Time passed.
Eras collapsed into dust, stars lived and died, entire galaxies flourished only to fade.
By human measure, it has been 3.739.497.286 years. I use this system because humanity remain my primary audience. To the countless other intelligent races who observe my words—I offer my deepest apologies. Your time, too, is valid. In a pitiful attempt of mine to suggest three more ways to measure for the highest three by the number of my audience:
• For the U2FsdGVkX1+3C7zJjJ6e8QwW1l5XK6YtGz2fYQ3J4Bk= it has been 393.900.900C-secs
•For the z7F3kX9PpY2qRcVnW8sLmKt|7T2v...Hx9A|a1b2c3d4e5f6g7h8|e8a4...2f1b it has been 1.876×10²⁶λ
•For the dW5kZWZpbmVk:7b8c9d2e1f0a:ZGF0YSBpbnZhbGlk:7x6y5f4g3h2i1j0k9l8m it has been 2,19e60tₚ
But let us return to the subject at hand.
The sparks—those primordial forces once without name—have taken on Identities.
And they are not alone anymore.
The Firstborn
The one once known as Creation is now called Eden.
The one once known as Destruction is now Sheol.
Their forms are no longer vague flickers of energy but structured entities, clothed in meaning, walking through existence with purpose.
But they are no longer just two.
The New Forces
There is another I have not yet spoken of—one whose presence I have long withheld from you.
The violet spark.
This being does not embody the cosmos, as one might assume, but something even more fundamental:
Space itself.
Boundaries, perimeters, distances, dimensions—the unseen structure that dictates where things are. He is Ebress. My dear Ebress. My beloved child.
(Ah—apologies. I lost myself for a moment.)
And he is not the last.
There is one who governs the endless cycle of repetition, the inescapable motion of existence looping over itself. Eternity.
Recurrence. Some call him Fene. His presence hums in the echoes of things that have happened before. He is orange.
And then—Life. The force that emerges in the smallest cracks of possibility, defying entropy to persist. His name is Tet. His color is green, rich as the forests that will soon carpet some distant world.
Order follows. The force that weaves rules into the fabric of reality, stabilizing chaos into form. He is Para. Bright, golden, steady.
And then, there are two. A pair. Opposites yet inseparable.
Balance and Time.
Blance is the constant scale, the force that weighs all things, ensuring no side tips too far. Her presence is pure white, just like her justice
Kaones is the motion of existence itself, the linear passage that drags everything forward, unstoppable and unyielding. His hue is black. It's as if the void itself made a shape for itself
And they have chosen to call themselves—
The Gates of Eden..
Their purpose?
To strip the universe of mindless, automatic processes.
To take control. Manually.
To correct the errors of reality with their own hands.
And they do it well.
Far too well.
A Change in Form
Time has shaped them in ways beyond the mind. Their bodies are no longer mere shells—they have adorned themselves in attire, draped their forms in fabric and elegance.
Kaones, The Eternal March of Time
A presence that lingers at the edges of perception, neither fully seen nor entirely absent. He is the passage of existence itself, the steady, unrelenting force that moves all things forward—Time.
His face remains hidden behind an ornate black carnival mask, its smooth surface adorned with two vast, grey wings stretching from either side—a silent tribute to the inevitability of flight, of motion, of change.
A long, torn cape of blackest void cascades down his spine, frayed at the edges as though Time itself has worn it thin. Around his neck, a monotonous, dark textile wraps like a shroud, shifting with the unseen currents of his presence.
His attire is paradoxical—half the mark of a forgotten knight, half the uniform of a man bound to mundane labors. A dark grey jacket rests upon a light grey, buttoned shirt, though the buttons remain obscured beneath a darker tie, as if concealing the truth of what lies beneath. His pants are simple, almost ordinary—yet the shoes upon his feet gleam like the armor of warriors long past, each step resonating with the echoes of those who have walked before.
He is Kaones.
Neither cruel nor kind, neither distant nor near.
He is not to be understood, only followed.
For Time waits for no one.
---
Blance, Keeper of Equilibrium
Unlike her kin, Blance is white. Not the empty white of lifelessness, but the sacred glow of purity, of judgment, of balance.
Her long, straight hair cascades like silk, untouched by darkness, unswayed by chaos.
