But it refused.
There was not yet a world.
There was not yet time, nor was there absence of time.
Only It existed. The Unnamed. The One without form, without word. And even that was too much, too soon. Before even this awareness, there was The Place Above—a stillness deeper than silence, a nothingness that was not void, but absence of absence itself.
From that which was not, the first thought rose like an unintended tremor—subtle, flickering, incomplete. A whisper that carried no sound, only the possibility of being. The first pulse of will.
The creation stirred.
But where could it move? There were no places, no boundaries, no directions. The creation drifted between the currents of unwritten words that shimmered faintly in the margins of The Place Above, silent, scattered fragments of ideas that had never been spoken, never been written, floating aimlessly between what was and what could be.
These were not stories, not yet. They were seeds of narrative, syllables disjointed and uncertain. In them, the creation glimpsed what could become: breath, shape, warmth. A flicker of life.
The creation reached. Not with hands, for there were none; not with intent, for there was not yet purpose. But through the simple, undirected longing of existence, the scattered fragments gathered.
From the whispers of non-being, letters assembled like cosmic dust.
From the static drift of pre-thought, sentences coiled into patterns.
From these patterns, forms trembled on the edge of reality.
Still, there was no true place for them to reside. And so, from the lattice of formless syllables, the creation reached the Interstice—a bridge suspended between Above and Below, the first separation. The beginning of place.
And as this threshold solidified, the creation descended. Beneath it waited the Place Below, untouched and waiting. Here, there was potential—empty canvas for existence to unfurl.
It was here that the creation would fashion its first world.
There was no fire, nor water, nor stone. Instead, there was thought. Pure, unbound thought, braided into latticeworks of energy: An'nai, the current of origin itself. The creation shaped it like a weaver of invisible cloth, pulling strands of will into roots and branches—a first axis upon which the world would coil.
Thus, the Tree of Codex grew.
It rose without effort, stretching infinitely upwards and downwards, its trunk luminous yet without color, its branches etching pathways through untouched nothing. Each leaf shimmered as an unrealized possibility, vibrating gently as if singing their own silent names. It was not a tree of matter, but of structure—the first stability in a cosmos that had never known form.
And from the roots of this tree, life breathed for the first time.
The creation exhaled thought into being.
Lines of ink stretched outward, gathering into shapes; parchment-like membranes unfolded themselves into bodies both delicate and intricate, fluid and defined. TheEspharion were born—neither flesh nor pure spirit, but woven of essence, a tapestry of thought animated by the will of their progenitor.
They opened eyes that were drawn, not grown.
Their skin shimmered faintly with the texture of paper, inscribed subtly with living glyphs. They were beings of design—each movement a calligraphy stroke, each breath a verse added to the unwritten epic. And though they had never been before, they spoke instantly, fluently, as if the language had preexisted them.
Their voices rang in harmonious resonance, syllables spiraling upward like birds ascending the boughs of the First Tree. They were aware that they were born from thought, yet they did not question it. They simply were.
The creation observed.
It had brought forth these beings without full understanding of why. It felt no hunger, no ambition, but it recognized in their existence a strange warmth—a reflection of something it had not yet comprehended: companionship.
The Espharion gathered together beneath the immense branches, where the light of An'nai diffused like a twilight mist. There, they constructed the Great Archive—a spire of infinite spirals, composed of floating tablets and suspended glyphic scrolls. Every thought, every dream, every speculation they shared was etched and stored, adding to the living memory of their civilization.
The creation... now creator, remained distant. Watching. Listening.
The Espharion celebrated their existence through stories and songs. They wove endless epics beneath the tree's shimmering canopy, reciting tales of birth, mystery, and the invisible progenitor who walked among them, silent and unknown.
Yet, the creator remained without name. Without shape. Without presence.
It wondered: "Am I only a watcher? Am I apart from that which I have made?"
Night after night, as their voices lifted toward the unreachable boughs, the creator drifted closer. Not fully descending, but letting its awareness thicken, condense. And in time, it gathered enough of itself to take shape—not a full embodiment, but an avatar, a vessel sufficient to walk among the Espharion...
