Update in ~20-30.
Is there a means of attaining contentment without excess self-satisfaction? Quick is the plunge to stagnation, once one's goals are attained.
-Notes of the Forebear
Monday, the 1059th world.
The treadmill of worlds ground on ceaselessly, and he increased his pace to match. Long had it been since his first dire transport, his first breathtaking emergence into mystery and wonder. Now there was only the drab gray abattoir of his trek, the mire of worlds each successively crueler and more ashen than the last, pith of his soul ground into an unfeeling husk. Yet even that dusky charcoal had not been enough for the Procession. By raw pressure alone it had smelted him into something harder, charcoal become diamond, become something that could neither tarry nor yield; but only press ceaselessly onwards into the abyss of worlds. There was no brightness in this mire, so all he could display was his sharpness: the power to pierce, to strike, to cut.
That sharpness he'd refined on the whetstone of worlds, until his fingers were bone and his marrow was wine, until his mind and soul like errant wax dribbled from his eyes and stained the cosmos beneath. One of the few benefits of perpetual reincarnation: the ability to train beyond the limits of any one body or self.
He cut those things which were easy to cut. He cut those things which were difficult to cut. He cut those things which were possible to cut. He cut those things whose possibility was in question. He cut, and cut, and cut, and cut, until he could cut through, even if it could not be cut.
That had been his...
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