In the heart of Novus Mundus stood the Gardens of Thought, a place of peace and meditation where the Aurelians could contemplate the mysteries of existence. The gardens were unlike any in the universe, filled with flora that responded to emotion and thought. The trees whispered secrets to those who listened, the flowers bloomed with ideas, and the rivers carried the weight of memory.
Milton crafted this sanctuary not just for the Aurelians, but for himself. It was a place where he could retreat from the responsibilities of being a god, a place to reflect on the world he had created and the powers he held.
One day, as he walked through the gardens, the plants bending towards him in respect, he felt an unease in his heart. Could a perfect world truly remain perfect forever? Was the act of creation, even in its purest form, doomed to falter?
He looked upon the Aurelians as they went about their daily lives. They were peaceful, content. They created art, poetry, and music that echoed through the valleys, filling the world with beauty. But Milton sensed that something was missing.
They were perfect, but in their perfection, they lacked something essential. They lacked the drive to change, to grow. Without adversity, without the possibility of failure, they were stagnant.
Milton sighed, sitting beside the waters of the garden. He had avoided giving them the full burden of free will, fearing they might repeat the mistakes of humanity. But now, he wondered if he had made a different kind of mistake.