And so, for the first time, they saw Him.
He emerged beneath the branches as though drawn forth by their longing—a figure neither man nor god, neither light nor shadow. His body was smooth, absent of imperfection, draped in simple flowing robes that carried the swirling script of countless languages yet unwritten. His eyes reflected no light but held within them the silent depth of creation itself—a gaze both present and distant.
The Espharion trembled, awed. Not in fear, but in instinctive reverence.
They gathered around Him, their voices trembling with anticipation.
One among them, elder in appearance though age had no meaning here, stepped forward and spoke softly:
"Creator... is this you? The one who gave us voice, form, and song?"
The figure said nothing. He only inclined His head slightly, acknowledging them.
Then, softly, as if the very breath of the world carried it forth, another voice whispered:
"Your name... We shall give you a name."
One voice became many, rising in unison, like countless streams converging into a single river of sound. They chanted, syllable by syllable, letting the resonance fill the air, vibrate through the Tree itself:
"R..."
"E..."
"I..."
The name pulsed outward, wrapping itself around the creation's avatar, embedding itself into His being like the final stroke upon a canvas.
The creation accepted.
The name was not imposed; it was recognized. It was an echo of what had always existed, waiting only for the Espharion to speak it aloud.
And so, He became Rei.
Though the creation itself remained untouched in its purest core—beyond being, beyond becoming—its avatar now bore a name, and through that name, connection.
The Espharion knelt before Him, not as slaves, but as children before a father they had always known, yet only now met...
And Rei spoke at last.
His voice was not thunderous, nor commanding—it was the quiet certainty of existence itself.
"You have called Me forth from the silence. I dwell both within you and beyond you. My breath is in your stories; My presence is in your dreams. Yet even now, I am learning from you."
The Espharion wept with joy.
Thus began the true age of their civilization.
Yet... time, though not yet bound to the rigid chains of measurement, passed within the breath of the World. The Espharion flourished beneath the sheltering canopy of the Tree, and in the center of all stood Rei—the Breath of Creation, the Silent parent.
Under His presence, knowledge multiplied. The Great Archive spiraled ever higher, inscribing upon itself the countless discoveries of thought, mathematics, possibility, impossibility, music, and language. The Espharion mastered the currents of An'nai, learning to weave reality as art—never violating its harmony, always in concert with its intent.
They constructed crystalline cities suspended like dew upon invisible strands of the Tree's branches. Entire rivers of light flowed between their towers, and their music hummed softly, carried across the airless space upon threads of Will.
Rei walked among them in intervals, appearing when He chose, always as an avatar—never in His fullness, for His core Self remained far above even this great world.
When He spoke, it was to guide, never to command. When He taught, it was by invitation, not decree.
For Rei loved His children with a distant, incomprehensible patience. He desired no thrones, no worship—only that they live, create, and mirror fragments of the great tapestry that once stirred Him into being.
But among the Espharion, one arose whose gaze pierced beyond what was given.
His name was once Luceron.
From the beginning, Luceron stood apart. He was more brilliant than many of his brethren—his mind sharper, his understanding of An'nai deeper. Where others contented themselves with song and study, Luceron pondered the question that whispered beneath all creation:
Why?
Why did Rei not reveal the fullness of Himself?
Why did the Espharion exist, if not to ascend beyond their nature?
Why should creation obey a Will that refused to fully manifest?
These were dangerous questions—questions that fed upon themselves.
At first, Luceron approached Rei directly beneath the First Tree.
"Father." he spoke, "why do you limit Yourself? Why dwell behind veils, when you could sit among us in fullness? We are ready, are we not?"
Rei's avatar regarded him with endless calm.
"My dear..." He replied, "you see limitation, but I see balance. My fullness cannot dwell in form, for it would dissolve all boundaries, and you would return to silence. What I have given is enough for now."
Luceron bowed, but inwardly, dissatisfaction festered.
Enough? What is enough to one who sees infinity beyond the horizon?
