“It’s tomorrow,” he said, almost reverently. “The Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom.”
His companions exchanged uneasy glances, but none of them spoke. Krungus, so recently freed from his millennia-long imprisonment, couldn’t possibly understand what had become of the festival he once held so dear. Bahumbus scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Yeah… tomorrow,” he echoed, forcing a smile.
Krungus didn't notice their hesitation. He was already lost in his memories—images of luminous flowers blooming in harmony with celestial rhythms, grand plazas teeming with people joined in unity, and the ethereal presence of the stars themselves watching over the festival.
He turned back to the window. "I can almost hear the music already. The Petalumbra Ritual at sunrise... the streets will be packed with garlands of living flowers, won't they? And the Heartfelt Reunion Ceremony—people exchanging their tokens of friendship..." His voice trailed off wistfully.
Qlaark, ever the diplomat, shifted uncomfortably. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
Krungus smiled, oblivious to the unease in Qlaark’s tone. “It’ll be just as I remember,” he said, stepping away from the window. “Maybe even better.”
The soft hum of the city outside filtered through the windows of their makeshift hideout—a small, cluttered room within the depths of the Mushroom Tower. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and spilled tea, and the glow from a single lantern cast long shadows across the mismatched furniture.
Eugene leaned back in his creaky chair, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. “Alright,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of skepticism. “Someone want to explain to me what this Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom is all about? Because Krungus has been talking about it since we got back like it’s the most important thing in the universe.”
Qlaark was sitting nearby trying to write a response to one of the paladins he was trying to convince to convert to Ranvar-ism. “It was the most important thing... a long time ago.” He tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze distant. “These days, though? It’s... different.”
B’doom, seated quietly in the corner, stirred for the first time. His deep, gravelly voice rumbled through the room. “It wasn’t just a festival,” he said slowly, each word carrying the weight of ancient memories. “It was her festival. Utopianna created it.”
Eugene blinked. “Wait, Utopianna? The same Utopianna he’s always going on about?”
Bahumbus, sprawled on the couch with a cup of something steaming, nodded eagerly. “Oh yeah. The Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom was her gift to the world. She crafted it with her magic—celestial and floral woven together in this perfect balance. It wasn’t just about pretty lights and flowers, it was about connection. Renewal. It was her.”
B’doom nodded solemnly. “She poured herself into it. It reflected everything she believed in—unity, resilience, and beauty. That’s why Krungus loves it so much.” His eyes, heavy with old remembrance, met Eugene’s. “Because he loves her.”
Eugene sat up, surprised by the weight of the words. “He loves her?”
Bahumbus grinned, though it lacked his usual mirth. “Oh yeah. Head over heels. And I’m not just talking admiration—I'm talking the real deal.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Utopianna might’ve been this grand, celestial witch to most folks, but to Krungus? She was everything.”
Bahumbus leaned in, his voice quieter now. “That’s why this festival meant so much to him. It wasn’t just a celebration—it was a way to be close to her, even when she wasn’t here. Every petal, every ritual, every chant… they were reminders of her.” He sighed. “And now? The festival’s just a shadow of what it used to be.”
Eugene frowned. “So, you’re telling me that Krungus is expecting some grand, heartfelt celebration of his lost love, and instead, he’s gonna walk out there tomorrow and find a bunch of drunk idiots wearing glow-in-the-dark flower crowns?”
Bahumbus winced. “Pretty much.”
Qlaark snorted. “You’re catching on.”
Eugene ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “He doesn’t know it’s changed, does he?”
B’doom shook his head. “He has no idea.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling over them like a heavy fog. Outside, the distant sound of laughter and music drifted through the window—a stark contrast to the somber mood inside.
Bahumbus tapped his cup absentmindedly. “He’s gonna be crushed,” he said softly. “Imagine thinking you’re coming back to something beautiful, something sacred... and finding out it’s just another excuse for people to get wasted.”
Eugene exhaled sharply. “We can’t just let him walk into that.”
Qlaark crossed his arms, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, but what do we do? We can’t turn back time.”
Eugene glanced at each of them, his mind racing. “I don’t know… but we’ve got to do something.”
B’doom grunted in agreement. “Something,” he echoed. “For him. For her.”
Bahumbus sighed, staring into his cup. “Yeah… something.”
No one had a plan, but the unspoken agreement hung in the air. Tomorrow was going to be hard for Krungus—harder than he realized. And though they couldn’t bring back the festival he loved, they weren’t going to let him face its hollow remains alone.
