Kaito did not seek followers.
They came anyway.
At the outskirts of a ruined coastal city, dozens gathered where he had once descended after splitting the Core. They knelt at the impact crater, calling it Sacred Ground.
"They're building altars," a messenger reported nervously to the regional governor.
Candles burned day and night.
Paintings of Kaito began appearing—some with wings of void, others with halos of silver light.
He felt it happening.
Every whispered prayer brushed faintly against the balance woven into the world.
Silver Eyes' presence tightened slightly each time devotion spiked too sharply.
"Belief alters structure," she murmured within the fabric of reality.
Kaito closed his eyes.
He had defined infinity's limits.
But human perception was another force entirely.
A small child approached him one evening, holding a crude wooden carving shaped vaguely like his silhouette.
"Are you a god now?" she asked.
Kaito knelt to her height.
"No."
She frowned. "But you fixed the sky."
"I fixed a mistake," he replied gently.
Behind him, adults watched cautiously—uncertain whether to kneel or run.
The twin dark stars pulsed faintly.
Power was no longer the greatest danger.
Expectation was.