Cosmic Ruler - Chapter 601

Chapter 601: Arena XL
And it spoke—not in words, but in certainty.

This is not your world.

The statement crashed into their minds.

Aiden straightened, sword raised.

“This is not yours either,” he said, voice steady.

The figure tilted its head, considering him.

Then it raised a hand.

The Garden trembled.

Trees withered. Streams boiled. Grass blackened.

Aiden felt the horror settle into him.

The Seeds shivered in their bearers’ arms.

If he allowed this… if this wound widened further…

All they had fought for would be undone.

No.

He would not allow it.

He could not.

He stepped forward, alone, leaving the safety of the Pact’s circle.

The figure watched him impassively.

“You are the Wound,” Aiden said. “But I am the Healer.”

He plunged his sword into the ground.

The earth screamed—but not in pain.

In defiance.

The blade sank deep, not into soil, but into the foundation of reality itself.

From the point where it entered, a ripple of golden light spread outward, forcing the darkness back.

The Outer God recoiled, its hand smoking where the light touched it.

You do not understand.

It was almost pitying.

You cannot build in brokenness.

Aiden’s smile was grim.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he whispered.

He turned to the Pact.

“NOW!”

Together, they hurled the Seeds into the ground.

Each Seed struck like a meteor, burying deep into the wounded world.

Each Seed blossomed instantly, roots reaching not down into earth—but up into the blank sky, stitching the tear closed, weaving light into the darkness.

The Outer God screamed—a real, furious scream.

It lashed out.

Reality cracked.

Etari leapt into the air, slashing downward with a blade of memory.

Callas struck with fists wreathed in the promises of a thousand forgotten kings.

Others followed—each attack a story, a defiance, a refusal to let go.

Aiden advanced, each step a hammer blow against despair.

The Outer God staggered, its form flickering.

The Seeds grew faster.

The Garden surged outward, devouring the mist, the fear, the hollow spaces.

And above, the wound began to close.

Not completely.

Not yet.

But enough.

Enough to drive the invader back.

The figure retreated, its borrowed form unraveling.

Its last gaze locked with Aiden’s.

This is not the end.

Then it was gone, swallowed back into the bleeding heavens.

The wound sealed behind it, leaving only scars.

The mist receded fully.

The Garden stood.

Real.

Alive.

The Pact collapsed to their knees, exhausted but victorious.

Aiden sank down beside them, staring up at the now-quiet sky.

He did not trust the silence.

But for the moment, it would have to do.

He had stitched the first wound.

He had bought them time.

And he would use it.

Because he knew.

This was only the beginning.

The Outer Gods were gathering.

And next time, they would not come alone.

The Garden swayed.

Its roots dug deeper into existence, trying to anchor themselves against the tides that sought to rip them away. The mist was thinner now, retreating to the horizon where the broken remnants of once-great realms drifted like shattered ships.

Aiden stood at the Garden’s center.

He could feel it growing—not just in size, but in presence.

A new weight settled into the world, one built from defiance, from every act of remembrance the Blank Sky Pact had etched into being.

But it would not be enough.

Not yet.

Far at the edge of the rising dawn, he saw them.

Towers.

They jutted from the earth like the bones of dead giants, half-buried, leaning at impossible angles, bleeding mist into the sky.

Callas limped up beside him, blood dried along the side of his temple.

“New friends?” he asked grimly, nodding toward the towers.

Aiden said nothing for a moment.

He watched.

Waited.

And then he saw movement.

Figures.

Crawling from the bases of the towers. Staggering upright. Forming lines like an army mustered from the wreckage of dreams.

They were not Ghosts.

Nor were they like the Wound given shape he had fought only hours ago.

These… these were worse.

Creatures built from ideas that failed. From half-forgotten nightmares. From prayers that were never answered.

Each one was a testament to a moment the universe tried to erase and failed to finish the job.

Broken.

Angry.

Endless.

Etari joined them, her face pale.

“They’re the Unwritten,” she said quietly. “Aborted timelines. Futures that never came to be.”

Aiden nodded once.

Of course.

The Outer Gods would not simply retreat.

They would poison.

Sabotage.

Seed corruption inside the very reality he was trying to save.

“They’ll march on the Garden,” he said. “Soon.”

Callas grunted. “Let ’em come. We’ll kill ’em twice if we have to.”

A grim smile touched Etari’s lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“We’re running on fumes,” she said. “Most of the Pact is wounded. Some won’t fight again.”

Aiden clenched his fists.

It was true.

The last battle had cost them dearly.

And now they faced not one Wound—but an army of things too broken even for the Outer Gods to claim fully.

“We can’t fight them all,” Etari said, her voice soft but certain.

“No,” Aiden agreed.

“But maybe… we don’t have to.”

The others looked at him sharply.

He turned to face the Garden, stretching his senses into it.

The Seeds were alive. They listened.

And he remembered now—what the Sword of Becoming had whispered to him during the fight.

Creation wasn’t only about building.

It was about choosing.

Choosing what must be, from the infinite things that could have been.

He drew the Sword again.

Its blade shimmered between solidity and dream.

Aiden knelt and plunged it deep into the ground.

The Garden shuddered.

Roots stirred.

Flowers turned their faces to him.

And something ancient, something new, woke beneath the soil.

The Pact gathered around, silent, waiting.

Aiden spoke.

Not with his mouth—but with his will.

“Garden,” he said, in the language of What Might Be.

“I name you. I bind you.”

“You are no longer a place alone.”

“You are a fortress.”

“You are defiance.”

“You are a home for those who remember.”

“You will stand against the tide.”

The Garden answered.

Light burst from where his sword touched the earth.

The roots grew faster, weaving into walls, towers, ramparts.

Trees twisted into archers’ posts.

Streams hardened into rivers of living crystal.

Flowers sharpened into spears.

The Garden was no longer a passive creation.

It was a citadel.

It was a weapon.

And it would fight.

The Pact stared in awe as their surroundings transformed.

Etari smiled, for real this time.

“Not bad for a farm boy,” she said.

Aiden rose, his sword gleaming with the light of a thousand discarded futures.

“We hold the Garden,” he said.

“No matter what comes.”

At the horizon, the towers shook.

And the Unwritten began their march.

Thousands.

Tens of thousands.

Shapes of twisted regret and shattered longing.

But Aiden stood firm.

He had planted the Seeds.

He had stitched the sky.

And now, he would protect this fragile, defiant spark of reality with everything he had.

Even against an army of the forgotten.

Even against the will of the Outer Gods themselves.

Above them, the first rays of a real dawn pierced the clouds.

Broken.

Imperfect.

But true.

And that was enough.

For now.