The following morning, Krungus awoke early, filled with an almost childlike excitement. He dressed in his finest cloak—the one embroidered with delicate floral patterns, a relic from a time long past. As he and his companions stepped onto the streets, his smile faltered slightly.
Where were the bustling crowds? The joyous laughter? The air should have been thick with the scent of enchanted blooms, the music of the cosmos, and the hum of anticipation. Instead, the streets stretched before him, muted and empty, with only a few half-hearted decorations clinging to lampposts like afterthoughts.
Krungus paused, confusion etched across his face. "Where is everyone?" he muttered.
The further they walked, the more evident it became that something was terribly wrong. Here and there, small clusters of people loitered outside shops, sipping drinks and chatting idly—no trace of the vibrant excitement that once defined the festival. Instead of radiant floral garlands, there were only cheap plastic replicas hanging limply from storefronts. The great plazas that once overflowed with cascading petals and celestial displays were quiet, dotted with lackluster vendor stalls peddling meaningless trinkets.
His eyes widened in horror as they reached what should have been the heart of the festival—the Grand Plaza. In his time, it had been a masterpiece of living enchantment, where blooms pulsed in time with the sky and glowing petals drifted through the air like a dream. Now, the space was filled with tacky floats, bright neon signs advertising drink specials, and vendors shouting over the din of pounding music.
Krungus’s heart sank. This wasn’t the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom he remembered. It was something else—something hollow.
“They… they must be preparing for the real festivities later,” he said, grasping for some reassurance.
Eugene placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Krungus, everyone is saying this is the festival. This is what it's been for a long time."
Krungus blinked, his gaze darting from the gaudy decorations to the oblivious revelers. “No,” he whispered. “This... this can't be it.”
Qlaark sighed, trying not to look at Krungus. "It’s been like this for centuries. People don’t really celebrate anymore. They just... party."
Krungus felt as though the wind had been knocked from him. He stumbled away from his friends, wandering through the plaza, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the old ways. He saw none. No ceremonial circles, no heartfelt exchanges of tokens—only people stumbling from bar to bar, laughing too loudly, eyes glazed with indulgence.
He stopped in front of a stall selling gaudy "commemorative petals," cheap imitations of the enchanted ones that once held deep significance. The vendor grinned at him. "Only three credits each! Get one for your sweetheart!"
Krungus shook his head and turned away, his heart heavy. In the distance, he saw what should have been the entrance to the Grand Observatory—the sacred site of the Petalumbra Ritual. But instead of an open temple to the stars, a massive screen displayed garish advertisements for "The Ultimate Eclipse Viewing Experience" with exclusive VIP access.
Krungus wandered aimlessly for what felt like hours, his earlier excitement crushed beneath the weight of disillusionment. He passed more floats, more drunken revelers, and more hollow remnants of what was once a sacred day of hope and unity. He tried to hold on to his memories, but they felt like distant dreams against the harsh reality before him.
Eventually, he found himself in a quiet alleyway, far from the noise and chaos. A single enchanted flower, its petals still faintly pulsing with celestial energy, grew defiantly from a crack in the pavement. He knelt beside it, running his fingers gently over the glowing bloom.
A deep sigh escaped his lips. “It used to mean something,” he murmured.
B’doom appeared beside him, his presence quiet but comforting. The old being gave a slow nod, his ancient eyes filled with understanding.
Krungus shook his head. “I thought it would still be here... I thought she would still be here.” His voice cracked. “Utopianna. The rituals. The unity. All of it.”
B’doom remained silent, but his steady presence grounded Krungus.
After a long pause, Krungus straightened, brushing the dust from his cloak. "Maybe it's not too late," he whispered. "Maybe I can still find a way to fix this."
He turned back toward the city, a flicker of determination lighting in his chest. The festival may have been reduced to excess and superficiality, but somewhere, beneath the layers of neglect and commercialization, the true essence of the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom still lingered—waiting to be rediscovered.
As the first hints of twilight began to creep across the sky, Krungus resolved to do what he could to reclaim it. Even if it was just for himself.
Krungus stood in the open square outside the towering silhouette of the Mushroom Tower, his cloak billowing lightly in the evening breeze. The city around them pulsed with noise, but here, in this little forgotten corner, something old and sacred was about to take root again.
