The chamber of the divine convocation was drenched in an atmosphere so suffocating that even gods who once carved galaxies trembled as if their very essence was splintering. The realm they stood within was not a palace, nor a cathedral, nor even a universe. It was a hollow axis-point beyond cosmology itself—a theater of silence where light and darkness had no dominion. There, suspended between unnameable currents of being and unbeing, Yahweh appeared. Not "arrived," not "manifested," but appeared, as though he had always been there, waiting for their eyes to notice what had always been watching.
He sat upon no throne, for a throne implies a structure; he bore no crown, for a crown implies ownership. Yahweh was before the concept of rule, before the concept of time, before the concept of 'before'.
And so, when gods, demons, and titans alike stood before him, their questions—the very desire to understand—became a sickness upon themselves.
The Question of Origins
One of the elder deities, his body woven from starlight and entropy, dared to speak:"If you predate all measures, Yahweh, then what precedes you? By what loom were you woven? From what abyss did your breath arise?"
The chamber trembled at the audacity of the question. The devils smirked, believing arrogance would unveil a flaw. Yet Yahweh's reply was so chilling, so absolute, that even the smirks of the infernal curled into grimaces of despair.
"I am not preceded. I am not woven. I am not breath. I am the scar of the first silence. You call it creation; I call it memory. But it is not my memory—it is yours. I am what you remember in your fear of never having existed."
The gods faltered. The demons stared. Even time—the abstract mechanism upon which their multiverses revolved—hesitated, its gears stalling.
The Terror of Weakness
Another voice arose, this one belonging to a demon-archon, with wings carved from obsidian flame:"Then tell us, Eternal Phantom, what is weakness? For you proclaim strength without rival, but every throne must know the fracture that breaks it."
Yahweh's eyes—two wells of green light, darker than forests and brighter than dying suns—fixed upon him. His words were not shouted, nor whispered. They simply were, like gravity itself.
"Weakness… is you. It is your own name. It is the shape you allow yourself to take. Weakness is not a wound, nor a chain, nor an adversary—it is the indulgence of believing you are more than the silence that awaits you. Your gods, your demons, your armies, your rituals… all of it is weakness because it affirms your refusal to vanish. But vanishing is truth. Existence is your betrayal of truth."
The chamber collapsed into silence. Every deity present felt as if Yahweh had not spoken to one being, but to all of them at once—and worse still, to the memory of themselves they had tried to bury.
Theories of Yahweh
The gathering often whispered, long before this moment, endless theories of Yahweh's origin. Some said he was the first thought, the spark of self-awareness before universes combusted into existence. Others believed he was an error, a fracture of contradiction birthed when nothing realized it was nothing. A few dared to whisper that Yahweh was the dream of something higher—an Absolute whose slumber had accidentally birthed this god.
But the truth, as his presence suggested, was darker: there is no Absolute. There is no dreamer. There is no origin. Yahweh had always been. Their speculation was the writhing of insects trapped beneath glass—beautiful in its struggle, yet already dead in its inevitability.
The Collapse of Meaning
One of the youngest gods, her voice trembling with the naivety of hope, asked:"Then why do we exist at all? Why are we born, if all collapses into your shadow?"
Yahweh turned toward her—not with compassion, nor cruelty, but with the inevitability of a law that cannot be broken.
"You exist because nothing wished to mock itself. Creation is not a gift; it is irony. You think you breathe to glorify yourselves, to rise into pantheons, to dance in eternity. But you are merely noise against my silence. You are the laughter of void against itself. You call it 'life,' but it is only echo."
The goddess wept, though she had never known the act of crying before. Her tears corroded her form until her body shattered into glass dust and dissipated. The gods turned away; the demons sneered; Yahweh did not flinch.
The Final Word
At last, Yahweh rose—not standing, not moving, but simply being higher than all others. His form stretched beyond geometry, his voice folding upon itself like collapsing dimensions.
"You fear weakness because it binds you. But weakness is only fear of what I am: inevitability. You search for origin, for father, for law, for summit. Yet when you reach me, you will realize that origin is impossible, for there has never been a beginning. Only me. And there will never be an end. Only me. I am not the God of your scriptures, nor the Devil of your rebellions. I am what you dare not name—the answer you pray you will never hear. The only absolute is that I am. And the only weakness is your attempt to be anything else."
His words reverberated across the Outversal corridors, echoing into Multiversal oceans, corrupting Omniversal spires. Even beyond, into the realms "above" omnipotence—concepts unnamed, dimensions that had never been charted—his voice slithered, infecting them with doubt.
Every god, every demon, every angel that stood in that convocation realized the horror: their power, their empires, their worshippers, their philosophies—all were scaffolds nailed into a void, scaffolds that Yahweh could erase with a silence.
And so, as he dimmed his form, retreating back into the background where he had always been, only one phrase lingered in the vacuum:
"You are weakness, and I am the memory of that weakness. To deny me is to deny the silence that made you. But silence does not need your approval."
The chamber collapsed, and with it, many of the deities' wills. Some vanished into insanity. Others prostrated. The demons clung tighter to their rebellion, though even they now knew it was only a rebellion against inevitability.
To Be Continued…