The sun rose with vigor over Eryndor's golden towers, casting a pristine glow that shimmered across suspended stained glass, celestial bridges, and fields cultivated with near-sacred precision.
Since the Kanar's arrival, the empire had transformed. Where silence once reigned, the sound of life now pulsed in harmony with the land.
The streets hummed with conversation and footsteps. Markets sprouted with orderly stalls. Magical workshops exhaled misty energy as ancestral artifacts were restored by hands once unaccustomed to power.
Eryndor was flourishing.
But for Orion, this was only the beginning.
Atop his central tower, Orion remained in meditation. Eyes half-lidded, thoughts attuned to the cycles of time.
Then, a soft light enveloped the space, and the system notified him:
『DING』
『Eternal Empire System advises: Accelerate time's flow to optimize inhabitant growth』
He lingered in silence for long moments.
The idea was powerful—and dangerous, if applied without discernment. But he trusted his dimensional architecture, his own transcendental nature.
With a gesture, the sky above Eryndor darkened momentarily. As if time itself had held its breath. Stars flickered in broad daylight. The wind stilled. Birds hung motionless midair.
And then, with a whispered command that reverberated through the plane's veins: "Let time's flow within my empire accelerate, allowing growth and learning to blossom faster than the outside world."
The world obeyed. A wave of ethereal energy swept through Eryndor like a translucent veil. Cultivated fields rippled as if answering a call. Academies, temples, streets, and homes pulsed with a faint glow, accepting the new temporal logic.
A new rhythm was established—and with it, an era of silent acceleration.
In the villages and residential sectors, the Kanar sensed the change almost instinctively.
Children grew swifter—in body, mind, and spirit. They learned languages, techniques, and cultivation doctrines as if absorbing inherited memories.
The elders, once burdened by past pains, rediscovered energy.
Hope turned to action. Entire families gathered in wisdom halls scattered across themed districts.
Each district, though new, already had a soul—forged by its inhabitants' care and love.
In courtyard gardens, plants grew within days. Their roots strong. Their fruits abundant.
At the Library of the Ancients, youths like Lira now led reading and discovery sessions. She and others, who once barely knew how to read, now debated alchemical treatises, arcane geometry, and spiritual philosophy. Each bookshelf was a portal, and they dove into volumes with intellectual hunger.
The libraries began producing new books—written by the Kanar themselves. They recorded their history, discoveries, and beliefs. A new culture within culture was born: the Scholars of Eryndor.
In the academies, trainees practiced under enhanced atmospheres—where bodies endured variable gravity and malleable energy fields.
Warriors who once knew only hunting now controlled their bodies as extensions. They learned to walk with lightness, expand their perception, defend without aggression, and strike with precision. Here, combat was not destruction—it was expression. The symbiosis of strength, wisdom, and essence mastery became the new generation's foundation.
Meanwhile, artisans and alchemists founded the first creation halls. They used metals mined from Eryndor's enchanted soil, resins from immortal trees, and living stones from the crystalline riverbanks.
Their creations gleamed with spontaneous runes. Everything bore art and purpose.
To the empire's south, architects raised observatories that captured astral patterns.
The youngest recorded lunar cycles and learned to weave celestial symbols into structures.
Eryndor's walls danced under living constellations, absorbing stellar wisdom.
Everywhere, Orion watched. Not with a dictator's gaze, but like a gardener before eagerly sprouting seeds. The temporal acceleration had not bred haste—it bred depth.
Each year compressed into many.
Each day, a vast field of possibilities.
The Kanar were no longer mere survivors. They were founders. Their members now held strategic roles: on the first councils, as sector chiefs, master instructors, spiritual mentors, and Ether scholars.
Those once voiceless now dictated the principles of a new society.
During nights, the sky—though accelerated—remained clear. Eryndor's twin moons traded places in cosmic dances, casting auroras that illuminated academies even after sunset.
Orion, atop his palace, remained in continuous meditation. His presence anchored the empire's fabric. With each expansion, his aura merged with the plane's rhythms, ensuring stability.
Time's acceleration—a measure that, in wrong hands, would mean imbalance—had become synonymous with prosperity in Eryndor.
Harmony between spirit, body, learning, and structure had been achieved.
For now, Eryndor breathed.
When Orion descended from the skies to the Central Hall, the golden light radiating from his body softened.
