The Architect stepped into the void, where the Abyss had been banished long ago. The vast emptiness stretched endlessly, swirling with darkness that pulsed like a living thing, writhing in hunger. It had waited, seething, brooding, longing for the day it could feed again.
And then it saw him.
A tremor rippled through the Abyss as it recognized the one who had cast it into exile. Fury surged within its depths, and without hesitation, it lunged forward, seeking to consume the Architect in its unending hunger.
The Architect did not move.
The Abyss, vast and terrible, wrapped around him, attempting to drag him into its maw, but the moment it touched him, it recoiled. Agony erupted through its essence. It thrashed violently, the very fabric of its being unraveling as an unseen force crushed it into submission.
A pressure unlike any it had ever known descended upon it. The Architect, without lifting a hand, exerted his will, and the Abyss trembled before him.
"You will not consume," the Architect spoke, his voice neither loud nor soft, but absolute. "You will not devour as you once did."
The Abyss howled in defiance, its darkness writhing, but it could do nothing against the force that bound it.
"You were given existence, and you chose to destroy. You thirsted beyond what was meant for you. Now, I shall make of you something else."
The Architect extended his hand, and the Abyss quaked violently as his will reshaped it. The endless void twisted, its darkness contorting as it took new form.
"You shall be known no longer as the Abyss, but as Hell."
The void roared, resisting, but it was powerless before him.
"This shall be your punishment: you will no longer devour as you please, but you shall hunger still. You will feed, but only upon the wicked—those who have defied the order of the world, divine and mortal alike."
The newly formed Hell screamed in rage, but the Architect's decree was final.
"Yet even as you consume, you shall find no satisfaction. Your hunger will remain eternal, and those you devour shall not perish, but suffer without end until the world itself ceases to be."
The very essence of the Abyss twisted further, reshaped by the Architect's judgment.
"This is your fate. This is your torment."
The Architect gazed down upon the world he had forged from the Abyss, a realm of suffering for those who would bring chaos and ruin. The darkness no longer threatened the world of the living, for now, it had been given a purpose.
And with that, the Architect turned and departed, leaving Hell to its eternal hunger.
The Architect looked upon the Abyss, now transformed into Hell, and with his will, he divided it into two realms. One was a land of endless torment, where the wicked would suffer eternal punishment, their souls unable to escape the justice of their deeds. The other was a place of fire and stone, a land that could be lived in, though harsh and unforgiving.
He placed Hell deep beneath the world, embedding it into the foundation of creation itself. It was now part of existence, a realm hidden from mortal eyes but forever present beneath them.
But there were no souls yet to suffer, no beings to rule this forsaken domain. And so, from the molten rivers that flowed through the depths, the Architect reached forth and shaped the first demons. Their bodies were sculpted from fire and ash, their horns curved like the mountains, their wings vast like storm clouds, and their tails like those of ancient beasts. He breathed into them the will to exist, and they stirred, their eyes burning like embers in the dark.
The Architect stood before them and spoke:
"This land is yours to dwell in. You are not bound by my command, nor do I claim dominion over this place. You are free to roam, to multiply, and to shape this world as you see fit."
The demons watched him in silence, their newly formed minds absorbing his words.
"But know this," the Architect continued, "one day, others will be cast into this realm—souls deemed unworthy of the world above. Some will be weak, and they shall be yours to rule as you wish. But among them, there will be the strong, and only those greater in strength shall claim dominion over them."
The demons looked upon one another, realizing the nature of their existence. There would be no order but that which they created, no ruler but the one who could seize power.
With his decree spoken, the Architect turned from them and vanished, leaving them to their own fate.
And so, in the deep abyss, the demons spread, claiming their land, forging their own laws of strength and conquest, awaiting the day when Hell would receive its first condemned souls.
At the very heart of Hell, where the two realms met—the land of suffering and the land of the demons—the Architect placed an orb of divine craftsmanship. It hovered above a great obsidian altar, radiating an ethereal glow that pulsed like the beating of an unseen heart. The orb, known as the Cycle of Reincarnation, was not of this world nor of any other. It was forged from the very essence of creation and destruction, bound by the Architect's will to serve a single purpose: to govern the eternal fate of all souls.
The orb shimmered with a swirling core of gold and silver light, yet its surface was like polished black stone, reflecting nothing but absorbing all. To the wicked, it appeared as a storm of fire and shadow, a reminder of their eternal punishment. To the righteous, should they ever glimpse it, it would seem like a distant, untouchable star, neither beckoning nor repelling.
