Ian's breath slowed to a steady rhythm. The vial of Whisperroot Sap sat emptied beside him, the earthy scent still lingering in the air. With his mind fully opened, he reached inward, pulling threads of thought, discipline, and memory into alignment.
Ian exhaled slowly, directing his mental energy inward. A space opened in his mind, subtle at first, like a door cracking open, but widening as he leaned into it.
This was the inner consciousness, where all mental energy paths began to reshape.
He started weaving the Mental Lattice, using the Obryx structure as a guide. Its strange geometries, the way it responded only to precise alignment, all of it was etched into his memory.
Thread by thread, he layered the construct. It was like forming a three-dimensional web, every strand pulled from his focus, intent, and clarity. His mind folded along new angles, anchoring each section with calculated tension.
The lattice thickened. Became denser. Interlocked.
And then, snap.
The last connection settled. The structure fused into place.
In that moment, silence fell across his mind like a veil being drawn.
Then it hit.
A deep, internal pulse, something subtle yet undeniable, washed through him. His awareness bloomed outward.
First came the shift in perception. The air around him grew still, not because it had stopped moving, but because he was faster now. Details sharpened. Dust motes in the light, the subtle rise of temperature against the back of his hand, he noticed it all. Within a radius, his senses operated like precision instruments, drawing data with effortless clarity.
Next, the mind. Thought accelerated like a machine running in perfect tune. What once took effort now occurred instantly, analysis, deduction, mental simulations.
With the surge in consciousness, Ian's nervous system had begun enhancing itself rapidly, neurons firing with new intensity, pathways optimizing in real time. But the mind wasn't the only thing adapting. As the nervous system accelerated, the rest of his body began recalibrating to handle the overload.
His metabolism shifted first, fine-tuned to support prolonged mental output without burning out. Then came the cardiovascular system, the endocrine responses, even his musculature. One by one, each adapted in response to the demands of sustained high-functioning mental states. It was as if his entire physiology had started leaning into this new potential, using his mental energy as both power and fuel, synthesizing whatever nutrients or signals were necessary to support the transformation.
Ian remained seated for hours, his breath steady, body adjusting piece by piece. He could feel the changes ripple through him, subtle at first, then deep, lasting. When it was finally done, he opened his eyes.
He exhaled.
Honestly, it wasn't the breakthrough itself that was dangerous, it was everything that followed. The body had to be taught to adapt. And the breakthrough process, as it had been structured over generations, was designed to instruct the body on how to change.
And now it had.
He could already feel it, his aging slowing, maybe even reversing. A kind of clarity settled into his limbs and breath. His body felt lighter and more efficient.
Finally, it was done.
Ian had entered First Order.
He opened his hand.
From the empty air above his palm, Obryx began to form, shimmering into existence as if conjured from nothing. But it wasn't nothing. It was his mental energy, directed with precision, now capable of manifesting the material directly. A small dark blue cube took shape, hovering weightlessly, its edges sharp and surface flawless.
Ian rotated it slowly, letting it shift and reconfigure between his fingers. The responsiveness was striking. Smooth, effortless. Before, even with all his skill, assembling and disassembling any material always carried a sense of resistance, like the material obeyed reluctantly. But this, this was different. He had created it himself. It responded like a thought, as fluid as intention.
Of course, there were a hundred experiments he'd want to try later. Tests. Measurements. Boundaries to push. But not now.
For now, he dismissed the cube with a thought and turned to leave the chamber.
Ian stepped out of the chamber, the cool hallway light washing over him as the door sealed quietly behind. Myrra was already there, standing a few steps away, arms folded, eyes locked onto his with a tension she couldn't quite hide.
The moment she saw him upright and whole, her shoulders loosened. She moved toward him without a word.
"You're okay," she said, the relief softening her voice.
"I'm okay," Ian replied, offering a tired smile before pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he pressed his face lightly into her shoulder. "Didn't mean to make you wait so long."
Ian didn't really tell anyone apart from Myrra.
She kissed him gently, then linked her fingers with his. "Come on. You need rest."
They walked side by side back to their apartment, quiet for most of the way. Ian leaned against her just slightly, his body still adjusting, his mind slowly coming down from the layered storm of transformation.
Once inside, they didn't speak much. Myrra helped him out of his clothes and into bed.
Ian woke in the evening, no longer feeling the mental exhaustion. He was still getting used to the changes.
Just as he was about to get up, a shimmer stirred the air above him, like a ripple through still water. From that ripple, a pale envelope emerged, descending slowly. It was off-white, almost pearlescent, and thin veins of purple gold traced delicate patterns across its surface. Small, translucent wings fluttered gently on either side, keeping it aloft until it hovered just within reach.
His name was etched on the front in fluid black script.
Ian knew what it was. He'd heard of it, but this was his first time seeing one in person. Honestly, he hadn't expected to get it, but here it was.
He took it in his hands and opened the envelope.
