Lyre city
Delos
Apollon, Sol star system
Regulus galaxy
Divine Federation
15th Krios cycle, Solaris prime
Leon stared at his reflection in the cracked, dust-covered mirror of the ruined restroom. His face, mostly hidden beneath a thick golden beard, looked wild and untamed—like a lion lost to time. The beard clung to his rugged features like ivy to old stone, and his hair, matted and heavy, flowed down past his shoulders, past his waist, nearly brushing the shattered tiles of the floor. It was the natural consequence of years spent in solitude, in this forsaken city on the moon of his planet—a place long abandoned, buried under layers of silence and ash.
He had not cared for his appearance in all that time. Grooming, vanity, civilization—such things felt meaningless here. But now, something had shifted. Something within him stirred.
With a thought, he summoned his Odic force and the air shimmered, and in an instant, invisible blades of force sliced through the overgrowth of hair that cloaked him. Strands fell like golden silk to the floor, turning to dust before they touched the ground.
When the veil of wilderness lifted, his true face emerged—clean, sharp, and impossibly divine. It was as if a statue of a forgotten god had come to life. High, angular cheekbones, a strong, chiseled jawline, and perfectly symmetrical features gave him an ethereal beauty—balanced, yet commanding. His skin was smooth, sun-kissed, and unmarred, glowing faintly in the dim light of the ruined chamber. His eyes—previously shadowed by wild strands—now gleamed with quiet resolve.
After washing himself as best he could with the half-functional utilities of the derelict building, Leon reached into the subspace pocket of his dimensional band. From the endless void of compressed matter and stasis fields, he retrieved a fresh set of clothes—one of the few luxuries he allowed himself.
He dressed in silence. A black, long-sleeved compression shirt clung to his form, woven from adaptive nano-fiber that subtly adjusted to his body's temperature and energy fluctuations. His pants matched in tone—reinforced, tactical, and fitted with minor mana-reactive plating along the thighs and calves. Heavy combat boots, caked in stardust from forgotten battlefields, slid into place with a low mechanical hum as their internal systems synchronized to his biofield. Finally, he slipped on a dark crimson trench coat, its inner lining embroidered with faint arcane runes that shimmered briefly before vanishing into the fabric. It flowed like shadow behind him.
Then came the moment he had been avoiding.
Leon withdrew his Zodiak—a sleek, obsidian-black communication device etched with golden circuitry, humming with faint dimensional signatures. He had all but ignored it during his seclusion. Messages, alerts, signals from the outside world—all had gone unanswered. He'd wanted silence. Isolation. Stillness. But now, curiosity tugged at him like gravity.
He needed to know.
With a flicker of thought, the device activated. Holographic symbols and rotating stellar glyphs danced in the air above the Zodiak, coalescing into a digital clock bound to the Galactic Standard Calendar.
His eyes narrowed.
"What...?" he muttered.
The number stared back at him in quiet judgment.
Fifty years.
"Fifty years?!" he snarled. His voice echoed off the cold, metal walls of the room. Rage surged through him, and the Zodiak cracked under the pressure of his grip, its internal stabilizers whirring in protest. He nearly crushed it—nearly gave in.
But he stopped. Closed his eyes. Inhaled.
Exhaled.
He had known this was a possibility. A risk.
That was the danger of seclusion—especially for cultivators. Time became fluid. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into years. When you were reaching inward, toward the divine, the temporal threads of the world outside unraveled and lost meaning. You could return with unimaginable power... or discover that everything you cared for had long since turned to dust.
That was why he hadn't returned to Apollo, his home planet. Not right away. He had made a calculated choice: to retreat instead to Delos, its moon—an abandoned, shattered remnant of the old world. There, hidden deep within the ruins of the city of Lyre, he had disappeared.
Now, stepping outside the building that had served as his hermitage, Leon surveyed the sky overhead.
It was dark. Not with the beauty of a natural night, but hollow—a canvas void of the artificial stars that once lit Delos like a second sky. There was no glow from the orbital rings, no shimmer from the stellar gardens that had once danced in the stratosphere.
"It must be the time dilation," Leon whispered, eyes scanning the dead heavens.
He remembered the stories. Centuries ago, a Cosmic Cataclysm had ruptured the fabric of space-time over Lyre, tearing a wound so deep it gave birth to an Echo Field—a phantom region stitched from warped temporal energy and spatial recursion. To the untrained mind, it resembled a dream of the real world, a simulated layer mirroring reality but subtly... wrong.