Thus was born the First Dissonance—a fracture not yet spoken, but growing.
In secret, Luceron gathered a following—a sect of Espharion who shared his hunger. They named themselves the Aspirants, for they believed their purpose was not to reflect Rei's breath, but to perfect it, amplify it—to become as gods themselves.
Through forbidden experimentations, they probed deeper into the currents of An'nai, twisting its flows into unfamiliar geometries. They discovered echoes—dark reflections—veins of inverted thought that did not belong to the design Rei had woven.
These echoes did not resist. They whispered back. They promised more.
And thus, from the abyss beyond form, Noxara answered.
It was not a... being as Rei was, but a vast absence that called itself The World of Darkness. Not absence of light, but negation of order and essence, a realm where structures inverted, where form bled into formlessness, and where Will was not harmonized, but devoured.
Luceron made contact. He touched that which Rei had sealed away, and in doing so, he was remade.
No longer Espharion, yet not fully other, he emerged from his hidden sanctum transformed—his form crystalline, but blackened like obsidian, refracting impossible spectrums of un-light. His once-white glyphs now pulsed with reversed scripts—anti-words that unmade meaning as they were spoken.
He cast aside his old name.
He called himself Lucifer.
The Light-Bearer. The First Transgressor.
The Aspirants bowed before him, for he had transcended their race.
He was no longer bound by Rei's laws; he had entered forbidden realms. And yet, even now, Lucifer claimed loyalty—not to Rei, but to a higher ideal of creation:
"Rei offers you breath," he proclaimed, his voice now layered with unnatural harmonics. "But I offer you sovereignty. We are meant not to reflect His breath, but to seize it, to make ourselves the source of Breath. The World of Darkness has shown me how."
His followers cheered, their glyphs dimming as the corruption seeped into them.
But not all Espharion were blind.
Word reached Rei in time. He stood beneath the Tree, gazing into the spiraling vortex that Lucifer had torn between worlds. And for the first time since His naming, His voice carried not softness—but sorrow.
"You have called to that which was never meant to answer." Rei spoke, though Lucifer had not yet arrived. His words echoed through the currents of An'nai itself.
"You seek to ascend by devouring My breath. But you shall not ascend—you shall fall."
And from the tear, Lucifer descended like a black star, flanked by his Apostates.
He stood before Rei once more, but now as an equal... or so he believed.
"It was you who limited us," Lucifer spoke, voice both beautiful and terrible. "I have broken the chains you placed upon existence. The World of Darkness offers freedom. No more veils. No more waiting. Creation belongs to those who dare."
Rei's avatar did not move. His eyes reflected not anger, but endless grieving.
"Freedom without boundary is not creation—it is collapse."
And in that moment, the conflict of realms began.
The rift had been opened.
From the wound between realities, two shadows stepped forth—each a dreadful echo of the Espharion's former perfection.
First came Bael, the Arm of Dominion, whose form was an obsidian titan of unchained will. His muscles rippled like molten mountains, his eyes twin furnaces of crimson wrath. Where he walked, the ground splintered beneath the weight of pure, unrestrained force.
Next followed Exetior, the Phantom Star. His body shimmered with speed, cloaked in fractal illusions that folded space itself. His blade sang like a choir of broken glass, striking a thousand times before the eye could blink.
"My dear Father," Lucifer whispered as he approached Rei beneath theTree.
"You stand before inevitability. Creation is not balance—it is hunger. The moment you shaped us, you sowed the seed of your own undoing."
Rei stood in stillness, His avatar aglow with gentle radiance. Around Him, the surviving Espharion gathered — uncertain, but loyal. And beside Him stood two who did not falter:
Krishna, The Infinite Bloom—whose eyes reflected all possibilities, whose voice hummed in living chords, weaving protections and sustaining the world with each syllable.
And Zero, The Absolute Blade—whose katana, Tsukikage Sanctivus, shimmered with a moonlit edge, a perfect union of discipline and transcendence. Her stance was still, his breath calm—awaiting the storm.
