437 Giant Wave

Planets that birthed civilizations were always rotating. No matter how long the cold and endless night lasted, the sun would always rise as usual.

Struggle, corruption, struggle, corruption.

Those beings who called themselves idealists had always been fighting.

They were slaves, untouchables, despised people at the bottom of society. They could have lived out their brief lives in cold isolation. They were insignificant, drowned in the long river of history, less worthy of remembrance than some lifeless piece of technology.

Yet they had always been fighting.

History mercilessly crushed them time and again, and then they crawled back out of the ashes.

That spark called idealism, no matter how many forms it took, would always reignite someday.

How strange.

A fire of this magnitude was still not enough to illuminate the universe.

Mere embers, yet they could never be extinguished.

Brief, furious, sorrowful, foolish, and indestructible.

"History always rolls onward. It may seem like the past is repeating itself, but it is already a new poem."

When I realized this, I was raising children on the land of Dragon Satellite, using Qualia Rain to clear away the Void.

I was not a being skilled at combat. Even among the Origin Species, I was the youngest and least experienced.

But perhaps precisely because of my youth, I was closer to the mundane world than any other Origin Species.

By the time I realized that ideals were the sole faith driving mortal struggle, I had already begun doing the same things they did.

But I also knew.

Those who held ideals would always be destroyed by reality.

Like them, I was destined to collapse and perish beneath the Void's advance.

The shattered slabs of the island had been carried off by the waves to who knew where. Low-hanging stars alternated with