He walked with silent steps. Eryndor's inhabitants—now thousands—paused briefly at his passing.
His ethereal robes billowed without wind, and his eyes held the constant gleam of cosmic vastness. A near-imperceptible smile rested on his face as he observed daily progress.
He stopped before the suspended terrace overlooking the valley of flowers cultivated by the Kanar—now masters at manipulating soil, water cycles, and light energy. Here, plants didn't just grow—they listened. They responded to their caretakers' touches and words with colors and vibrations of their own.
"They learned fast... faster than anticipated" Orion murmured, almost to himself.
Eryndor was not just grand—it was functional, self-sufficient, harmonious.
The temporal acceleration had let young Kanar condense years of training into weeks. Some now led spiritual centers. Others coordinated mutual-aid networks between sectors.
In one arena, Rikan—now a firm-postured young adult—trained a group of apprentices. His technique was solid, but his empathy stood out. He corrected stances with patience, attentive to doubts, never letting fear take root in his pupils.
In another district, Lira—surrounded by children—taught ancient symbols that floated in the air, shaping into teaching aids. She imparted not just wisdom but passion. The children laughed, drawing together in sensory gardens where flowers shifted hues with their concentration.
At the empire's heart, markets thrived. Rudimentary magical items emerged: floating lanterns, climate-adaptive garments, voice-responsive tools.
All crafted by the tribe's artisans, now nurtured by an ecosystem that celebrated every skill.
The Kanar prospered.
But Orion, in his vast awareness, sensed the outside world beginning to stir again.
The next night, Orion ascended effortlessly into the sky. His body floated to the highest point of the palace's crystal dome. From there, his consciousness expanded. Immersed between the physical and immaterial, his senses stretched across ancient forests, isolated deserts, forgotten fortresses.
He caught muffled conversations. Saw ruins whisper dead gods' names. Noticed crowds shifting toward chaos.
At the world's edges, the desperate wandered directionless. They carried starving children and shattered dreams.
Entire villages had been consumed by wars, cults, monsters, or sheer abandonment.
Then, his vision led him to a village: Gloom Breeze. Moss-covered wooden houses. Cold chimneys. The stench of despair.
Orion sent no soldiers. No messengers.
He went himself.
His arrival was not triumphant. He walked calmly. As if he'd always belonged there.
On the first night, he sat by their fires. He spoke not of gods. Nor the empire.
He listened.
Pale faces shared their pain. Hollow-eyed children watched him silently.
In the following days, he visited every home. Touched rotting walls. Examined tainted wells.
Felt the wounded soul of these people.
And when all had spoken, he gathered them under the square's withered tree.
There, before dozens of wary eyes, he said:
"I did not come to save you. You've already done that—by enduring. I came only to offer a choice. There is a place... a real place, where dignity is restored. Where suffering is not legacy, and life becomes more than survival."
The words hung like a promise.
The silence broke when Rohan—a tall man with hunched shoulders but firm gaze—asked:
"Why now? Why us?"
Orion met his eyes.
"Because it's time to rewrite histories. And yours deserves a new chapter."
On the eighth day, the villagers agreed.
With trembling hands, they carried their meager remains. And Orion, with a gesture, tore space before them—opening a golden portal that danced with stars.
As they crossed the threshold, they found Eryndor.
The impact was profound. Many wept. Some knelt. Others fell silent, unable to articulate what they felt.
Orion led them to the Plaza of Destiny. There, the Kanar—now hosts and guides—welcomed them with open arms. Not as superiors, but as kin.
Lira helped children choose homes.
Rikan explained sector routes.
Ankar, with wisdom, accompanied Orion and Gloom Breeze's elders to the Council.
Integration began there.
Not forced.
Alive.
Organic.
Each new family chose their space, offered their skills, told their story.
In the administrative halls, Orion analyzed the city's energy flows as the system processed:
『DING』
『Population: 10,000 inhabitants』
『Suggestion: Promote collective spiritual advancement to stabilize happiness metrics』
He read the data and smiled. These were not just numbers. Every name, every face, every step... framed an empire that breathed.
That night, seated atop the palace, Orion gazed at the expanse under moonlight.
Lights danced in homes.
Laughter echoed through alleys.
The soft beat of an artisan's drum vibrated in the eastern sector.
A new people—united by purpose.