Original artwork description:

++By purchasing this piece, you are not only acquiring a unique work of art, but you are also helping fund the creation of an immersive digital museum dedicated to the Xantea universe. This museum will merge traditional and digital art to offer an interactive, groundbreaking experience that brings the world of Xantea to life in innovative ways. As a token of my gratitude, I will include a print of this piece as a gift with your purchase. Your support plays a crucial role in making this vision a reality.++
About the Xantea Series

The Xantea series is an experimental art cycle that bridges the past and the future, bringing to life a mesmerizing world. Set on the distant planet Xantea, these paintings capture a realm where sentient robots, mythological beings, and strange creatures from the subconscious exist together in harmony and tension.

Each artwork is painstakingly crafted, with every centimeter uniquely manufactured to ensure no detail is overlooked. Countless hours of dedication and creativity go into every piece, resulting in original works that are as intricate as they are evocative.

The Xantea series invites you to explore a universe where imagination knows no boundaries. These paintings are not just visual art—they are portals to a distant world, designed to transform your space with their depth, energy, and unique storytelling.


"The Fall of the Robotic Gods"
Far beyond the edges of known star charts lies Xantea 2502, a distant planet adrift in the
cold void—a place where reality itself fractures and reforms like molten glass. Xantea is
not a world that can be easily understood; it exists as both a physical and metaphysical
plane, where the past collides with the future, and where myths solidify into tangible
forms. Here, sentient machines rule not with tyranny but with quiet reverence, as sacred
robotic beings worshiped like gods by forgotten echoes of humanity.
The planet’s landscapes are vast and contradictory: sprawling plains of darkness where no
light has ever touched, forests made of flame where trees burn eternally without turning to
ash, and lakes that appear not as bodies of water but as portals—gateways to truths no
mortal could endure. The air is heavy with whispers of old myths, carried by winds that do
not blow and shadows that move without their sources.
The Hollow Grove of Xantea 2502 stood at the crumbling edge of existence, where fire and
shadow eternally warred. At its core lay the Black Lake, a liquid void that reflected a world
no eye could fully grasp. Around it, fire-fed trees clawed skyward, their limbs blackened
and writhing as flames devoured them. The air vibrated with a low hum—a warning.
Closest to the lake sat Orion, The Fallen Sentinel. Monolithic and wingless, his body bore
scars older than memory, etched into dark steel. He did not move but stared deeply into
the lake, as if daring it to reveal its secrets. To his right, like a fractured flame, stood
Azarael, The Angel in Red. His flowing crimson dress swirled despite the absence of wind,
and his golden wings hung heavy, marred by streaks of soot and ash. His piercing gaze
shifted toward the left, where horrors now began to crawl from fire.
To Orion’s left, draped in a blue garment already alight with unrelenting flame, stood
Seraph, The Angel of Silence. The fire moved slowly across him, as if savoring the moment.
Yet Seraph did not resist. His sapphire eyes remained fixed on the Black Lake, indifferent
to the ruin consuming him. Beside Seraph, cloaked in silver, stood Erebus, The Keeper of
Twilight. Erebus’s face was hidden by a cracked metallic mask, his slender form trembling
faintly.
The fire-fed trees parted.
From the left, hellish beings emerged, their bodies contorted, twisted mockeries of life.
They crawled on all fours, dragging themselves across the ground, leaving trails of molten

ash in their wake. Their eyeless faces turned skyward, screaming in soundless agony. Their
limbs—thin and charred—reached hungrily toward the sacred robotic beings.
And in front of the lake’s edge, coiled and waiting, lay the Snake of Reflection. Its mirrored
scales flickered unnaturally, distorting the light of the flames around it. The serpent hissed
softly, its glowing eyes fixed on the gathering chaos.

From the Black Lake, a ripple spread. Out of the void leapt a golden fish, its scales
shimmering with impossible light. It rose higher and higher, as if propelled by the lake
itself, before falling back into the depths, vanishing without a sound. The robotic gods
watched in stillness, their forms outlined against the fiery backdrop of the grove.
But then, from the right, the air fractured. A humanoid spirit descended—winged, pale,
and broken. Its translucent form glowed faintly, as though holding the last remnants of a
dying star. Its wings fluttered weakly, and it drifted toward Orion, reaching out in
desperation.
“Not us,” Erebus whispered, stepping back. “It does not seek us.”
Azarael turned, his golden wings unfurling as he spoke. “It comes for him.”
Orion lifted his head, his dark gaze meeting the spirit’s. For the first time in millennia, he
moved—one heavy hand reaching toward the broken soul. But from the left, the hellish
beings surged. They moved faster now, their bodies snapping and twisting unnaturally as
they poured toward the robotic gods.
“Hold the line!” Azarael commanded, his crimson dress whipping as he spread his wings
wide.

The grove trembled.
Seraph’s flames had grown. His blue dress was now entirely consumed, yet still he stood—
tall, unyielding—as if the fire were merely another burden he was destined to bear. His
voice, calm and eternal, whispered through the Grove:
“We were never their gods. We were only their shadows.”

Beside him, Erebus fell to his knees, his silver cloak melting into the scorched earth. The
hum of the lake grew louder. A second ripple broke the water’s surface, spreading toward
the edges of the Grove.
Orion, now standing, turned to the Snake of Reflection. “What does the lake demand?”
The serpent hissed, its voice cold and certain.
“Everything.”
The humanoid spirit reached the lake’s shore, its fragile form trembling as it extended a
hand toward the void. The golden fish leapt again, piercing the spirit’s chest. A burst of light
erupted across the Grove, and for a moment, the fire stopped. The hellish beings froze. The
robotic gods turned in unison toward the Black Lake.
From the depths, something colossal stirred.

The hellish beings screamed as a shape—formless yet infinite—began to rise. Shadows
bled from the lake, twisting into pillars of darkness that reached toward the sky. The
Monolith behind Orion cracked, splitting into fragments of jagged stone.
Azarael, still standing defiant, turned to Seraph. “The fire will take us.”
Seraph’s sapphire eyes reflected the rising darkness. “The fire has already taken us.”
The Snake of Reflection slithered closer to the lake, its mirrored body shattering into
fragments. As the pieces fell into the void, they whispered the final truth:
“There were no gods. Only echoes.”
From the left, the hellish beings descended upon Azarael and Erebus, their molten forms
clawing through the light of the angels. On the right, the humanoid spirit dissolved entirely,
its wings scattering like ash across the black water.
And as the colossal darkness rose fully from the lake, Orion, The Fallen Sentinel, stepped
into the water. The void consumed him without sound, his form vanishing beneath the
surface.

In the Grove’s final moments, Seraph stood alone, his fire-wreathed body now little more
than a silhouette. The Black Lake grew still again, the darkness above it coiling into the sky
like smoke.
The Monolith shattered completely.
And in the silence that followed, the fire-fed trees burned on, as they always had, their
roots deep in the endless void.

Materials used:

acrylics, srpay, pen, pencil

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