His friends—Eugene, Qlaark, Reg-E, B’doom, and Bahumbus—stood in a loose circle, their expressions a mix of curiosity and quiet reverence. Most of the Paladins, those who still remembered the stories of the festival’s original grandeur, had gathered as well, their armor reflecting the soft glow of the lanterns they’d placed around the square.
Krungus took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, where the eclipse was beginning to take shape. The sun’s light dimmed, casting an eerie twilight over the city, and high above, faint streaks of meteors began their celestial dance.
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"This isn't the Grand Plaza," Eugene muttered, eyeing the imposing shadow of the Mushroom Tower looming nearby. The towering structure, with its twisted cap and sprawling roots burrowing deep into the city's foundation, cast a long, uneven shade over the square. A faint hum of distant revelry from the commercialized festival echoed through the streets beyond, a reminder of the glittering spectacle they had chosen to step away from. Eugene shifted uneasily, glancing around the modest space. There were no grand arches adorned with cascading enchanted blooms, no celestial observatories humming with arcane energy—just a simple open area paved with timeworn stones, a handful of flickering lanterns, and the quiet rustling of the wind.
"Not exactly the most sacred spot," he added, his voice tinged with doubt.
Krungus stood at the center of the group, his gaze steady and unwavering, his eyes reflecting not just the flickering lantern light, but something deeper—something that had withstood the weight of centuries. He smirked, the expression filled not with irony, but with quiet certainty, a reminder of who he once was, and who he still hoped to be.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Krungus said, his voice rich with meaning. He spread his arms wide, gesturing not to the space itself, but to those standing with him. “It’s about what we bring to it.”
He took a slow step forward, looking at each of them in turn—Eugene with his skeptical yet steadfast loyalty, Qlaark with his reluctant but hopeful eyes, Bahumbus fidgeting but eager, Reg-E standing tall in quiet solidarity, and B’doom, ever the silent guardian of the past. Krungus saw in them something the city had forgotten: a willingness to believe, even if only in the smallest things.
“This festival was never about grandeur,” he continued, his voice carrying across the square, his words settling into the still air like petals drifting on the wind. “It was never about the towering displays, the fireworks, or the dazzling magic.” His eyes flickered toward the distant glow of the city, where neon signs pulsed against the darkening sky, a garish reflection of what once had been something pure. “It was about us.”
He let that sink in, the weight of it pressing against them all.
“About connection,” he said, placing a hand over his chest, “unity,” his hand extended outward, palm open to them, “and renewal.” His fingers closed slowly, as if holding onto something precious.
Krungus turned to face them fully now, his voice softer but no less firm. “We don’t need grand plazas or celestial observatories to honor this day. We don’t need enchanted petals falling in perfect synchronization, or the stars aligning just so. What we need... is each other. What we need is what we’ve always had—the willingness to share, to remember, and to hope.”
A soft breeze stirred the few scattered petals at their feet, remnants of long-forgotten celebrations swept into the corners of the city.
He looked around at the mismatched group standing before him—none of them dressed in the fine ceremonial robes of old, none of them carrying the ancient enchanted relics that once marked the occasion. But here they were, standing together under the heavy sky, bound not by the spectacle of the festival, but by something much deeper.
“We carry the tradition,” Krungus said, his voice firm now, eyes shining with conviction. “Even if the city doesn’t.”
For a moment, the weight of his words pressed into the silence, and Eugene found himself glancing around again—at the cracked cobblestones, at the crooked sign hanging above the nearby tea shop, at the unassuming cluster of lanterns they had strung up themselves. And yet... there was something in the air now, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t grandeur. It wasn’t spectacle. But it was real.
Bahumbus cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, “I think this is... enough.”
Krungus smiled, and in that moment, it felt as if the shadow of the Mushroom Tower wasn’t looming at all, but instead watching over them like an old guardian, bearing witness to something small, yet meaningful.
And in the distance, beyond the city's noise, the first streak of a meteor cut silently across the sky.
Qlaark cleared his throat. "Alright, let's do this. The city's drunk anyway; nobody's gonna notice."
Krungus stepped forward and produced a handful of glowing petals—fragments of the old magic, salvaged from the alleys and forgotten corners of the city. “Everyone take one,” he said, passing them around. “These aren’t as powerful as they once were, but it’s the meaning that matters.”
The petals glowed faintly in their hands, pulsing with an ancient, almost-forgotten energy.