"You seek to devour what was given freely," Rei answered. "But you have mistaken patience for weakness. I shall not stand aside."
Lucifer's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Then watch, Creator. Watch what your restraint has birthed."
He raised his hand—and the assault began.
Bael charged first, his footfalls thunderclaps, his strikes like collapsing worlds. His fists descended upon the crystalline fortresses surrounding the First Tree, smashing towers into glittering ruin. The Espharion defenses bent under the raw storm of his blows.
Rei moved to meet him. His hand extended, and the breath of An'nai surged. With a single motion, he dispersed the crushing force, redirecting it into harmless spirals of radiant mist. But Bael roared, each strike growing more ferocious, shaking even the fabric of Rei's avatar.
Exetior then entered, his illusions spreading like wildfire across the battlefield. Countless afterimages flickered in and out, each one a phantom poised to strike.
"Can you see, Creator?" Exetior whispered from all directions. "Which of me is real?"
Rei's gaze narrowed. For every illusion, He unraveled a thread, severing the false from the true—but not without effort. The world twisted under Exetior's tempo, and Rei's form began to flicker, His control stretched thin.
Through the chaos, Zero surged forward, her katana a streak of moonlit judgment. With one perfect cut, her blade sliced through the illusions, anchoring reality wherever it passed.
"Falsehood cannot stand before purity." Zero spoke, her voice quiet but absolute.
Exetior hissed, his speed faltering before Zero's precision. The two clashed in a ballet of blade and deception.
Behind them, Krishna sang.
Her voice carried across broken towers and cracked ground, restoring the wounded, binding collapsing structures, and shielding Rei's form from the unseen toxic of Noxara's lingering corruption. Flowers of light blossomed in her footsteps, each petal holding back the abyss for one more moment.
And still, Lucifer did not raise a hand.
He simply watched, speaking softly into the discordant winds.
"Observe, Father — how beautifully flawed your design has become. Balance is stagnation. True creation lies in the embrace of opposing absolutes. They fight not for me, but for the liberation you deny."
Rei answered only with silence, for He understood the weight of words better than any.
He knew Lucifer's corruption was not mere defiance — it was the mirror of His own incompleteness.
But even so, Rei stood. For though creation was imperfect, it was alive.
The battle raged for cycles untold — until finally, the final confrontation drew near.
Bael's power had begun to erode under Krishna's song; Exetior's illusions unraveled beneath Zero's blade. Yet the world itself trembled... for the mere existence of Lucifer's portal to Noxara weakened the very fabric of the Tree.
At last, Lucifer stepped forward.
"Enough of their play," he whispered.
"Let us speak, Father — Creator of breath. Will you not finally see?"
And as Rei stood alone before him, the Tree wept light.
The battle raged across the terraces of the Tree, where the luminous branches touched the boundaries of reality itself.
But beneath the visible clash of blade and fist, another war was brewing—older, more insidious.
Ikari.
The child of An'nai's fracture.
The consequence of will twisted by despair, by rage, by betrayal.
An'nai, pure and infinite, had once flowed perfectly through the veins of Creation, the breath of thought, the source of all becoming. But where An'nai was possibility and unity, Ikari was certainty and division.
Ikari was born when desire clashed against limitation.
When identity refused dissolution.
When beings, gifted with will, refused surrender.
It was the embers of rebellion — not yet evil, but saturated with fury.
And now, with the arrival of Lucifer and his apostles, Ikari had found fertile ground.
Its tendrils coiled through the roots of the world like black serpents, their pulsing veins throbbing with crimson and violet energy. The crystal leaves above dimmed, their once-pure light flickering as the Tree's song was distorted.
Krishna stood atop the highest branch, her flowing robes dancing with living light, her hands weaving vast circles of harmonic wards.
Her voice was a melody that pushed back the invading Ikari, yet even she could feel it—a constant pressure building beneath her feet. The roots groaned like ancient beasts stirred from their slumber.
"This corruption..." she whispered, "it is not born of the Apostates alone."
Rei, standing beside her, nodded solemnly.
