As Paulo trudged onward through the fractured realm, the cinnamon-brown cloak snapped violently around his frame like the wings of a dying raven caught in a perpetual gale. The sky above was a seething wound of bruised violet and haemorrhaging crimson, lightning forking in jagged veins that illuminated the blood-red soil beneath his boots.
Winds howled at hurricane force, clawing at his skin with icy talons that should have shredded flesh from bone, yet his reborn body endured, every step pounding deeper into the cracked earth as if the land itself recoiled from his presence.
Memories of the old world surged like venom, Lily's betrayal under that amber streetlamp, Hana's broken body by the riverbank, the psych-ward restraints biting into his wrists, fuelling a manic fire that twisted his grin into something feral and unhinged. But then his fingers brushed something unexpected in the cloak's hidden folds: a small, unyielding vial of pills he had no memory of acquiring.
He halted, the storm's roar fading to a distant thunder in his ears as he withdrew the container. The glass was cold, unnaturally so, etched with faint runes that pulsed like dying heartbeats under the crimson lightning. The label, written in stark Japanese kanji that glowed with an inner phosphorescence, read Utsubyō No Kusuri, Depression Pills.
A bitter laugh tore from his throat, raw and jagged, echoing across the desolate valley. "These… these will help me become normal again?" he muttered, voice cracking with the weight of every rooftop scream and sterile scream from his past.
Without hesitation, he twisted the cap free and swallowed two tablets dry, their bitter chalk taste exploding across his tongue like swallowed lightning. The insane haze, the berserk rage that had driven him to slaughter the soul creatures moments earlier, receded in a violent rush, his muscles uncoiling, his manic grin smoothing into the cold, calculated calm of his former self.
Yet the pills' promise lingered in his mind: a controlled berserk state, one he might unleash without mercy, even on the innocent. "My insane form is like a berserk state… and I might need it, even if it means killing someone pure," he whispered to the howling wind, eyes narrowing as he pocketed the vial once more.
A second label, smaller and etched in the same glowing script on the vial's base, caught his eye: Mainichi 1-Jō Fukuyō Shite Kudasai, Take one every day. The realization hit like a thunderclap; the supply was infinite, the glass never emptying no matter how many he consumed, a cursed mercy from whatever force had dragged him into this realm.
He slipped the vial deeper into the cloak, its weight a constant reminder of the fragile leash on his madness, and pressed forward, the storm's fury intensifying around him as if the land sensed the power now coiled within.
The horizon fractured open ahead, revealing a colossal structure that loomed like a god's forgotten tomb: the Giant Green Temple. It rose from the blood-red earth in monolithic splendour, its walls carved from living emerald stone that pulsed with an unnatural inner glow, veins of luminous jade threading through the surface like arteries of some ancient, slumbering beast.
Towering spires twisted skyward, their peaks crowned with jagged obsidian thorns that caught the crimson lightning and refracted it into sickly green halos. Vines of thorny black ivy, thick as a man's arm and dripping with corrosive sap, clung to every surface, their leaves whispering secrets in the gale as they pulsed in rhythm with the temple's heartbeat.
The air around it thickened, heavy with the metallic tang of ozone and ancient decay, the wind funnelling through hidden crevices to produce a low, mournful dirge that vibrated in Paulo's bones. No guards stood sentinel; no wards shimmered in warning.
The massive doors, twin slabs of emerald veined with gold and etched with forgotten runes that seemed to writhe under scrutiny, loomed twice his height, their surface scarred by eons of storms yet unreached. Curiosity, sharp and dangerous, ignited in his chest, drowning the lingering echoes of his past traumas.
With a single, savage punch, Paulo shattered the doors inward. The emerald exploded in a shower of glittering shards that hung suspended in the gale for a heartbeat before scattering like lethal confetti. The impact echoed through the vast interior like the death knell of a dying world, but no alarms blared, no traps sprang.
The temple's cavernous hall stretched before him, vast and echoing, its walls lined with colossal pillars of the same glowing green stone, each carved with intricate friezes depicting forgotten battles between cosmic entities, radiant figures clashing with shadowy horrors under exploding stars.
The floor was a mosaic of polished jade tiles, cracked in places yet humming with latent power, reflecting the storm's crimson flashes from high, vaulted skylights where lightning danced like some imprisoned giant serpent.
Dust motes swirled in the charged air, thick with the scent of petrified wood and forgotten incense, the atmosphere so oppressively heavy it pressed against his lungs like the weight of every betrayal he had endured.
No life stirred; the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant howl of wind through the shattered entrance, making the temple feel less like a sanctuary and more like a predator waiting to awaken.
Deeper he ventured, boots echoing with deliberate menace, the green glow intensifying until it bathed his skin in sickly luminescence. No pressure plates triggered, no arrows whistled from hidden slits, the temple's defences had long since crumbled or simply deemed him unworthy of challenge.
His eyes widened as the central chamber opened before him: a colossal circular vault dominated by a giant green statue, easily fifty feet tall, carved from a single flawless block of luminous emerald.
The figure depicted an androgynous cosmic sovereign, its features serene yet terrifying, eyes hollow sockets filled with swirling nebulae, hands outstretched as if cradling entire galaxies, robes flowing into ethereal tendrils that merged with the walls.