They stood in a circle, hands clasped, the petals resting gently in their palms. The ritual words came easily to Krungus, even after nine thousand years in exile. He closed his eyes and began the ancient chant, his voice resonating through the square.
"By bloom and sky, by heart and stone,
Through night and light, we stand as one.
Petals fall, yet hope remains,
Eternal bonds, unbroken chains."
The others followed his lead, their voices joining his, weaving an unseen thread of unity through the air. Around them, the lanterns flickered as if caught in an unseen breeze. The petals in their hands trembled, shimmering brighter.
Above them, the eclipse reached its peak, plunging the city into a strange twilight. The meteor shower intensified, streaks of light cutting through the darkness like celestial brushstrokes. Krungus opened his eyes, and what he saw made his breath hitch in his throat.
The stars above them shifted, aligning in patterns Krungus knew all too well. Slowly, carefully, they formed into something unmistakable—the gentle, radiant face of Utopianna, her features crafted in stardust, her eyes filled with an ancient wisdom that had been absent from this world for far too long.
Gasps rippled through the gathered Paladins, and Eugene whispered, “Is that—?”
Before he could finish, the constellation shimmered, and from the very heart of it, a brilliant light began to descend.
The light touched down in the center of their circle, and in an instant, it took form—a woman draped in robes of woven petals, her witch hat blooming with glowing flowers that mirrored the stars above. Her presence was ethereal, yet tangible, as though she carried the weight of millennia within her being.
It was Utopianna, the true Utopianna.
Her eyes, pools of deep, celestial blue, swept across the gathered group, finally landing on Krungus. A soft, knowing smile graced her lips. “Krungus,” she said, her voice carrying the music of the stars themselves. “You kept the bloom alive.”
Krungus fell to his knees, overwhelmed by emotion. “I—I didn’t know if you would ever come back,” he whispered.
Utopianna stepped forward, touching his shoulder gently. “The festival may have been lost to time, but the heart of it—the heart of you—remained.” She turned to the others, her gaze filled with gratitude. “You honored the true essence of the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom, when all else had forgotten.” She paused, and gave a little mischievous smile exactly as Krungus remembered it. She dropped the divine facade. “I have missed you so much my friends. This hardly feels real.”
Bahumbus blinked rapidly, his voice cracking. “Is this really happening, or did I drink too much celestial cider?”
Qlaark elbowed him, but even his usual cynicism was subdued by awe. Eugene took the time for a scan, just to check.
[INTERFACE READING: SUBJECT—UTOPIANNA]
[STATUS: CELESTIAL ENTITY DETECTED]
NAME: Utopianna
DESIGNATION: Keeper of Eternal Bloom
KNOWN ALIASES: The Celestial Bloom, Mistress of Petals, The Eternal Witch
ORIGIN: Earth
THREAT LEVEL: Non-hostile (Potential for Reality Alteration)
AURA ANALYSIS: High concentration of floral and cosmic energy detected.
NOTABLE HISTORICAL RECORDS:
- Creator of the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom festival.
- Historical records suggest significant influence on social cohesion across multiple civilizations.
- Last known appearance: 4,333 years prior
Eugene had to wonder what happened 4,333 years ago that made her leave.
Utopianna gestured around the circle, and the flowers they had brought with them—humble as they were—began to bloom with true magic, pulsing in perfect harmony with the distant celestial display. Even the looming Mushroom Tower seemed to step aside in reverence, its shadow no longer obstructing the sacred moment.
Krungus rose to his feet, looking at her with eyes brimming with hope. “Can we... bring it back?” he asked, his voice raw with longing.
Utopianna smiled softly. “We already have,” she said. “The bloom does not need grand plazas or crowded streets—it needs hearts willing to nurture it.”
The gathered friends and Paladins stood in silence for a long moment, the significance of what had just happened sinking in. Then, slowly, reverently, Krungus held the celestial bloom high, letting its light wash over them.
“We’ll spread it,” he said, voice steady with newfound purpose. “We’ll remind the city what this festival really means.”
Utopianna nodded, her form shimmering as if the stars themselves embraced her. “And I will be here to help you.”
One by one, the others followed Krungus’s lead, raising their petals to the sky. The wind carried their renewed chants through the city, whispering hope into the ears of those who had long since forgotten.
As the eclipse passed and the meteors faded, the city beyond their small celebration remained unchanged—but in that square beneath the Mushroom Tower, the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom had begun again.