The lettering on the envelope wasn't anything Ian recognized at first glance, twisting strokes and unfamiliar symbols, almost like the script was alive. It wasn't written in Elven script, or any of the known dialects he had studied. And yet… when he focused, the meaning unraveled in his mind. As if the language bent itself to be understood, not read.
It was like looking at a completely foreign script, impossible to decipher at first glance, but the moment his eyes lingered, comprehension bloomed. He could feel it slotting into place in his mind, bypassing conscious translation entirely.
Inside, the letter read:
Dear Ian,
We would like to extend our congratulations on your successful ascent...
.........................
.........................
May the echoes of eternity guide your steps
- Titanis Conclave
The contents of the letter were surprisingly simple. First, a formal congratulations on his advancement, polite, succinct, and yet strangely personal. But it was the second part that truly mattered.
An invitation to join the Irylian Concord.
Ian had heard of the Irylian Concord, of course. The Irylian Concord was one of the highest governing bodies in the known universe. It wasn't just a governing body, it was the governing body, a vast interstellar union that spanned species, civilizations, and entire galactic sectors. Technically, the planet Ian resided on already fell under its jurisdiction. Even the elves and their ancestral lands and all other top species fell under its dominion.
Originally, it had been formed as a military alliance to unite civilizations against a common enemy. But over time, it evolved into something far more complex: a centralized governing structure that managed interspecies diplomacy, trade, military coordination, and legal standards. It set the rules for peaceful coexistence and ensured that conflicts between species were handled with fairness and order.
Still, each species retained sovereignty over its own cultural and internal matters. The Concord didn't interfere unless one group's actions directly harmed another.
It was also the body responsible for universal standardization, titles like Master and High Scholar, or advancement systems and their progression, were all codified by the Concord.
All beings who reached the Fourth Order and beyond were required to register with the Irylian Concord if they resided within its dominion. It wasn't optional, it was law. Fourth Order beings were not just powerful; they were capable of planetary destruction, their presence alone enough to shift the balance of a star system. With that level of power, a check was necessary, something to ensure accountability.
These individuals could also be called upon in times of war or emergencies, deployed as strategic assets to protect the balance of the Concord. They were expected to uphold inter-species treaties, intervene in catastrophic-level threats, and, in some cases, even mentor or supervise lower-Order civilizations developing under the Concord's protection.
In return, registration came with significant advantages too. They gained the right to vote on universal legislation, influence major policy shifts, and most crucially, access the Concord's unparalleled archives and infrastructure. Knowledge from extinct civilizations, advanced technologies, rare materials, lost techniques, and nearly anything else imaginable could be acquired through the Concord's network of markets and vaults… if one could afford the cost.
First Order beings weren't usually invited, but that rule didn't apply to the top species. For races like humans, elves, and a few others, an invitation upon reaching the First Order was standard. It wasn't something one applied for, it arrived automatically, a mark of recognition. And now, Ian had received his.
He hadn't been sure if it would come. After all, in the traditional sense, he wasn't a native human of this universe. But apparently, they were considering him one.
If the Irylian Concord was the union then the Titanis Conclave could be thought of as the senate or parliament of the Irylian Concord, where all the most important decisions were made. The name came from the Titans, an ancient and overwhelmingly powerful species.
Back when the Concord was still in its infancy, the Titans often presided over conflicts between species. As the most dominant military force in the known universe, and one that commanded deep respect, they became the default arbiters. Their judgments, perceived as fair and backed by unmatched strength, were almost always accepted by all parties.
Ian had heard of them. Titans - towering, godlike beings, colossal in form and capable of destruction on a scale most species couldn't even conceptualize. Some believed they are still the strongest species in existence, unchallenged from ancient times to now.
These days, the Titanis Conclave had evolved into a structured governing body, a place where the powerful beings from countless species, races, and civilizations across the quarter of the universe come together to shape policy, enforce law, and resolve disputes. But beneath its orderly framework was a core truth: power still ruled.
The Conclave was divided into two bodies: the Outer Sanctum and the Inner Sanctum. Most species had limited representation in the Outer Sanctum. But the Inner Sanctum? That was reserved for the top species - humans, elves, titans, and a scarce few others. From there, they wielded absolute and unchecked veto power. No policy passed without their agreement.
It wasn't fair. But fairness had never been the foundation of this universe. Power was. And the powerful didn't follow rules because they had to, they followed them because they wrote them.
Ian had already made the decision. If given the chance, he would join, no hesitation. It would make everything easier. For someone like him, newly ascended and inexperienced, there were no mandatory duties, no immediate responsibilities, only the benefits. Access, protection, recognition. Most species would have to undergo rigorous selection to earn the same rights. He was simply offered them.
Quietly, almost like an instinct threading through his thoughts, he whispered the words in his mind: "I accept."
The paper in his hands shimmered, then began to dissolve, not into dust, but into something alive. Fibers unwound and rewove themselves until a single leaf took form, deep purple streaked with veins of soft gold. At its center, a sigil was burned into the surface, a mark Ian didn't recognize but somehow understood, it was his identity mark.