Lyre had been consumed by the storm. The result: a dead city caught in an endless loop, suspended in a slower stream of time. A year outside could pass as mere weeks or days within.
And yet—despite the danger, cultivators came.
They came for the overwhelming saturation of Cosmic energy within the Echo Field. A place tainted by a temporal wound, yes, but also nourished by the spilled essence of the stars themselves.
Leon had known the risks. Everyone from Apollo knew.
But still—he had chosen this path.
As a Sage Realm cultivator, a Sixth-Order Demigod, Leon's body and soul had long transcended mortal limitations. His Soul Core had expanded into a vast nebular forge, capable of channeling and refining Odic energy directly from cosmic radiation. Here, within the heart of Lyre, he had bathed in it—fed on it.
Cosmic Od—purer, denser, richer in frequency—was the philosopher's stone of all ascension paths. With it, breakthroughs came easier, spells hit harder, and the journey to divinity drew nearer. In his thirst for power, he had chosen to brave the echoes. He just hadn't expected to lose five decades in the process. Now, standing in the ashes of a world long past, Leon narrowed his eyes toward the distant horizon. It was time to return.
He thought of Sam—his Sam.
The memory struck like a soft blade to the chest. Her voice, her eyes, the quiet warmth of their final moments together. And the promise he had made. A promise he hadn't kept. Leon clenched his jaw, the guilt cutting deeper than he expected. A twinge of frustration rose in his chest—at himself, at time, at fate. Then, without another word, he lifted a foot above the cracked marble floor.
He rose.
Gravity surrendered as he soared upward, body cutting through the stagnant air of the ruined city. His coat whipped behind him like a crimson banner, and the golden glow of his aura shimmered faintly as he accelerated toward the broken dome of the artificial sky above.
There—an opening.
A vast rupture in the heavens, a jagged wound in the orbital structure that once served as Lyre's sunshield. Leon burst through the tear, emerging into the black sea of space beyond. And there it was. Apollo. The orange planet loomed before him, immense and alive, its atmosphere swirling in silent, majestic rotation. At its very heart—burning like a living god—was the Red Sun. Apollon. A slow, breathless smile crossed Leon's face. The crimson star flared behind the planet like a blazing heart, its energy pulsing with rhythm and memory. His home.
The sacred world governed by the House of Leo, the last vestige of his people's pride. And at its center—his bloodline, the Haravok family, once kings, now almost myth. The other families were long gone—extinguished or swallowed whole, absorbed into the Haravok dominion as vassals, survivors of persecution. The other Celestial Houses of the Divine Federation had never forgiven the House of Leo for what they were. And for what they had refused to become.
With a sharp exhale, Leon surged forward, igniting a burst of Odic propulsion behind him. The space around him shimmered as he accelerated, streaking toward the planet like a falling star in reverse. He was going home. As he pierced the upper atmosphere, the friction flared across his aura, burning away residual cosmic frost. The sky of Apollo bloomed into deep amber hues, thick with fire, mist, and the pulsing heat of a world forever facing its sun.
And then—he felt it. A hum in his bones. A pull in his blood. A resonance that thrummed in perfect synchrony with the land below. The planet responded to him. It knew him. The moment he breached the atmosphere, Apollo awakened. The ancient bond between planet and ruler surged to life, and Leon felt the recognition of the world itself—the acknowledgment of its sovereign.
He was Haravok. He was Leo. And Apollo was his. In the Divine Federation, twelve inner planets orbited the galactic core, each one tethered to one of the Twelve Celestial Houses. They were living worlds, attuned to the spiritual lineage of their rulers. Some ruled as kings. Others as emperors. But none ruled alone—except here.
Apollo was unique.
A single, massive continent dominated the sunward side of the planet—tidally locked, forever basking in the infernal gaze of Apollon. It was a continent of flame, ash, and molten plains, kept alive by technology, faith, and sheer defiance. Beyond it stretched the Volcanic Sea—a churning ocean of lava that swallowed all other lands long ago.
And further still... lay the Frozen Wasteland. A realm of eternal night, untouched by the sun's gaze. A place where light went to die and the bones of ancient beasts still whispered through the wind. To any outsider, Apollo would seem uninhabitable.
But the House of Leo was no ordinary lineage.
They were Pleiadians, born of stellar blood, blessed with a rare genetic trait embedded in every cell—the Solar Core Constitution. It allowed them to absorb solar radiation and even thrive off ambient thermal energy. Heat was not their enemy. It was their nourishment.
