Anark clenched his fists as a wide smile slowly spread across his face, a surge of triumph unlike anything he had ever known coursing through his heart and soul. Victory—true, undeniable victory—stood before him.
It was not without cost. He had sacrificed far more than most beings could even comprehend to reach this point, and he was fully aware that the consequences of his transformation were already closing in.
The nature of a Lord of the Emptiness would not remain dormant forever. Soon it would begin to erode his mind and will, drawing him into the endless expanse between universes, where his individuality would blur, and his purpose would dissolve into instinct.
Yet that did not mean death.
Perhaps he would endure. Perhaps, against all odds, he might even find a way back. And even if he did not, it was fine. What he had accomplished here, what he had secured with his own hands, was worth any price—even the loss of himself.
