The impossible space opened up. Mountains floated upside down, oceans of stars streamed vertically.
[They seem… intrigued by your sudden appearance. The prevailing sensation is one of amused curiosity,] Eos translated.
The ancient presences began to manifest. "I… er… Apologies for the long absence? In my defence, this life has been surprisingly… terrestrial."
Yog-Sothoth, the geometric impossibility, bubbled something that sounded like cosmic laughter. What is the embarrassment of a temporal being to those who exist in all times and none? Just another texture in the great fabric of being.
[They don't seem particularly offended. More… entertained by your evident embarrassment.]
"Of course they are," I muttered. "After all, what are six years to eternity but a brief oversight?" I settled onto a floating fragment. "Since I've finally graced you with my presence, does anyone want to update me on the news from the infinite and beyond? I promise I'll try not to wait another six years."
The mindscape vibrated with collective cosmic laughter. Before I could roll my ethereal eyes, the Phoenix emerged, all flames and affection.
"Well, look who's decided to emerge from self-imposed exile!" Her voice was a balm.
"Phoenix Force," I greeted with a genuine smile. "Still flamboyant as ever." She understands. Destruction and creation are not opposites, but partners in an endless dance. Each end is a new beginning, each ash the promise of a new flame.
[Her reception is significantly more… warm,] Eos noted.
"Why, of course!" The Phoenix enveloped me. "We have history, don't we, poppet?"
I nodded. "Yes, we were always closer. Unlike certain abstract beings who seem to make a hobby of watching me embarrass myself." I heard a crackle of offended equations.
[They are still, in fact, amusing themselves at your expense,] Eos updated.
"Let them be," the Phoenix said. "They're just a bunch of grumpy old sods. You can count on me, sweetling."
Kurama materialised, nine tails and a customary scowl. "Look who's finally decided to show his face," he snarled.
"Well, well, Kurama. Finally emerged from your den of ill humour?"
He huffed. "Tch, as if I care." Even the oldest anger can transform into something… familiar. A kind of warped comfort. Even fox demons seek connection, even if it's through insults.
[Your amusement in provoking him is palpable.]
"Ah, Kurama, don't be so grumpy. Deep down, you adore me." He grumbled, but there was an almost imperceptible relaxing of his stance.
Aurelion Sol emerged, a star-forged dragon. "Azra'il. So, you have finally returned. I remember when you freed me from my tethers, and I granted you part of my essence." Power wishes to be expressed, to create or destroy. He understands that. He gave me a spark, not out of altruism, but because energy seeks resonance.
"Aurelion Sol. Your strength still resides within me."
He smiled, smugly. "Use it to create something… spectacular." Or destroy. He seemed fine with either option, a testament to the creative indifference of the cosmos.
In a dark corner, Sukuna materialised, all eyes and malice. "So, you've finally decided to come crawling back to me, Azra'il?" Sukuna… he's a reminder. That darkness, malice, arrogance… they are constants in almost every universe. Like cosmic cockroaches. And, like cockroaches, one must learn to deal with them without losing one's own centre.
"Yes, Sukuna. And guess what? Still not impressed."
His arms flailed. "We'll see about that, you insolent brat!" Our energies clashed briefly.
[Your capacity for not being intimidated… remains statistically anomalous.]
"He can try to be imposing," I replied mentally, "but this is my domain." His predictability is almost comforting. He craves power, a simple, almost childlike hunger. And, like any petulant child, he needs to be reminded of his limits. "Have you learnt nothing, Sukuna? Trying to overpower me here is like trying to put out the sun with a thimbleful of water."
His face contorted. "Damn you, Azra'il! I'll…"
"Do what, Sukuna?" I interrupted. "Defeat me? Here? Charming. But the house always wins."
In this impossible mindscape, this pandemonium of cosmic egos and fractured realities… it is the most honest reflection of the journey. Chaotic, contradictory, terrifying, and somehow, beautiful. True wisdom, perhaps, is not to find perfect order, or a utopian peace, but to learn to dance gracefully amidst the chaos, to find one's rhythm in the cacophony of existence. And, of course, never lose one's sense of humour, even when confronted with the personification of malice or the indifferent vastness of the cosmos. After all, they are just another part of the dance.