This brutal world, with its extremes of fire and frost, had forged them into something more than human. Something celestial. Leon descended like a falling god, eyes locked on the land below, the pulsing heart of his people now beating louder in his soul.
The continent was a crown of black flame and golden brilliance—Heliora, named after the legendary warrior-maiden of the Haravok line, a battle-saint whose blade had once split a moon and whose sacrifice kindled the bloodline's connection to the Red Sun itself.
Heliora stood proudly atop jagged obsidian plateaus, like the fossilized spine of a celestial beast—its crags rising out of the molten world like defiant fangs. The cities scattered across its expanse were marvels of arcane engineering and solar harmony. Some hovered above churning lava seas, suspended by radiant pylons that combined solar levitation technology and ancient heliomantic enchantments—a fusion of science and sorcery unique to the House of Leo.
As Leon soared across the fiery skies, his eyes took in the glowing spires and solar domes of the cities below, radiant towers gleaming like gilded lighthouses above rivers of flame. Highways of light connected skyborne districts, while mana-forged bridges spanned across glowing calderas, alive with the steady pulse of the planet's breath.
And then, as he reached the heart of the continent, the vision of his true destination rose before him:
Heartfire Plateau.
It floated in solemn majesty above a massive lake of living magma—an immense obsidian mesa suspended mid-air, anchored to the planet's crust by sunforged chains thicker than ancient redwoods. Each chain pulsed with radiant runes that shimmered in rhythm with the planet's leyline flows. From the sides of the mesa, glowing lavafalls poured in slow motion, casting shifting golden light into the red mist that veiled the underworld beneath.
Atop the plateau stood the ancestral home of his bloodline:
The Sol Palace.
Even from a distance, it burned with divine splendor—an edifice of light and shadow, forged from Sunstone and starlaced obsidian. The Sunstone—an incandescent crystalline mineral—radiated a soft internal glow, gold-orange and warm as a rising dawn. Interwoven throughout its walls were veins of starlaced obsidian, pitch-black and shot through with celestial threads of blue, silver, and crimson—like the blood of dead stars trapped in stone.
The palace shimmered beneath the burning gaze of Apollon, its living alloy architecture shifting ever so subtly in the light—walls adjusting their crystalline tessellation to align with the sun's movement, as if the structure itself breathed. These adaptive metals, known only to Leo engineers, could phase between defensive and radiant states, absorbing excess solar energy to fuel its inner systems.
At the palace's core hovered the Solar Core Crystal—a levitating, sentient relic the size of a warship. It emitted waves of heatless light, and within its depths danced solar flares and prismatic auroras. Legend held that it housed the will of the First Star-Lion, a primordial Celestial beast once bonded to the Solarian Celestials—ancestral Pleiadian rulers who communed with stars as others did with gods. These creatures, noble and ancient, had once roamed Apollo as guardians and companions to the Haravok bloodline. The Crystal had remained ever since, orbiting the Sol Palace like a loyal sentinel.
It had been a long time—too long—since Leon had stood on this soil.
Now, as he slowed above the radiant plateau, the full majesty of the Sol Palace hit him anew. He found himself momentarily breathless, not just from nostalgia, but from awe. The palace wasn't merely architecture. It was alive—a solar entity of stone and flame, pulsing with memory, power, and presence. Every corner of its spires whispered of heritage. Every shimmer of its light was a reminder that this was his birthright.
Beneath it all lay the Solar Nexus—a vast convergence of planetary leylines, the beating heart of Apollo itself. From it flowed radiant Essence, surging upward to feed the palace and empower the Haravok line. Some said the Nexus was once a star that had fallen into the core of the world, tethering the Haravok blood to Apollo on a metaphysical level. When Leon passed into the atmosphere, the Nexus had felt him—had welcomed him. That pulse had grown stronger now, with every second of his return.
The planet had awakened.
And its Lion had come home
****
Within the inner sanctum of the Sol Palace, far beyond the throne hall and solar archives, deep in the private tiers of the upper quarters, Leon indulged in the kind of pleasures only a king could afford. He needed this. Not because he lacked discipline. Not because his heart was weak.
But because after fifty years of seclusion, after enduring the silence of Lyre, the weight of the Echo Field, and the madness of isolation, he needed to remember he was alive.
The chamber was vast, carved from curved glasslike Sunstone and draped in shimmering mana-silk curtains that glowed faintly in the light of the orbiting Solar Core Crystal. The air was rich with incense scents- imported from the moons of Daemonis and the gardens of Elarin. Spiced heat, sweet vapor, and solarflame wine danced in the air like ghostly notes of a forgotten symphony.
