Before the world had names, before time had direction, ten beings descended from the void.
They did not bring light.
They were the light. And the shadow.
They were law itself—the unseen pillars that upheld all of reality.
They were called gods, though they never asked to be worshipped.
They did not create the world, but made it possible to exist.
Without them, there would be no line between life and death, no distinction between motion and stillness, no boundary between being and emptiness.
Zerachiel, the Blade of Division, never spoke. He simply swung. And with each cut, something was separated. Light from darkness. Earth from sky. Soul from flesh. He was the line between all things that should never meet.
Aeon, the Timeless Watcher, did not age. He moved the stars, froze the oceans, and made destiny walk to his rhythm. In his silence, time became a chain.
Virel, the Laughing Trickster, danced among them, rewriting cause and effect like a child rearranging chess pieces. To him, a wound could cause a strike, and failure could birth triumph. The world was a game, and he bent its rules with a grin.
Arana, Goddess of Duality, bore two faces—one weeping, one smiling. She traded death for life, turned poison into salvation, and inverted everything real into its reflection. She was the mirror no soul dared gaze into for too long.
Kharon, Lord of Kings, never left his unseen throne. Everything—creatures, elements, even concepts like choice or freedom—bowed within his domain. To defy him was to defy existence itself.
Nihilo, the Eraser, had no voice. He needed none. Wherever his gaze fell, that thing simply ceased to be. Not destroyed—unwritten. He was the quiet end of all things.
Sylaen, the Masked One, had no face of her own. She wore the identity of any she touched, stealing not only names and forms, but even destinies. To face her was to forget who you were.
Elure, the Mother of Cycles, smiled at death. To her, it was merely a door. With each death, she gave rebirth—stronger, stranger, more distorted. She planted the roots of resurrection deep in the bones of mortals.
Ilnar, the Boundless Flame, surged endlessly. His breath was power without end. His limbs, unbound by fatigue. But as his strength grew, his self eroded. He was a storm with no center, an infinity devouring itself.
And lastly, Morwen, the Goddess of Silence. She did not whisper. She removed sound. Within her presence, all voices ceased. Magic faded. Thought dimmed. No prayers could pass. No cries could rise. Only stillness remained.
These ten gods did not love one another.
They clashed—not out of will, but because their natures could not coexist.
One law negated the next.
When one grew strong, another would fade.
And in time, they all came to one truth: the world could not continue as long as they remained alive.
So they made their final decision—
Not to kill one another…
But to die together.
Yet before their bodies vanished, they shattered their souls into Absolute Fragments—
One for each Law.
These fragments were cast across the flow of time.
Hidden in the ruins of fallen empires, in the blood of descendants, in the dreams of those near death.
And when the world once again approaches ruin…
One of them will awaken.
Not as a god.
But as a human.
A successor.
An inheritor of a Law that cannot be resisted.
One who will not save the world—
But test it.
Is this world still worth it?
And now…
One of them has risen.
A blade that can sever the world itself.
His name… has not yet been written in history.
But his sword will be.