When the spark of life pulsed, it did not merely condense; it drew in and reordered the surrounding energy. This was not an organic process, but a set of instructions, an algorithm executed with absolute precision. Water began to rise, covering the planet in a global ocean. Yet as quickly as it formed, it receded. The pole in the south froze, not due to temperature, but by command to balance the planet's mass. Vast lands emerged, forming gigantic continents that dominated the surface. The planet was no longer a world, but a platform, a stage that had been prepared.
And upon that stage, from the core of the gathered spark of life, emerged the figure of the First Human. He was not human as Zego knew them. He was a form, a blueprint brought to life. His body was larger and more robust than a normal human's, but not from muscles forged by effort, rather from cosmic materials arranged with perfect precision. Every fiber, every atom of him was the result of absolute engineering. His skin emitted a faint light, and his eyes were voids of frozen starlight that held no will, only calculation.
The abstract being, the architect of all this, bestowed power through a transmission, not a dream. Zego felt it: a compressed information stream, coding a mission into the First Human's consciousness. "Conquer this planet and those ten planets, and you will become a powerful entity." An order that could not be refused, a purpose that provoked no questions. The First Human never chose his destiny; his destiny was a function he was programmed to fulfill.
Without hesitation, he began his task in the west. Zego saw the western land filled with mythological creatures. The sky was dark with the shadows of dragons screaming dominance, with sturdy wings and sharp horns. Zego waited, his human anticipation expecting to see some flicker of emotion: fear, pride, or even anger. But there was nothing. The First Human's eyes, two miniature black holes on his face, simply scanned, identified targets, and calculated variables. He was not an ambitious conqueror, but a processor carrying out a command.
His movements were an anomaly. There was no wind-up, no explosive burst of power. His body simply accelerated—an algorithm optimized for efficiency. He leaped, not with strength, but with a calculation of gravity. His fist was not a punch, but a piston of condensed entropy. When it connected with a gigantic dragon, the dragon's sternum ceased to exist before the sound of the impact reached Zego's perception. The dragon was not pushed to the ground, but rather its existence at the point of impact was no longer valid.
The other dragons, filled with fury and terror, roared. Their roars shook continents—rage, terror, desperation. The First Human remained silent as deep space. Their fiery breath was an outpouring of emotion; his movements were physics. A blast of fire capable of melting mountains shot toward him. He did not dodge, but repositioned himself—an efficient movement to avoid unnecessary damage. When an angry dragon's tail whipped at him, shattering the mountain behind him into dust, the First Human showed no pain or surprise. A small crack appeared on his shoulder, and Zego's nausea spiked. This wasn't a battle; it was a deletion.
Where the First Human's arm was severed, starlight pulsed beneath his skin like trapped supernovae. No blood. No pain. Only cold fusion knitting cosmic flesh. He no longer had a limb, but data that was being repaired. In the silence, he did not summon a sword from light. He manipulated the atoms of light, re-arranging them into mathematical blades. A blade that didn't cut skin, but erased molecular bonds.
His movement was as fast as lightning. There were no thousands of slashing lines. Instead, reality itself flickered once. When it stabilized, dragon-flesh rained down like geometric hail. No flourish. An on/off switch to life. Zego felt his nausea peak. This was cosmic horror, a power that viewed life as a flaw in the code that must be corrected. How strong is he? The question was no longer about physical strength, but about the depth of this horror.
After completing his conquest of the smaller dragons, the First Human was confronted by the final enemy—an anomaly. The Dragon King, ten times larger than the previous dragons, appeared. This dragon had two arms and two legs, a more evolved, more intelligent, and most importantly, a more emotional form. It roared, its anger so pure that it tore the sky. It condensed a fireball so large that it pulled in the surrounding reality. Its claw attack split and burned space itself.
Of course, the First Human was not intimidated. He could not be. When the molten claws severed his arm, he did not flinch. Starlight congealed into a new limb before the old one hit the ground. This was his most challenging opponent, not because of power, but because of its resilience and rage.
The battle began, a dance of death between emotion and emptiness. The dragon screamed its hatred, forming firestorms that laid waste to continents. The First Human, like an algorithm running a calculation, dodged, repositioned, and attacked invisible weak points. Space and time around them became unstable, spewing energy and fragments of shattered reality. The battle lasted for one million years. The Dragon King screamed its defiance, reshaping mountains with its rage. For one million years, the Conqueror corrected a flaw in the code of existence. Not once did his breath quicken. Not once was there fatigue.
Victory came not from overwhelming power, but from precision. After a million years, the First Human saw an opening, a small moment when the dragon was too focused on its fiery breath. He did not attack the dragon's claws or wings. He chose its mouth, the most emotional and brutal point of the dragon. The attack launched into the dragon's mouth was not a simple punch or slash. It was a condensed instruction, a command to cease existing.
Then, an event occurred. The First Human did not emerge from the dragon's mouth, but exploded from within. He appeared in a new form that was more powerful and terrifying, proving that the destruction inside the dragon was enough to kill it. The dragon collapsed—not dead, but unmade. Its flawless skin remained intact, but beneath it, there was nothing but quantum dust.
He stepped out from the carcass. No triumph. No gasp of relief. Just the silent hum of a weapon sheathing itself. The west was complete. He now looked to the east, then to the south, then to the north. There was no hesitation, no memory of the battle that had just concluded. Just a comet of purpose on a predetermined trajectory. Zego finally understood: this wasn't a king claiming lands. This was a cosmic brush, painting the canvas of existence with the color of 'obedience'.
He began to walk towards his next direction.