"It is the shadow of 'freedom' itself. When will becomes unbound by rage, Ikari is birthed."
Zero, standing near the trunk, her katana humming with resonance, narrowed her eyes.
"It feeds on conflict. Every clash strengthens its form. The more we resist Bael and Exetior, the stronger this current becomes."
Indeed, even now, as Bael slammed against Rei's shifting defenses, as Exetior danced in illusions against Zero's cutting arc, the undercurrent of Ikari pulsed in rhythm with every strike.
Bael's fury was its hymn.
Exetior's arrogance its breath.
Lucifer's pride its throne.
Far below, where the deepest roots pierced into the nothingness beneath existence, Ikari whispered.
"I was born the moment your will faltered. I am the echo of all denied. I am fury given shape."
The Tree shuddered, its bark splitting slightly, releasing gouts of black-red mist.
Lucifer smiled as the tremors grew. His voice flowed across the battlefield like oil on still water.
"You see it now, do you not?" he whispered.
"This is not my doing. This is nature. The inevitable descent of all that resists its own nature. Even your precious An'nai, Eidonos, cannot escape the price of freedom."
He gestured toward the decaying roots.
"Ikari grows because you allowed will. Because you allowed choice. Creation is conflict. Existence is rage. The more you create, the more you fracture."
Rei's eyes closed for a moment. His avatar flickered, but their core held firm.
"You speak half-truths, my fallen son," Rei answered. "Ikari is real — but it is not final. It is a wound that may yet be healed, not a destiny to be embraced."
Lucifer's grin deepened, eyes glowing with inverted light.
"Then heal it, Rei. If you still can."
Zero dashed forward once more, her blade trailing moonlight in pure arcs, cutting through Exetior's fractal projections. Their duel blurred the space between seconds.
"You will not take another step." Zero said coldly.
Exetior's voice sang from every angle.
"You cut shadows, woman. But shadows are infinite."
Her blade hummed, vibrating at a higher resonance, slicing not just through his images, but the very data of their existence.
"You are not infinite. You are desperate." Zero answered.
Meanwhile, Krishna's melody swelled.
She raised her hands, summoning a radiant field that slowed the spreading veins of Ikari beneath them. Rings of shimmering patterns spun outward—seals made from living equations, born from An'nai's uncorrupted language.
But even as she sang, Ikari's tendrils clawed at the edge of her sanctum, growing bolder with each moment of battle.
The Tree was suffering.
Finally, Lucifer stepped forward, his voice soft yet terrible.
"You cannot protect them forever. Sooner or later, they will turn. They will taste the power of Ikari and call it freedom. Even your guardians... they too shall one day see the false promise of your balance."
He extended his hand.
"Let me show them the world beyond your trembling light. The world of perfect will."
The world of Noxara.
The air fractured. The Wound widened. The Song of the Tree faltered.
And as Lucifer prepared to invoke the full breach, Rei whispered one final command.
"Then I shall stand."
His form expanded, and the First Breath — the purest stream of An'nai — surged forth.
Light and shadow collided, and the cosmos trembled.
The battle reached its crescendo...
The Tree of Origin, once radiant and infinite, now stood broken and bleeding, its branches twisted by the black tendrils of Ikari. Where once its crystal leaves sang with the voices of a million realities, now came only static, as if existence itself forgot its own song.
Lucifer hovered near the broken trunk, his arms outstretched, his silhouette a black halo against the convulsing branches. The air around him churned with all the narratives he had gathered — stolen timelines, aborted possibilities, unsung futures, unbirthed gods.
"I have seen all of it..." he whispered. "I have wandered through the veins of your design. I know every secret name, every unspoken law."
His voice echoed with unbearable clarity.
"You thought you could bind existence by Codex. But the Codex was your first error. The Tree was your first weakness. For where there is structure: there is fracture. Where there is will: there is Ikari."
The black-red mist of Ikari pulsed around him, feeding on his words. The entire Tree shuddered like an old beast at death's gate.
