THE SPIRITUAL SOVEREIGN : RISE OF THE DIVINE

---

"Shuisha——"

Ryan stood still in the spiritual world, his hand steady as he finished the final stroke on his canvas. The masterpiece before him depicted the God King, his figure wounded, a gaping hole through his chest. Yet, despite the violence of the injury, the God King's expression remained calm, serene, almost meditative, as though imparting some sort of profound wisdom to his children in the face of catastrophe.

Opposite the God King, the God of Time and Space stood, his face contorted in shock and rage. He clutched a sword, poised for a strike. Behind him, Titans towered, their faces filled with awe or disbelief. At the bottom of the image, the Earth Mother's eyes peeked from the cracks in the land, silently watching.

Ryan stepped back, admiring his work. It was perfect in its own way, and yet, it had taken something from him. The power he felt flowing from his hands as he painted seemed to drain him of all resolve, but the creation itself would endure. This was the kind of art that could exist beyond the confines of the spiritual world, beyond time itself.

He exhaled softly, a quiet sigh that echoed in the silence around him. This was the death of a god. Not just any god, but one who represented the end of an era. And yet, Ryan couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't the end, but a beginning.

"There is a chance," Ryan muttered under his breath, staring at the painting. "A chance that someone could rise—someone with unparalleled skill in painting, but without the soul to truly create. Such a god might possess mastery over technique but would lack the spark of inspiration."

The words echoed in the stillness of the world around him, but he already knew the inevitable. Chaos recoiled from his creation, but its connection to the world of art and painting remained tethered. The raw power of art, the embodiment of inspiration, was greater than he had anticipated. And yet, it was bound by the limits of the spiritual world. The stars—physical manifestations of cosmic power—refused to be consumed by Ryan, but he understood the nature of the energy within them. If the god of painting, the one who could bring creation into being, did not manifest within the next three hundred years, it would be lost forever.

Ryan paused and closed his eyes, his mind shifting to the bigger picture. "Perhaps," he continued, speaking aloud, "someone else will rise to fill this void—a god of creation without true inspiration. But even then, without the soul to guide their hands, they will be nothing more than a shell, lacking the true essence of art."

There was a shift, a subtle tremor in the world around him. The essence of Chaos began to ebb, fading away as his own energy collided with the forces of creation. In this moment, Ryan realized that his connection to the spiritual world could only extend so far. The raw power could no longer be absorbed directly, for his very essence was bound by limits he could not escape.

"To break free from these chains," Ryan whispered to himself, "I would need to understand more than just the power of creation. I would need to rise beyond the gods themselves, to understand the very fabric of existence. The laws of the universe are not as rigid as they seem… if only I could grasp them fully."

As these thoughts formed, a quiet energy built around him. It was a force that transcended simple creation; it was pure, untapped potential. Inspiration. It was the power that drove the universe, that shaped the very reality he painted. And it was tied to his soul.

"You are the first painting of the world," Ryan spoke aloud to the canvas, his voice laced with reverence. "You will be the origin of all things. Your existence will forever be bound to the idea of creation itself. You are the chronicle of the world's end, and yet, you are the beginning. You are the first work of art, and art will claim you as its progenitor."

The painting began to glow, faint tendrils of energy reaching out into the air. Ryan could feel the weight of its power pressing against him, a force that could not be ignored. He stepped back from the canvas, his eyes narrowing. There was more to this creation than he had anticipated.

"Art," Ryan mused, "is not just about technique. It is about connection. It is the link between thought and creation, between soul and form. And this connection will not be severed. It will endure."

With one last glance at his work, Ryan turned and moved from the space, his figure vanishing from the temple with a soft ripple of energy. When he reappeared, he stood beneath the belly of the mountain, in a quiet, empty space. Before him lay a small pool, its waters rippling with an eerie, ethereal liquid that seemed to pulse with energy.

Ryan approached the pool and, with deliberate care, placed the "Death of the God King" scroll into the water. The liquid within the pool reacted immediately, swirling around the parchment with a life of its own, as if it recognized the importance of the artifact. The painting, now submerged in the spiritual waters, began to shift, its power intensifying.

This was no ordinary pool. It was a manifestation of the spiritual world, a place where the very essence of existence could be shaped and formed. The pool was where creation could begin, where the raw energy of the universe could be molded into something tangible. And in it, Ryan saw the future unfold.

As the scroll settled into the pool, Ryan's gaze shifted to three oracle stone slabs, scattered around the space. These stones had been here for millennia, transformed by time and power. Now, they pulsed with a quiet, steady energy. Each stone was imbued with a different essence—Time, Space, and Life. Together, they held the key to the next phase of creation.

"Is this the Creation Artifact?" Ryan pondered aloud, stepping closer to the stones. "A holy object, as powerful as the gods themselves."

He knew little of the true origins of these artifacts. The records of the ages were scarce, filled with vague references and myths. But Ryan understood one thing: these stones were not to be underestimated. They had been created by the gods—by Themis, Metis, and others who had shaped the laws of the universe itself. They were relics of the past, but their power was far from diminished.

The stone representing Time had been crafted from Cronus's own energy, its power stretching across the continuum of past, present, and future. It was close to becoming a Creation Artifact, but Ryan could feel it wasn't quite there yet. It needed more. The stone of Space, too, was powerful, forged from the energy of the god who ruled over the cosmos. But it was weak, still in its infancy, unable to reach its full potential. The stone of Life, meanwhile, was the most intriguing. It had been forged from the power of the Life Aquarius, yet much of its energy had been lost in the process. Even so, it held promise. Ryan could sense that, once fully realized, it would become a Creation Artifact in its own right.

"These stones," Ryan murmured, "they are the foundation. The building blocks of creation itself."

He turned his attention back to the pool, where the scroll continued to soak in the spiritual energy. The painting, now transformed, glowed brighter, its power beginning to intertwine with the very fabric of the universe.

As the energy in the room shifted, Ryan's thoughts wandered to the gods. He had once been part of their world, and yet, now he stood apart. His connection to them was tenuous, but the time was coming when that would change. He could feel it. The gods themselves were in disarray—Cronus had fallen, and Zeus was weakened. This was his chance, his opportunity to rise above them all.

"Let them come," Ryan thought with a dark smile. "Let them seek me out. I will welcome them. And perhaps, I will take more than they bargained for."

---