Through this Cycle, the souls of the damned were guided. Those beyond redemption would be swallowed into the abyss, suffering their punishments until time itself ceased. But those who still held a glimmer of worth, those whose sins could be atoned, would pass through its judgment and be sent back into the world of the living—reborn to walk the path of redemption or fall once more into corruption.
The Architect stood before the orb, his gaze solemn. He raised his hand, and his voice echoed through the chasms of Hell, heard by demons and unseen spirits alike:
"This Cycle I have placed here is beyond the reach of mortals and gods alike. It turns by its own decree, bound to the law I have set. Let no being attempt to steal or bend its power to their own will, for such an act shall break the very order I have woven. Though my presence will not always be seen, my words are law, and I assure you—my warning shall come true."
With those words, the Architect's form became light, and in an instant, he vanished from Hell, leaving behind only the Cycle of Reincarnation, glowing in the eternal dark, turning without end.
The Architect stood atop the highest mountain in the world, a place untouched by mortal feet, where the winds howled with the voices of the past and future. His gaze swept across the vast lands below—the sprawling cities, the rising temples, the growing kingdoms, and the endless struggles of mankind. He beheld their triumphs and their failures, their faith and their doubt, their love and their hatred. And in this moment, unseen and unheard by the living, he spoke.
"It is time."
These words were not merely a statement but a declaration of fate. The world had reached the threshold of change; the seeds of division had already been sown. The Architect had long watched over his creation in silence, but now, he acknowledged that the inevitable had come. The harmony of old was fading, and a new era—one of conflict and ambition—was about to unfold.
"Each nation shall go against each other."
Once, mankind had been united under a single language, a single people. But now, scattered and divided, they had become strangers to one another. The birth of new civilizations had led to pride, and with pride came the hunger for power. What began as mere differences in culture would soon turn into disputes, and disputes into war. This was not simply a punishment, nor was it an accident—it was the nature of all things that grow. Even the greatest of stars burned themselves into oblivion.
"By their words, they made great temples."
The people, seeking strength, sought solace in faith. Temples rose in every kingdom, grand and mighty, built with stone and gold, reaching towards the heavens. But these were not simply places of worship—they were symbols of power. Religion had become intertwined with politics, and faith had become a weapon. Kings and rulers used the names of gods to justify their actions, turning devotion into a means of control.
"Their leaders say, 'We witnessed the revival of the goddess! Why not put our faith in our own gods!?'"
The revival of the Maiden, the First Star, had ignited something in the hearts of mankind. If one divine being could walk among them, why should others not exist? If faith could revive the dead, then faith itself had power beyond understanding. And so, rulers and priests proclaimed their own gods, shaping them from myths, stories, and desires. These gods, unlike the First Star, were born not from true divinity but from the will of man. And as belief grew, so too did their influence.
"The Maiden, the First Star, shall remain as one whole."
Unlike the gods born from faith, the Maiden was different. She existed before belief, before worship, before even the Architect's silent decree. She was not bound to the will of mortals, nor was she created from their prayers. This made her both powerful and vulnerable, for while the faith of her people strengthened her presence, she was not dependent on it. Unlike the gods of men, she would not fade if abandoned, nor would she rise higher if adored. She was a constant—unchanging, unwavering, and eternal.
"Let the children know that this is just the beginning..."
The conflicts that would arise, the wars, the betrayals, the shifting of power—these were not the end but merely the start of something far greater. Nations would rise and fall, gods would be worshiped and forgotten, but history would continue to unfold, weaving the destinies of all who lived. The world was entering an age where faith, power, and ambition would collide, shaping civilizations in ways that even the Architect himself would not control.
"...For a new age yet to come."
This was a prophecy, a foreshadowing of what lay ahead. The present struggles were merely a foundation for something far more significant. What was built now would determine the fate of the future. Would the people remain divided, or would they seek unity once more? Would the gods of men rule over them, or would they realize the truth of their existence? The answers were not yet written, but the path was already set in motion.
"And now... It is done."
With these final words, the Architect accepted what was to come. He had guided, he had warned, but now he would step back and allow the world to move forward on its own. He had set the laws in place, and now, the fate of civilization was in the hands of those who walked the earth.
And so, the Architect vanished from the mountain, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the weight of his unseen decree. The world below continued to move, unaware of the vast and unseen forces shaping their destiny. The age of faith and war had begun, and none could stop it now.