The festival had quieted, leaving only the soft glow of enchanted petals drifting through the air like tiny stars. The others had retreated to the warmth of the nearby tea shop, their laughter and conversation a distant murmur beneath the night sky. But here, beneath the looming silhouette of the Mushroom Tower, Krungus and Utopianna stood in stillness, the celestial bloom she had gifted him resting gently in his hand, pulsing with a quiet, steady glow.
It felt surreal to have her here after so long. The stars shimmered overhead, reflecting in her eyes, and for a moment, Krungus was transported back to the days when they would talk beneath a sky just like this—before everything fell apart, before he was cast into the dark.
Utopianna smiled softly, her fingers grazing the petals of a nearby bloom. “I missed this,” she said, her voice carrying the same warmth he remembered. “The quiet after the celebration. It’s... peaceful.”
Krungus swallowed, feeling the weight of unspoken words pressing against his chest like an anchor. He had waited so long for this moment, for the chance to say what he had been holding inside for nine thousand years. And yet, now that she was here, so close, he found himself hesitating.
It was Sharrzaman. He tricked me. He trapped me.
The truth lingered on the edge of his tongue, aching to be spoken. He could still feel the coldness of that prison, the endless cycle of regret and confusion that gnawed at him through the millenia. He had replayed the moment of betrayal over and over in his mind, longing for the day he could tell her the truth—that it wasn’t his fault, that he had never betrayed her, that everything had been a lie.
But... would it matter anymore?
His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the lights of the city flickered against the distant mountains. The world had moved on without him. Utopianna had moved on. If he told her now, what would it change? Would she be angry? Would she seek justice? Or would she simply sigh and tell him that it no longer mattered—that the past was the past?
And deep down, Krungus feared something else entirely: What if she doesn’t believe me?
What if Sharrzaman had already told his version of the story? What if the narrative had been shaped without him, and he was nothing more than a footnote in Utopianna’s memory? The thought made his chest tighten, his fingers closing around the bloom in his palm.
He thought about all the time he had spent in isolation, clinging to the hope that someday, somehow, the truth would come out. But now, standing beside her, he realized that perhaps he had been holding onto the wrong thing. Maybe it wasn’t about setting the record straight—maybe it was about something deeper.
He turned to look at her, watching as she traced constellations in the sky with an idle hand, the soft glow of her magic illuminating her face. And it struck him all at once—the real truth. Not the one he had been carrying like a burden, but the one that had kept him alive, that had kept him sane through all those long, lonely years.
It was her.
Utopianna.
It was the thought of her that had held him together in the darkness. When everything else had crumbled, when hope had seemed impossible, it was the memory of her warmth, her kindness, her unwavering belief in beauty and unity that had given him something to cling to.
He felt the weight in his chest shift—not lift, but shift—as he realized that this was something he could say. Something that mattered more than old betrayals and long-forgotten grudges.
Krungus took a deep breath, forcing himself to find the words.
“You know,” he said softly, staring down at the pulsing bloom in his hand, “I... I spent a long time thinking about this moment.”
Utopianna turned to him, her large blue eyes filled with quiet curiosity. “Oh?”
He smiled faintly, though it was tinged with something wistful. “Yeah. I thought about all the things I’d say to you if I ever got the chance. How I’d explain what happened. How I’d try to make you understand.” He shook his head, looking away. “But now... I think the only thing that really matters is that... it was you.”
Her brows furrowed slightly. “Me?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “You were what held me together. Through all of it. When I was trapped, when I felt like I was losing my mind... it was the thought of you, Utopianna. The memory of this festival, of what you created, of... of you.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “It kept me going. I guess I just... needed you to know that.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant whisper of the wind and the rustling of enchanted petals dancing in the air.
Finally, Utopianna reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. Her touch was warm, grounding. “Krungus...” she whispered, and he heard the emotion in her voice—the understanding, the gratitude, and something else he couldn’t quite place.
“I never forgot you,” she said. “Even when the festival changed, even when the world changed... I never forgot you.”
He let out a shaky breath, feeling something in him ease—just a little.
They stood there together, beneath the vast, starlit sky, and for the first time in a long time, Krungus felt as if the weight of his past wasn’t quite so heavy. He didn't need to tell her everything tonight. He could wait. He could let this moment be enough.
For now, he would hold onto this—onto her. And when the time was right, when she was ready to ask, he would tell her the rest.
But tonight, he was content to simply be here.
Together.