Yet beneath her crown of ivory strands lies something far more unsettling—her head is hollow. Wrapped tightly in bandages, a slow, steady trickle of an unknown liquid seeps through the fabric, falling like crimson tears. Blood? Perhaps. Or something far older, far more significant.
Upon her brow rests a small, greyish crown, unassuming yet undeniable in its presence. Two short, blood-red horns pierce through her hair, standing as eerie sentinels to the weight of her duty.
She is adorned in intricate white armor, not built for war, but for judgment. Every engraving, every line upon its surface, whispers of ancient decisions, of verdicts passed down in silence.
But it is her wings that command the most attention.
They are not the wings of an angel.
They are bone, raw and exposed, held together by sinew and flesh, dripping with the remnants of all she has balanced, all she has weighed and deemed unworthy.
And in her hands?
A single set of scales.
The weight of reality itself, poised between justice and oblivion
She is Blance.
She does not choose sides.
She only ensures that the scales do not tip.
---
Eden, The Grand Architect of Creation
If existence itself could be woven into form, it would wear his name. Eden. The force of Creation.
Beneath the brim of an ornate dark blue top hat, adorned with jagged, piercing spikes, rests the first spark of all things—short blue hair, shifting with the hum of possibility. At the very center of his hat, a clock, its hands barely moving, ticking away at an unknowable rhythm, whispering of time yet to be shaped.
He no longer hides behind the blindfold he once wore. And yet, his gaze remains unseen—concealed instead by silver-hued glasses, not of glass, not of metal, but of something else entirely. Opaque. Unreadable.
A blue gemstone necklace rests upon his chest, gleaming with the light of countless unborn stars. Around his shoulders, a great fur-lined cape, its edges shifting seamlessly from deep blue to endless black, as if it could not decide whether to embrace existence or dissolve into nothingness.
His armor is a contradiction—adorned as if to protect, yet he has no need for defense. His very being is impenetrable, a force that bends reality to his will. Yet, along his belt, delicate neon blue flowers bloom, a gentle reminder that even the most powerful forces can still create beauty.
And in his grasp, he holds a staff.
A monumental scepter, crowned with a radiant blue orb pulsing with the essence of all that has ever been and all that ever will be.
He is Eden.
The first maker. The first dreamer.
The artist of all things.
---
Tet, the Essence of Life
His form is a paradox—light yet indomitable, refined yet untamed. His hair, a cascade of viridescent strands, slicked back into a disciplined ponytail, with rebellious bangs too short to conform. Upon his nose rest spiked sunglasses, their lenses a luminous green, a reflection of the boundless vitality within him. In his ears, sleek, high-tech devices—white shells laced with light green patterns—hum with unseen energy, attuned to frequencies beyond mortal perception.
A tiara of black metal crowns his head, its design reminiscent of organic antlers—two elongated branches rising skyward, with smaller, subtler ones beneath, as if a manifestation of life's ever-growing complexity. At its core, a gemstone glows with an unearthly green, pulsing in rhythm with his being.
His armor, dark as the abyss yet tinged with emerald hues, clings to him as if woven from the very essence of existence itself. A second skin, indistinguishable from the void-darkness of his own flesh. His arms are encased in vast metallic "sleeves" of an unknown alloy—an enigmatic substance shared among his kind, unbreakable by any force they've encountered. Across his body, faint scars shimmer in ghostly grey, echoes of past battles etched upon his cosmic form, subtle but undeniable to those who seek them.
Draped over his left shoulder, a royal cape flows, its fur-trimmed collar a whisper of ancient grandeur. It splits at its length, forming twin trails of authority in his wake. In his grasp, a weapon of elegance and lethality—a scythe, its blade a vivid green, impossibly sharp. A smaller blade mirrors its curve on the opposite end, an extension of the greater whole, a perfect balance of form and function.
---
Ebress, the Sovereign of Space
His existence is written in fractures—his body a celestial tapestry of blackened void, disrupted by cracks that glow with the luminous hue of amethyst nebulae. His face and torso bear the deepest of these rifts, as though the weight of the cosmos itself struggles to contain him. His very presence is a contradiction; he appears fragile, a being on the verge of breaking, yet in truth, he is the strongest among his kin, his form unyielding to any force lesser than his own.
