Before there was light, there was Chaos.
He was not evil. He simply was — the endless void, the silence before creation, the raw potential from which all things might emerge. He drifted across the nothingness, shaping nothing, demanding nothing. But then came the god of light, and with him, the first war.
The god of light did not understand Chaos. And what he could not understand, he feared.
He tore through the void with radiance and flame, carving stars from shadow, splitting time from timelessness. He declared order, law, and structure — and in doing so, called Chaos unnatural. Their clash shook existence itself, and in the wake of their war, galaxies burned.
In the end, the god of light was victorious.
But he did not destroy Chaos. He did something far worse.
With divine force, he cast Chaos into a replica world, a false Earth — a prison designed to look like the real one but hollow, broken, and cursed.
"This will be your grave," the god of light said, sealing the rift between realms. "Let your own emptiness devour you."
To ensure it, he cursed the prison world.
From the cracks in the sky fell the World Eaters — beasts made of hunger and divinity, created to strip the false Earth of every breath, every life, until nothing remained. And when the last remnant faded, Chaos would finally cease to exist.
But Chaos would not surrender so easily.
Weakened, fragmented, and alone, he roamed the dying world — watching as humans, unaware of their origin or the nature of their reality, struggled against monsters they could never defeat. In his final act of will, Chaos shaped seven black crystals, each holding a fragment of his energy, memory, and power.
He scattered them across the replica Earth — burying them in ruins, oceans, deserts, and forgotten places.
If even one soul touched one crystal, Chaos would awaken.
And with that, he went silent.
---
Craymoor Ruins – Present Day
The sky was ash-grey and bruised, heavy with the scent of storm and death.
Seventeen-year-old Zenith moved like a ghost through the ruins of Craymoor, once a great city, now nothing more than cracked stone and twisted steel. His boots crunched over scorched rubble. His breath fogged in the cold.
He didn't know why he was here. Only that something had drawn him — a pull in his chest like gravity. He had ignored it for days. Until now.
He passed crumbled walls etched with ancient writing, crossed shattered bridges barely holding above collapsed streets, and at last came upon it: a spire blackened by fire and time, leaning like a dying tree against the sky.
At its base sat a smooth black crystal, pulsing faintly with unnatural life.
Zenith hesitated… then reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the surface—
everything vanished.
---
He stood in a void.
No ground. No sky. No sound. Only presence.
A voice broke the silence, deep as the abyss and cold as the stars.
> "So… this is the vessel the world offers me?"
Zenith turned wildly, searching for the source. "Who's there?!"
> "You are not worthy."
"Show yourself!"
> "You dare command me?"
The voice rippled through him like thunder. It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive in the way Zenith understood. It was ancient. Vast. And angry.
Zenith's fists clenched. "What are you?"
> "I am the reason your world is dying.
I am the one your gods cast into this mockery of Earth.
I… am Chaos."
A chill gripped Zenith's spine. The name echoed in his mind like a memory not his own.
> "You touched my crystal. Now you are mine."
"I didn't ask for this," Zenith growled.
> "None ever do. And yet, here you stand."
The voice circled him like smoke.
> "Your kind built cities on a lie. You war and starve and scream into a sky that was never yours. This world is not real. It is a prison. And I am its only truth."
Zenith's voice cracked, defiant. "Then I'll break the prison. But I won't be your puppet."
The void trembled. The voice paused. Then—laughter. Cold. Amused.
> "Good. You may yet survive."
---
Zenith gasped awake in the mud outside the spire. His chest heaved. Rain fell in heavy sheets. The black crystal still pulsed in his palm.
He wanted to drop it.
But he didn't.
In the distance, something screamed — long and inhuman — and the sky cracked open. A World Eater had sensed the awakening.
Zenith didn't run.
Not yet.
Because in the back of his mind, the voice whispered again — quiet this time. Almost eager.
> "Run… or let me show you how to make gods bleeed"