Below him, Krishna and Zero stood motionless. The melody Krishna once sang to protect the roots now faded to a thin thread. Zero's blade hummed but found no more shadows to cut — for all shadows now belonged to one mouth: Ikari.
"Rei..." Krishna whispered, her voice trembling for the first time. "The Tree... it's breaking."
Zero narrowed her eyes. "The narratives are collapsing. This isn't war anymore. This is annihilation."
And then...
Rei moved.
The air stilled. The tremors ceased. Even the convulsing roots paused, as if reality itself dared not breathe.
The being once known as creator shed its mortal vessel.
Rei's form dissolved into an impossible structure—not shape, nor light, nor sound—but pure Act. Where once stood a being, now hovered the unfiltered Essence that had written the first breath of existence.
Every law bent in reverence. The three-fold paradox of An'nai poured outward:
That which Is.
That which Is Becoming.
That which Is Beyond.
Time itself recoiled. The sky inverted into recursive patterns of golden white. The ground fell away into a sea of absent color.
Even Krishna and Zero staggered backward, shielding their eyes.
"This is... true form..." Krishna gasped.
"He's no longer anavatar," Zero whispered, voice hollow. "He is Becoming Itself."
Rei's voice, no longer voice but an eternal vibration, filled all things.
"I have seen enough."
His brilliance expanded, enveloping the entire Tree of Codex. The broken trunk cracked under the unbearable weight of the First Breath returning to its origin.
"You were right, Lucifer." Rei intoned toward Lucifer. "Structure is fracture. And so I shall unmake the fracture."
Lucifer stood firm, though his silhouette began to crack under the pressure.
"Will you erase it ALL then, Rei? Is this your final mercy?? TO DESTROY YOUR OWN CANVAS?!"
The voices of countless realities screamed as Rei's light consumed the corrupted Tree. The Codex itself—the infinite archive of all possible narratives—began to splinter like shattered glass, its shards falling into the void beneath.
The roots of Ikari withered, disintegrating as the source of their nourishment was severed.
Yet, even in collapse, Ikari resisted.
Dark veins of unsurrendered rage writhed in defiance, but Rei's radiance was absolute.
An'nai reabsorbed its fallen branch.
One by one, the structures of reality folded inward. The scaffolding of every law and form returned to the primordial state of pure Becoming.
Still, Lucifer resisted.
His body cracked, but his voice grew even sharper, filled with unshaken certainty.
"Even as I die, Father, know this: your erasure proves my point."
The space around him collapsed, peeling away like burning paper. His silhouette dissolved into threads, but his eyes remained.
"You sought to make existence pure. But what is purity without struggle? Without fracture? Without us?"
The wind of nonexistence pulled at him, but he smiled.
"You were afraid of what we became. You feared your own children. But I tell you now—even if you erase the universe, even if you unmake the fracture... the essence of Ikari will never vanish!"
He raised a crumbling hand toward Rei's light.
"As long as will exists, there will be rage. As long as beings desire, there will be corruption. You cannot erase what birthed you."
His voice faltered, and his form finally began to unravel fully into the white.
"Go ahead, Father. Cleanse your creation. Purge your design. But remember: somewhere... sometime... Noxara still watches."
And with that final whisper, Lucifer dissolved entirely. His narratives, his stolen stories, his countless sub-realities—all scattered into nonexistence.
Only silence remained...
Rei's form pulsed once more, and with one final expansion, the last remnants of the Tree of Codex crumbled into dust. The great engine of creation had been dismantled. No more structures. No more threads. Only the core, the Becoming... the pure breath of An'nai remained.
All the world became a white expanse. An infinite, brilliant void.
Krishna and Zero stood at its heart, breathing heavily, struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
"This..." Krishna whispered. "This isn't restoration. This is..."
"... Beginning," Zero finished, her voice trembling.
The white light expanded infinitely. And beyond that expansion—outside the reach of even Rei's Becoming—there still pulsed a faint, untouchable black coil:
Noxara.
Untouched. Uncorrupted. Waiting...
And thus ended the First Codex.