His dreadlocks flow in deep blackness, their ends dissolving into ethereal purple, as if the edges of his being are lost to the infinite expanse he commands. From his skull emerge two immense horns—beginning straight but then sharply curving back toward him, their pointed ends poised like celestial crescents.
Armor is an afterthought; his skin, despite its fractured illusion, is impenetrable. The only protection he bears is the same enigmatic metallic "sleeves" worn by others—an unbreakable alloy known only to their kind. Below his waist, he wears simple pants, yet above them, a divine garment—split and draping with effortless regality. Neither skirt nor robe, yet something beyond mortal classification, an extension of his own supremacy.
Behind him, massive butterfly wings shimmer in cosmic purple, folded and rarely unfurled, for movement is trivial to one who bends space itself. Even at rest, they remain monumental, an ever-present reminder of his boundless reach.
His weapon is an enigma even to gods—a spear of an origin unknown. It is dark beyond reckoning, its sharpness an absolute, its blade and shaft indistinguishable as separate entities, as if it were forged in a singular moment of creation. A second, smaller blade curves from its side, uneven and organic, yet perfectly attuned to its wielder's intent. None among his kin know from where it came, and Ebress offers no answers. He speaks little, but his silence is never empty—it is the weight of space itself, vast, unknowable, and inescapable.
Para, the Manifestation of Order.
His presence bends perception, compelling the mortal mind to kneel before divinity. Though all his kind transcend understanding, Para alone appears as though sculpted by the very laws he governs.
Two golden rings orbit his head in perfect harmony, their surfaces adorned with an array of closed blue eyes—his own, yet separate from him, existing as silent sentinels. Above, a radiant half-circle crown hovers, resembling the rays of a frozen sun, its golden glow both regal and absolute.
His attire flows like silk but is forged of something far more enduring—a deceptive illusion of fabric that, in truth, shares the same unknown metal as his kin's armor. Long robes edged in gold cascade over his form, their folds concealing the movements of a being who dictates the structure of existence itself. His coat, also gilded, drapes over his legs, leaving only glimpses of his formal trousers, tailored as if for a bureaucrat of cosmic proportions. Yet, despite his refined appearance, his knees, thighs, and wrists gleam with golden jewelry—not mere decoration, but the very essence of his being, the manifestation of Order woven into his flesh.
From his back extend three pairs of pristine white wings, pure as untouched law, though these, too, can shift—unfurling into three pairs of golden hands, should he desire them instead. Each gesture, each movement, carries the weight of purpose, as if the very universe is rewritten in his wake. A royal black cape billows behind him, its golden ornaments an homage to the beauty of structure, art, and precision.
Upon his thigh, encased in a band of golden adornment, rests his weapon—a lasso of the same ethereal gold. Legends whisper that it can stretch into infinity itself, binding those who falter in their design, tethering them to the unyielding truth of Order.
---
Fene, the Guardian of Eternity.
Where Para embodies law, Fene is a force of tempered chaos—a warrior through and through, stripped of ceremony but overflowing with raw, honed power.
His short brown hair is unkempt, a stark contrast to his counterpart's refinement. There is no crown to signal his divinity, only two small, sharp orange horns protruding from his forehead, a natural, unpolished mark of his origin. Across one eye, a deep scar carves a story of battles fought and won—proof of survival, not perfection.
His armor is built for war, unadorned yet formidable. It lacks the excessive gilding of Para's regalia, opting instead for raw functionality. The same unknown metal encases his arms in massive "sleeves," but his bear spikes—aggressive, unyielding, a reflection of the fighter within. Draped over his shoulders is a simple black-and-orange cape, its fabric worn yet unwavering, its orange hood casting shadows over sharp, calculating eyes. The patterns etched into it are minimal, practical—there is no need for elaborate symbols when his actions speak for him.
In his grasp, he wields a weapon of brutal efficiency—a trident, its three gleaming tips honed to lethal precision. Unlike Para's infinite lasso, there is no subtlety to Fene's weapon. It does not bind. It does not restrain. It pierces, it destroys, It ends.
He's not just a warrior—he's the force that keeps everything in motion, the unseen hand behind every orbit, every cycle, every rhythm that persists eternally. His scars aren't just from battles; they're the marks of a being who has fought to keep existence from spiraling into chaos. Even his trident, with its three tips, could symbolize the balance between past, present, and future—always turning, never stopping.