Cracks of raw power spiderwebbed across its surface, leaking faint viridian mist that coiled like living smoke. Flanking the statue, two enormous stone plates rose from the floor like monoliths of judgment, each twice Paulo's height and carved from the same, emerald-veined granite, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that pulsed in sync with the statue's heartbeat.
The air here was thicker still, charged with static that raised the hairs on his arms, the storm outside roaring louder as if the temple itself drew power from the chaos.
Paulo approached the first plate on his right, its surface alive with intricate carvings that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of the eye, ancient symbols intertwining like serpents around a central title etched in bold, luminous kanji: All Twenty-One Magic Types.
The letters burned with inner fire, casting emerald shadows that danced across the chamber's walls. Below the title, the plate unfolded in meticulous, multi-layered inscriptions, each magic type rendered in flowing script accompanied by symbolic glyphs that pulsed with illustrative power: a coiling flame for fire manipulation, jagged icicles for ice, rugged boulders for earth, blooming vines for nature, radiant beams for light, skeletal hands for death, crystalline flakes for snow.
Rippling waves for water, swirling gusts for wind, dripping venom for poison, hourglass fractures for time, hypnotic spirals for hypnosis, inky tendrils for shadow, crackling bolts for lightning, glowing isotopes for radiation, starry vortices for cosmic power, crimson rivers for blood, crossed blades for sword, adaptive chameleonic patterns for adaption magic, metallic lattices for steel, and mirrored duplicates for copy magic.
The text continued in exhaustive detail across dozens of carved lines, explaining each type's essence in archaic prose: "Fire Manipulation, command the inferno's wrath to consume worlds or forge anew from ash;" "Ice Manipulation, bind enemies in eternal frost, sculpt glaciers from breath alone;" and so on, the glyphs animating faintly as Paulo's gaze lingered, whispering latent knowledge into his mind.
The stone itself was warm to the touch, thrumming like a living heart, its emerald veins glowing brighter with each type revealed, the atmosphere growing heavier, the wind outside howling as if jealous of the secrets now laid bare.
He muttered aloud, voice echoing through the vault, "There is magic in this world after all… considering I regenerated my arm when I fought those beasts earlier." The words hung in the charged air, intensifying the static that crackled around him, the statue's eyes seeming to watch with cosmic indifference.
The plate's carvings deepened in intensity, the glyphs flaring as if feeding on his recognition, the green glow bathing his face in an eerie halo that made his regenerated arm itch with phantom power.
Below the list of elements, you will find the strengths and weaknesses associated with the magic type. Paulos noted that a colour can signify a weakness, a strength, both, or neither. Purple indicates that both a weakness and a strength are present.
Red signifies the magic types that are weak against the other magic types listed in the table. Green indicates the magic types that are strong against the other magic types listed in the table. Grey represents a neutral position.
Paulo shifted to the second stone plate, its surface even more imposing, framed by additional friezes depicting collapsing universes and passing crowns of light.
The title, etched in bolder, more authoritative kanji that pulsed with deeper crimson undertones beneath the emerald, read Monarch Ownerships.
Below it, the inscriptions sprawled across multiple dense paragraphs of glowing text, each line carved with such precision that the stone seemed to breathe the words: "The ownership of the Terra Planet you are currently on and the universe you are currently in is owned by the Monarch of Radiation, also known as Ash Atlas. But since he has passed two million years ago, the position had been passed down through the cosmic lineage to the Cosmic Vessel, Paulo Satoshi."
The text expanded in exhaustive, layered detail across the plate's vast face, first paragraph detailing Ash Atlas's ancient reign, his radiation dominion warping entire star systems into glowing wastelands; second paragraph tracing the two-million-year succession, cosmic trials that shattered lesser vessels; third paragraph naming Paulo explicitly as the inheritor.
His title "Cosmic Vessel" accompanied by symbolic cogs and nebulae that spun slowly in the stone; fourth paragraph outlining the unbound powers now his, radiation manipulation to bend atomic forces, cosmic power to rewrite reality's fabric.
The runes flared violently as he read, the plate's emerald surface heating until it burned like a forge, the air thickening to a suffocating density that pressed against his ribs like the weight of entire galaxies.
Shock slammed into him like a physical blow, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The revelations clawed at his soul, stirring the depression's black tide even in its calmed state, no memories of this cosmic birthright, yet the truth burned in his veins. Suddenly, a colossal bolt of lightning tore down from the skylights, striking him dead-centre with cataclysmic force.
The impact should have vaporized flesh and bone, the thunderclap shaking the temple's foundations and sending emerald shards raining from the ceiling.
But Paulo remained untouched, his body absorbing the raw energy through the radiation and cosmic magics now awakening within him. His hair ignited in a surge, shifting from dark strands to flowing azure waves that crackled with stellar energy.
His pupils transformed, irises blooming into vivid emerald rings pierced by intricate, mechanical cogs that spun slowly, gears of fate aligning in his gaze. The statue's glow intensified to blinding levels, the plates humming in resonance as if acknowledging their new sovereign.
Paulo exhaled, the temple's oppressive atmosphere now electric with his ascension, the storm outside screaming in unison.
Without a backward glance at the awakened monoliths, he turned and strode from the chamber, the shattered doors' remnants crunching underfoot as he emerged back into the blood-red lands, the cosmic power thrumming in his veins like a second heartbeat, ready for whatever vengeance or ruin the fractured realm demanded next.