A low table floated inches above the floor, crafted from meteorwood and inlaid with radiant circuitry. It bore a decadent feast—roasted solarbeasts, honeyed fruit from the lava groves, dreamroot pastries laced with euphoric alkahest. The food sizzled, bubbled, and shimmered with enchantments, meant to please both palate and soul.
Leon sat reclined on a floating lounge of void-leather and heat-sensitive cloth, his shirt undone, golden tattoos faintly glowing across his chest like circuitry carved into flesh. In his hand, a chalice of liquid sunlight shimmered—Ambrosian Wine, fermented in stasis fields around dwarf stars. It was said a single sip could warm the bones of a dying man. Leon had downed three.
And he was far from done.
Around him moved the Pleasure-Class Automatons—not crude machines, but living sculptures of chrome, light, and bio-synth flesh. Each one was a masterpiece of Celestial-era engineering, molded with impossible beauty and programmed for fluid emotion, intimacy, and adaptation. Their eyes glowed with warm amber light, their skin responding to touch, temperature, and desire. Some bore the aesthetic of solar priestesses, others like warriors of old, some androgynous, some feminine, some built to shift between both.
They were companions of choice—perfected vessels for sensory pleasure and emotional illusion. And for now, they were his.
One knelt before him, feeding him a slice of lumafruit soaked in starlight syrup, her lips brushing against his fingers. Another poured more wine, her arm morphing into a decanter as if grown from liquid metal. A third whispered in his ear—poetry in Old Solarian, a language no longer spoken except by ancient systems.
Leon chuckled, head lolling slightly as he leaned back further. For all the fire and glory of the Sol Palace, it was here—in the secret rooms of indulgence—that the truth of his divinity lingered.
"I missed this," he muttered, licking the syrup from his thumb. "The taste of heat. The sound of laughter."
A Pleasure Unit curled beside him, her voice soft and melodic. "Would you like the memory sequence activated, my Lord? We can replicate any moment—any lover, any scene, any style."
He hesitated.
For a second, the image of Sam flashed behind his eyes. Her laugh. Her scent. The way she used to trace the lion mark on his chest when he slept. He felt the weight of her absence like a phantom limb.
But then, he shook it off. Buried it. Not now.
"Not tonight," he said.
And the room pulsed with pleasure once more.
The music softened—low, sultry harmonics pulsing through the chamber like a heartbeat. The ambient glow of the room dimmed to a warm ember light, casting golden shadows across Leon's body. The Pleasure Units responded in kind, their programming attuned to the subtlest shifts in mood, breath, and energy. They moved closer—not mechanical, but fluid, like dancers woven from light and desire.
One straddled his lap, her skin a blend of cool metal and velvet warmth, her body sculpted to the exact symmetry of celestial beauty. The synthetic nerves beneath her surface pulsed in time with his heartbeat, creating the illusion—no, the experience—of a real, living being. Her fingers traced his jaw, her lips brushing over his like mist over fire.
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her breath tinged with solar spice and programmed pheromones meant to heighten sensation. Another knelt behind him, hands working along his back with a healer's precision—kneading muscle, tracing solar tattoos that glowed beneath his skin with each touch. A third slid in from the side, wrapping around him like living silk, her fingers gliding over his chest, tracing the edge of his waistband.
Leon exhaled, low and primal, his breath catching as pleasure and memory blurred. There was nothing cold or artificial about them—not anymore. The Pleasure Units were designed to respond, to learn, to become extensions of desire itself. Their movements were not mechanical but sensual, adaptive, each curve and shift in sync with his own rhythms.
Clothing slipped away in fragments, dissolving with a thought. Skin met skin—synth with flesh, light with heat. Every motion was fluid, every kiss electric, every sound a note in a symphony of indulgence. Leon's hands gripped hips made of star-forged muscle, the bio-synthetic warmth indistinguishable from real life—if anything, even more intoxicating. They moved in harmony, not as man and machine, but as flames caught in the same blaze.
The rhythm quickened, slowed, built again. Moans echoed softly against the sunstone walls, joined by breathy whispers in forgotten languages, sweet nonsense in ancient Solarian dialects meant only for the ears of kings.
He lost himself for a while—not in escape, but in reclamation. In sensation. In control. In the living echo of everything he had once been. And as the Pleasure Units entwined around him, wrapping him in heat, light, and sensation, the Solar Core Crystal hovering above the palace pulsed once—softly, rhythmically—as if acknowledging its lord's return.