The Rise of the Black Plain

Chapter 2922 The Origin

Chapter 2922  The Origin 

The instant Minos settled onto the throne, the entire semi-transparent structure of the singularity trembled, its components shifting one after another in a mesmerizing domino effect.

From the shimmering golden figure, a colossal black-gold throne swiftly emerged, shedding its ethereal form to fully materialize—solidifying its dominion in the cosmos. This transformation transcended mere physicality; it radiated inward, suffusing Minos himself. The boundaries of Devdar's dimension fractured effortlessly around him, casting him into the void of space.

Yet the lethal vacuum posed no peril. Even prior to this ascension, Minos' power had rendered him nearly impervious to such existential hazards. Now, wielding a throne from the Upper Realm, his sovereignty over chaos itself became undeniable. The turbulent expanse of space seemed to defer to him as he ascended the last steps of the Divine Journey, embracing Immortality.

Minos' mortal essence had long since receded, fading to near nothingness. His vitality, already immense before the inheritance's final stage, could have sustained him for millions of years without further ambition. But immortality remained elusive—until now. As the throne's power merged with his being, the shackles of mortality disintegrated. Time's constraints dissolved, granting him boundless vitality—a herald of the eternal.

The transformation resonated through Minos' flesh and soul, redefining his very essence. His aura surged beyond the measurable thresholds, crackling with ascended energy that seemed to warp reality itself.

Though he'd reached level 125 before the culmination of the inheritance, mere minutes now pushed his power to the pinnacle of that realm. The air thrummed with tension—his advancement to level 126 loomed imminent, an inevitability trembling at the edges of perception.

Yet Minos, ever the disciplined seer, remained characteristically composed. This fleeting growth paled beside the metamorphosis coursing through his body. Where boundless vitality alone might astonish others, he perceived deeper truths: muscles reforged with cosmic precision, bones etched in gold-veined patterns transcending mortal constraints.

Every ability evolved—sharpened, elevated, perfected. New potentialities unfolded like celestial maps. His divine powers thrummed in resonance with the throne, illuminating a luminous path forward now that he stood at immortality's threshold.

Instinctively, Minos channeled his energies. The throne flared to life as his awareness split: half probing inward, half reshaping existence itself. The vacuum recoiled. Space buckled. He staggered backward as raw power birthed a fresh singularity—and from its heart bloomed a nascent dimension.

Indigo-tinged heavens stretched above dunes of crimson soil bisected by rivers of liquid light. Forests of crystalline trees erupted skyward, their mirrored leaves reflecting Minos' innermost vision.

'Fascinating… Can all Entitled Deities wield such power?' Minos' eyes flickered open as the final currents of integration with his Upper Realm throne coursed through him.

Before him sprawled the undeniable proof of his ascension—a nascent dimension, flawless and vast, shimmering with embryonic grandeur.

To an outsider from the mortal realms, this cosmic expanse might seem ancient, its laws intricately woven and dense with primal energies. Raw power pooled like liquid starlight across its surface, ripe for cultivation. Primordial mountain ranges pulsed with latent treasures; crystalline rivers carved valleys where unseen forces whispered of future epics.

Minos' senses stretched outward, tracing the rogue singularities birthed unintentionally during his creation—each a seed waiting to unfurl into realms of its own. Methodically, he scattered his hoarded artifacts and relics across this fledgling domain, their energies bleeding into the soil like ink on parchment, destined to stain eternity.

'Still a fledgling compared to Hell's infernal depths or the Upper Realm's unfathomable vastness,' he mused, yet it already eclipses Devdar's sanctuaries.

As he mapped his creation's boundaries—its possibilities expanding and contracting in rhythm with his own strength—a resonant hum vibrated the air.

No alarm colored his voice when the throne itself spoke, "A question of perspective, master. All Entitled Deities forge domains. Few birth… this." The words carried weight, as though the golden throne's voice had been hewn from the silence between celestial collisions.

Minos' fingertips brushed the armrest's intricate carvings. "And you? Are you bound by such limitations?"

"I am both mirror and artifact—a conduit shaped by your ascension. Some thrones gain sentience; fewer still retain clarity. As for those who forge dimensions like yours?" The throne's tone curled like smoke. "Call us… exceptions."

"What do you know?" Minos demanded, his voice echoing through the nascent dimension. Anticipation coiled in his chest—answers to unspoken questions hung in the air like shards of glass.

"I comprehend the scaffolding of reality," the throne intoned, its voice devoid of inflection. "Gravity, entropy, quantum threads. But history? The machinations of Entitled Deities?" A hollow pause. "Such inventions lie beyond my parameters."

Minos' fingers tightened imperceptibly on the armrests. The throne grasped how the cosmos functioned, not why. A tool—brilliant yet blinkered. It could stabilize dimensions, anchor distant realms, or crush galaxies into ash. All power, no poetry.

"Then why reveal yourself?" Minos leaned forward, the throne humming beneath him. "What do you want?"

A pulse of light rippled through the armrests. "There is no want," it replied, a synthetic timbre sharpening. "But an anomaly exists. Probability matrices indicate prior intersection. Contradictory. Irrational." For the first time, its tone flickered—a glitch in the machine. "You require guidance before ascending. The Upper Realm's path deceives. Your predecessor's counsel omitted… variables."

Minos stiffened. 'So it can rifle through my mind like parchment.'

"Guide me where?"

"Not where." The throne resonated deeper, shaking the marrow of reality itself. "When."

Space crystallized. Time fractured.

Minos' vision exploded into streaks of gilt and shadow—a kaleidoscope of epochs hurtling past. He glimpsed supernovae birthing in reverse, civilizations crumbling to dust before their first breath, his own silhouette mirrored infinitely across timelines. His hold on the throne became extremely tight.

"To comprehend your Ascension, you must witness the Origin," the throne declared, urgency bleeding into its monotone. "Deviation now ensures annihilation. One minute remains. After—"

Minos' pulse roared in his ears, primal and raw—a sensation he'd forgotten after centuries of godhood.

"—everything fractures."

The maelstrom stilled.

A horizonless plain stretched before him, void-black and studded with embryonic stars. At its center pulsed a single, incandescent seed—the primal spark from which all laws, realms, and deities unfurled.

"Welcome," the throne whispered, not without reverence, "to the Ancestral Realm."