Chapter 3: The Birth of Power and the Spirit Without Shape
From the depths of primordial silence, the universe churned. Galaxies twisted. Stars collapsed and were born anew. But far from the gaze of gods or mortals, the MC—whose mind had begun to adapt to the pulse of this divine realm—observed the convergence of fates.
He wasn't alone anymore.
In the fabric of this newly-forming multiverse, three cosmic forces clashed and combined in sacred ritual: the authority of the skies, the command of the oceans, and the dominion over the dead.
Three brothers stood upon the peak of a collapsing realm—one that shimmered like molten gold and shuddered beneath the weight of decision.
Zeus, youthful and commanding, raised his hand to the heavens. The clouds above cracked. Light bent. The cosmos responded with reverence. From this sacred convergence, the Thunderbolt was born—an instrument not of mere destruction, but judgment and will. Forged from the storm's essence and fueled by Aetheric Fire, it crackled with the laughter of storms yet to come.
Poseidon, calm and endless like the sea, turned to the depths. The ocean trembled. A whirlpool opened, revealing the heart of all currents. His hand plunged deep, and from the swirling chaos rose the Trident of Abyss, carved from a spine of a Leviathan, infused with the tide's memory and the roar of forgotten tsunamis.
But when it came to Hades, the silence was more profound. The underworld had no voice, yet its presence was undeniable. The darkness called, not with words, but with weight.
Instead of the fabled helmet of invisibility, the underworld birthed a staff—a monument not to secrecy, but to sovereign control.
The Staff of Oblivion emerged from the River Lethe itself, etched in soulmetal drawn from the molten cores of punished stars. It pulsed with eerie violet glow, cold yet comforting, absolute in its aura.
The moment his fingers touched the obsidian shaft, a crack formed in reality.
From it leaked Taylor.
A whisper first. Then a presence.
Not a god. Not a spirit.
Taylor was the embodiment of paradox. Neither male nor female. Both and neither. Taylor existed as a being whose very shape defied classification. Their form constantly shimmered—sometimes slender, other times broad, yet always ethereal. One eye wept stardust; the other blinked lightning. Their voice, when it first came, echoed as if spoken by many mouths across dimensions.
> "I am Taylor, born from Sovereignty unclaimed. From rule untouched. From silence that listens."
They floated beside Hades, not as servant, not as god—but as a conduit of authority, a living extension of the staff's will.
Taylor's presence changed the air around the MC, who had been watching all this unfold like a hidden observer. Time itself stilled for him.
"Is that… what power does to reality?" the MC muttered.
In his world—the one he still ruled from his shadowed domain—his own tools and materials had begun to respond. The forge beneath his underworld groaned with the birth of new possibilities. The sinners he condemned had started whispering of strange phenomena: stones that sang, chains that bled, ores that burned without heat.
Something was awakening in both realms.
Something tied to the divine weapons of the Three, and the formless being birthed from the staff.
And though Taylor had no loyalty, they turned their eyes—not toward Zeus or Poseidon—but toward the MC.
And they smiled.
> "Your judgment… is purer than theirs."
The MC, still silent, felt the chains around his own story beginning to loosen.
He wasn't merely watching.
He would be part of it.