Chapter 1: The Betrayal of Primordials
Before time was measured, before stars dared to shine,there was primordial gods.
Not gods—not like the ones whispered about in mortal prayers—but something older, something raw. Beings born from the very first breath of the universe, shaping existence itself with nothing but will and power.
Aeon was one of them.
He carried the flow of time like a heavy cloak, silver hair shimmering like threads of moonlight, eyes burning gold with a knowledge far beyond comprehension. In his hand, he held the Scepter of Time—an ancient relic, older than any story told, older than the worlds he had set in motion.
It was Aeon who breathed life into the flow of moments, weaving destinies with silent care.
Beside him was Malakar—the Abyss King. Shadow incarnate, whose cold touch birthed the devils and horrors that lurk beyond light. His Death Scepter and Chaos Spear were extensions of his merciless will, the weapons of ruin and darkness.
Then there was Aetherion, the Magus King, a blaze of aetheric fire who kindled the spark of magic into being. His Wand of Order and Sphere of Infinite Aether bent the laws of reality, giving shape to the arcane arts and the endless pursuit of knowledge.
Together, they stood at the dawn, rulers of what was, what is, and what might be.
But Aeon's heart was heavy, weighed down not just by time's burden, but by a secret no one knew.
He had seen the threads unraveling.
The betrayal waiting in the shadows.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled his eternal soul, that this was not an end—but a necessary beginning.
To wield the Codex of Fate—the greatest secret, the deepest mystery of all—he would have to surrender everything.
Even himself.
He understood that fate was a cruel master, but sometimes, to rewrite the future, you must first lose the present.
Aeon had lived longer than most beings could fathom. He had witnessed the birth of stars, the weaving of galaxies, and the slow, steady march of time itself. Time—his domain, his burden, and the thread that tied together all things—was something he understood better than any.
Yet, in all his eternal existence, there was one truth that weighed heavier than all the ages: even gods could betray.
L
Varys, his first creation
A man who had stood beside him through epochs, who had ruled beside him, now gripped a weapon older than the cosmos—the Embodiment of Destruction. It was a blade forged before time itself, humming with a deep hunger to unravel the fabric of all things.
Aeon's silver hair shimmered faintly as the chill of betrayal seeped into his bones. He felt the cold press of the blade against his side—the searing pain that no god should endure.
Blood, shimmering like liquid moonlight, spilled freely.
For a moment, Aeon staggered, the weight of endless years suddenly crushing.
But his mind—vast, eternal, unyielding—held steady.
So this is how it ends, he thought, the bitter ache of loss curling inside him. Not by some grand cosmic battle, but by a knife in the back.
He looked into Varys's eyes—those cold, unrepentant eyes filled with ambition and fear.
"You thought you could kill me," Aeon said, voice low but steady, "and that would be the end."
A bitter smile touched his lips. "But you've only begun a chain of events you cannot understand."
Behind the Chancellor stood Malakar and Aetherion, the Abyss King and the Magus King.
Malakar's dark form radiated cold menace, his Death Scepter and Chaos Spear poised to strike down any who dared oppose him. He was the creator of the devils—monsters born from shadow and despair.
Aetherion, bathed in radiant aetheric light, wielded the Wand of Order and the Sphere of Infinite Aether. He had breathed magic into the universe, crafting spells and laws that shaped reality.
Together, they were terrifying — powerful beyond reckoning.
Yet Aeon knew that none of them had delivered the final blow.
It was Varys who had stabbed the knife that would topple gods.
Pain twisted inside him, but beneath it burned a fierce fire.
I gave life to gods, forged realms from nothingness, wove time into the endless tapestry of existence.
And now, those gods watch as I fall.
Aeon raised the Scepter of Time, his hand trembling only slightly. Around him, the fabric of reality bent and rippled — seconds stretching and folding in impossible ways.
His breath was ragged but his voice rang out, "If I perish, you are not safe. Your victories are hollow, your trust a fragile mask."
He felt time itself bending to his will, spinning threads of past and future in a dizzying dance.
Varys lunged again, Embodiment of Destruction flashing.
Aeon caught the strike, sparks of temporal energy flying from their clash.
The battle was no longer just of weapons but of laws—time and destruction, order and chaos colliding in violent storms.
Malakar's shadows surged, swallowing light; Aetherion's flames roared, unraveling the very weave of existence.
But Aeon was relentless.
He twisted time like a master artist, creating shields of frozen moments and barriers of fractured seconds.
Every breath was a battle; every heartbeat a war.
To claim the Codex of Fate, he thought, the most ancient and elusive treasure of all, I must surrender everything.
I must die.
Not as defeat, but as a new beginning.
The knowledge was clear—death would unbind him from the chains of his own destiny and open the path to a future unwritten.
With a roar that echoed through the stars, Aeon unleashed his final gambit.
Time shattered.
Stars cracked and bled light.
The heavens themselves seemed to scream in agony.
Malakar's shadows retracted, faltering.
Aetherion's fire dimmed, flickering like a dying candle.
Varys was hurled backward, the Embodiment of Destruction falling from his grasp.
Aeon felt himself slipping — fading into the void between moments.
His final breath carried a warning, heavy and eternal:
"You will remember this day… not as an end, but a beginning.
Fate does not forgive.
And none escape its grasp."
As silence settled over the cosmos, a fragile new thread began to weave itself.
A story not of an end, but a rebirth.)