The Seven Primal Pillars—forces such as Unreality, Void, Chaos, Death, Conflict, Law, and Identity—began to quiet down. In that incomplete space, the structure of the world began to stir faintly. In the void, the first form appeared.
It was born from the clash of Identity, the end of Death, and the limits of Law. It was not cold or distant, nor did it rise from the roots like the origin. It was an existence born from what comes after. Thus, it came to be known as a Greater Pillar.
It was ancient, woven from the structure of the world, shaped by the echoes of creation. The first to appear was Time. It did not raise a voice or shine. It was not a beginning—it was about counting. As Law established rules, Time provided rhythm.
Time sliced through the intertwined worlds of chaos and narrative like an endlessly stretching blade, bringing flow to them. It created the illusion of beginnings and ends, dividing eternity into before and after. Though it appeared later than the origin, Time quickly became the core of reality.
Next came Fate. Fate does not move things, but it determines their direction. It does not judge—it arranges. Holding a spinning wheel and scissors, it quietly walked through countless possibilities, choosing which to preserve. Fate existed not for rightness, but for structure. It had no concern for good or evil, only whether the design held meaning.
Then came Darkness. It was different from Void. Void is nothing; Darkness is what remains. It slipped into the spaces overlooked by Time, gently holding forgotten thoughts and emotions. It did not seek harm; it offered a place to hide, and the comfort of being unseen.
And then, Light appeared. Light is not the enemy of Darkness, but its mirror. Born from a single crack that ran through the world, it was a twin-like existence. Light does not only shine—it reveals. It gives shape to things, sometimes exposing the truth too much and blinding those who see. Yet when Light and Darkness come together, the power of Perception arises—the ability to see, to know, and even to misunderstand.
Next came Fear. Once a force raging under Chaos, it now returned as something completed. It was not random panic, but an emotion born from pain, loss, and anxiety about the future. It did not dominate—it whispered softly: What if this happens?
Finally, Dream appeared. Dream did not break rules to defy Law—it simply asked, What happens if I break them? When Law formed boundaries, Dream shattered them out of curiosity. In that realm, logic did not apply. Stories had no end. Even Time moved freely, sometimes not at all. Dream cared nothing for the Primordials. For that reason, it was, in a sense, the most powerful of the Greater Pillars.
Dream created its own world—a realm of strange ideas and endless imagination. But every dream casts a shadow.
That shadow was Nightmare.
Nightmare was not newly born. It was a reflection of Dream itself. Joy turned to obsession, beauty decayed. And Nightmare whispered: Imagination is not only hope; it can also give rise to fear.
Dream shed tears, but it did not destroy. Because dreaming is about facing the unknown.
And in the depths beyond, something began to take shape.
It was neither loud nor overwhelming, but it was necessary. These were the Lesser Pillars—beings that support the world from within.
The first to appear was Life.
It flickered like a small spark in the void left by Death. Without shouting or seeking, it simply continued. A small, stubborn, fleeting, yet beautiful existence. Life followed the path left by Death, unaware of the reasons. It only knew it had to move forward.
Next came Space.
If Time moved things, Space gave them direction. Space spread over the Void—not infinite, but expansive enough to feel so. It provided the stage for the Pillars to exist, and from there, the world expanded.
But an overly expansive world would eventually collapse.
That is why Gravity emerged.
A quiet, constant force that drew everything in. As if saying, Stay here. It connected the sun to its place, warped time, gathered stars, and crushed them. No chains were used—once anything felt Gravity, there was no escape.
Eventually, a part of the world shattered and scattered. Those fragments became the Elements.
Fire was born when Light and Fear collided. Water pooled where Dream seeped into Space. Earth emerged from fragments of Law. Wind was the breath of the first story that said, I exist.
They were not Pillars. But they were more than matter. Their patterns determined the forms of existence. They did not live, but without them, the world could not be.
Quietly, the Lesser Pillars continued to take form.
Sound gave voice to the stories. Color appeared when Light fractured within Dream. Memory connected everything across Time. Instinct engraved Fear into life. Heat was born at the intersection of Movement and Collapse. Form emerged when Law and Dream agreed on the nature of things.
They did not rule. They existed so the world could function.
As the Greater Pillars moved and built, these small forces descended like dust into the gaps of reality. Stars ignited. Life took shape. Slowly, living beings opened their eyes.
But before everything was set, another existence wandered the world.
The Children of Chaos.
Nameless and purposeless, they existed before Gravity, beings without direction or even feeling. Their forms were ancient and famished—like Ungri Uvos. They remembered the first cry of origin and longed to return to that formless moment. To them, structure was prison.
Even now, they crawl through the gaps of the Lesser Pillars.
As time passed and the world calmed, something new emerged.
That was Story.
Born from Identity, Conflict, and Purpose, it layered itself across the world. Strong stories rose to the upper layers, closer to the Pillars and the origin. Weaker ones sank to the unfinished lower layers.
Between those layers, a strange boundary appeared.
But it was not a wall.
From above, one could see below. But from below, one could not see above.
And from that boundary, thoughts that should not exist began to sprout.
I am the one telling the story.
Each layer believed itself the protagonist. Those above saw the lower beings as nothing. But they did not realize—they too were being watched.
This would come to be called the Law of Descent.
All storytellers have another storyteller. All gazes are seen by another gaze. There is no one at the highest position.
And in the lowest layer—where the Lesser Pillars held the world, and where Dream touched reality—mortal beings were born.
Small sparks of dust and gravity. Fragile, forgetful, unstable.
But they could feel. They could remember.
And they possessed the most dangerous power:
Who am I?
That question awakened something gigantic.
The Cycle. Some called it the Wheel of Reincarnation.
Humans could not live long. Bodies decayed. Stories ended. But the soul remained.
Reborn, living again, and dying again. With each cycle, it changed. Each time, it accumulated stories.
It piled up meaning.
Eventually, some souls held too many stories.
They were no longer human. They became stories themselves—vast, never-ending myths.
Souls that remembered too much.
Some became gods. Others, monsters.
Yet in the end, they were only stories that refused to end.
And as their numbers grew, the lower world began to strain.
Because no matter how small a story may seem, nothing stays silent forever.
All stories eventually yearn to be told.