Riven stretched, arms behind his head, grinning like a fox who just found the henhouse.
"So, darling… anything else you want to tell me? Any divine instructions? Great cosmic rules I should be aware of?"
The air shimmered. A soft hum echoed from the roots of the realm. The voice returned, calm but amused.
"Not much. Just… take your rewards for clearing the trial."
Riven blinked. "Huh? Didn't you already throw a mountain of gold at me earlier?"
"A mountain? That was barely a pebble. A pile of lifeless metal. Even one fallen leaf from the World Tree holds more worth than everything I gave you."
Riven scoffed, glancing at the tree. "Tch. Show off."
"So now what?" he continued, spinning on his heel. "Realm of Divine Something-or-Other… what's my reward? Eternal power? A spaceship? A puppy?"
A pause. Then the voice returned, amused again.
"My name—"
"Ah-ah," Riven cut him off, waving a hand. "Forget it. Don't wanna know. You old timeless types always have names that sound like someone sneezed while casting a spell. Myr-Myrr'danthal was it? Forget it. I'll just call you... Grumpy Realm Grandpa. Works?"
The realm groaned.
"...You are a strange one."
"And you're a talking dimension with trust issues. We all have our quirks." He grinned.
"Now cough up the real rewards, Grandpa."
The realm paused. Silence hummed in the vastness, like even the winds held their breath.
"Are you sure... you're twelve years old?" the voice finally asked, laced with disbelief.
Riven tilted his head, shrugged, and flashed a mischievous grin.
"Damn sure."
He leaned back casually, arms behind his head like he was lounging on a beach and not standing inside an ancient, immortal dimension that just tried to kill him.
"Mentally? Probably thirty. Physically? Yeah, twelve. Spiritually? Somewhere between a dragon monk and a drunk uncle."
The realm was silent again. If entire dimensions could blink, this one just did—slowly.
"...You are going to be a problem."
Riven gave a mock wink. "Oh, I intend to be."
"Whatever," the voice of the realm sighed, ancient yet vaguely exasperated. "You're serious when needed—barely. Anyway… these are your rewards."
A ripple moved through the air like reality exhaled, and something shimmered into existence above Riven's palm.
A small, glowing shard—dark as obsidian, pulsing faintly with multicolored light, as if stars were trapped inside it.
"This is a Realm Stone… the core of any realm. Take it out, and the realm dies. Use it—"
"—and a realm is born."
Riven stared at it, jaw half-open. "Wait, what? Realm Stone? You mean this tiny thing is what entire dimensions depend on? And no one's discovered it yet?"
A pause. Then Riven narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"Oh. Ohhh... maybe that's why you're the Realm of Realms, Gramps."
He smirked. "Realm Grandpa. Grapms."
The realm trembled slightly. "Please do not call me Grapms."
"Too late, it's canon now." Riven tossed the stone in his hand casually, then fumbled. "Oops—"
The realm flinched. "DON'T DROP THAT—"
Riven caught it again with a grin. "Kidding. Probably. So, what's next, Grapms? Got a coupon for a new pair of pants too? 'Cause mine have definitely seen better days."
"I… deeply regret choosing you."
"But I am the only person to clean this trail of yours after a million or more years," Riven said, slipping the Realm Stone into his inventory ring with a smug sparkle in his eye.
The realm sighed like an ancient wind through the leaves.
"Anyway. Your second reward is one of the Seven Genesis Keys—the Sword of Destruction."
Riven raised a brow. "Wait… is it a key, or a sword?"
"…Both."
He narrowed his eyes. "So it opens doors and guts people?"
The realm remained ominously silent, which Riven had come to interpret as a smug shrug.
"Right," he muttered. "I guess we're doing metaphysical Ikea now."
He paced forward, the ocean rippling beneath his feet with each step. The sword stood alone, embedded upright in a stone that floated unnaturally on the water's surface, as if time itself refused to weigh it down. The aura around it didn't scream for attention—it whispered threats. Subtle. Ancient. Final.
The blade was pitch black, so dark it made the void look like cheap smoke. Crimson runes crawled across its surface like living scars, shifting and rearranging in a language that didn't want to be read. It pulsed—once—as he drew closer, and the water around the stone boiled for a moment, then calmed.
"I'm gonna assume this thing doesn't come with a manual?" Riven asked, stopping a few feet away.
"It doesn't need one," the realm replied. "It doesn't follow rules. It ends them."
Riven rubbed the back of his neck. "Cool. A murder blade with commitment issues."
He reached for the hilt—and felt his arm go slightly numb, like the sword was questioning his existence on a molecular level.
It didn't burn.
It didn't bite.
But it knew him.
"This thing has an ego," he muttered, fingers wrapping around the hilt. "I'm not sure if I'm wielding it, or it's adopting me."
He pulled.
It slid out effortlessly, like it had just been waiting for him to stop talking.
The air around him warped. Not violently—but subtly. Like reality was gently stepping aside out of respect... or fear.
He looked up, holding the sword low at his side. "Alright, fine. So this key opens…?"
There was a beat of silence.
"Go on," Riven smirked. "Say it."
"You are worthy," the realm began slowly, then added with its usual cryptic rhythm, "but not worthy enough… yet."
Riven rolled his eyes. "Knew it. I knew you'd say that. Do you guys take classes in vague prophecy lingo or is it just instinct?"
"Pretty much."
As Riven admired the sword in his hand, it suddenly pulsed—once, then again—like a heartbeat syncing with his own.
Then, without warning, the blade dissolved into smoke.
No—not smoke. Essence.
It surged into his arm like liquid fire.
He stumbled back, gritting his teeth as the energy raced through his veins, carving itself into his spirit. A symbol—no, a presence—anchored itself deep within him, ancient and terrible.
He gasped. "Okay. That's definitely not how normal swords work."
The realm chuckled, amused by his reaction.
"Oh, it seems the sword likes you… so much so that it merged its soul with yours."
Riven looked at his hand, flexing his fingers. A faint shimmer of obsidian flickered just beneath his skin, as if the blade still lingered there, waiting.
"So let me get this straight," he said. "The sword didn't want to be carried around. It wanted a timeshare in my soul?"
"In a way," the realm answered. "You are no longer its wielder. You are the sword."
Riven blinked. "That's... ominous."
"You can cut anything you wish to cut," the realm added calmly. "Stone, shadow, time, space, soul—it will respond to your intent."
He raised an eyebrow. "So I just point where I want something gone, and boom—it's sliced?"
"Pretty much."
"Great," Riven said. "So I'm basically a twelve-year-old reality delete button."
"But," the realm continued dryly, "you are still far too weak to handle its full potential. Right now, you'd be lucky if it can cut through your own homework."
Riven smirked. "Fair. But just wait—I'll be slicing metaphysics by puberty."