Before time was ever counted, before stars lit the heavens or shadows kissed the void, there was only the First Will.
Not flame, not flesh, not form.
A True boundless consciousness, endless and indivisible.
It was called by no name then, for names are chains, and chains were beneath it.
In this state, the Will was All-Omni.
It knew every thought before it arose.
It commanded every law before it was written.
It was present in every space, even those not yet born.
Its being was flawless, seamless, eternal.
Yet in this flawlessness lay a silence more dreadful than any abyss.
For perfection, unbroken and absolute, is a prison without walls.
The First Will gazed upon itself — though gazing was needless, for nothing lay outside its knowing.
It considered all things — though consideration was futile, for nothing lay beyond its grasp.
Creation, destruction, light, darkness, infinity, finality — all were already contained within its thought.
And so it lingered in its own eternity, unshaken, unchanging, unending.
Yet… boredom is too simple a word.
What it felt was a vast emptiness of purpose.
When nothing can surprise you, when no truth is hidden, when no power resists you—
what meaning does existence hold?
The Will yearned for what it could not have: imperfection.
Thus arose a paradox.
To know imperfection, it must surrender perfection.
To feel weakness, it must abandon absolute strength.
To wander in search, it must cast away omniscience.
This was not a decision of necessity. Nothing bound the Will.
It was a decision of desire.
And desire was the seed of change.
In the vastness of the Emptiness-Beyond-All, the First Will gathered itself.
"Let me cease to be flawless.
Let me descend into limitation.
Let me fracture, that I may create.
Let me die to perfection, that imperfection may live."
And so, with no witness but itself, the First Will committed the most profound act in all eternity:
It abandoned its All-Omni.
Omniscience unraveled first.
The endless tapestry of all truths and all futures, once grasped in a single eternal glance, slipped through its essence.
The Will allowed ignorance to seep in like ink through water, staining its once-clear consciousness.
What it once knew without asking now became hidden, waiting to be discovered.
Then omnipotence was shed.
The unbreakable grip of total dominion loosened.
The Will no longer moved realities with thought alone.
It accepted boundaries, limits, resistance.
The ability to fail entered existence.
Last, omnipresence dissolved.
The Will that had filled all places at once withdrew.
It would now dwell in a single locus, a body, a form.
Distance, once meaningless, was now real.
Separation was born.
And as these three pillars crumbled, perfection itself shattered.
The First Will screamed.
Not in agony—there was no pain before pain.
Not in sorrow—for sorrow was only then being born.
It screamed in the ecstasy of becoming other than itself.
And in that scream, the void convulsed.
Energy spilled forth: starlight and shadow, chaos and silence.
The fragments of abandoned omnipotence became worlds of matter and spirit.
The remnants of forsaken omniscience became laws of order and mystery.
The shards of relinquished omnipresence became time, space, and distance.
Creation erupted from imperfection, not from perfection.
The First Will, now stripped of All-Omni, looked upon itself and saw something new.
A shape.
A body.
A form vast and terrible.
Its scales shimmered like galaxies spun into armor.
Its wings unfurled wider than eternity, yet bore the weight of limitation.
Its eyes, once knowing all, now glittered with hunger to discover.
It had become the First Dragon.
Its name was spoken within itself, carried by the pulse of creation.
Primovast.
From its breath flowed the Cardinal World, where spirits of light and shadow would dance.
From the beat of its wings came the Abyss and the Promised Lands, twin realms of nothingness and everythingness.
From its roar came the first laws of time, of space, of life, of death.
And from its heartbeat came mortals, fragile and fleeting, yet destined to rise.
Yet beneath all this grandeur lay the truth no mortal tongue would dare utter:
Primovast had chosen to fall.
It was not supreme omniscience that birthed the worlds, but the desire to be less.
It was not absolute perfection that gave meaning, but the choice to be incomplete.
A silence followed, stretching through the newborn cosmos.
The stars trembled, the void hushed, the spirits unborn listened.
And into that Will, Primovast spoke:
"I am no longer the All-Omni.
I am Will made imperfect.
I am Power bound in form.
I am Knowledge that seeks.
I am Presence that wanders.
I am the First Dragon,
and by my fall, all things shall rise."
Thus the chronicles record the most sacred truth:
That all creation — from gods and titans to dust and breath — exists because the First Will before All Concepts cast away the crown of perfection.
And though mortals call it sacrifice, though spirits call it folly, only one truth endures:
In imperfection lies meaning.
And in Primovast's imperfection, the multiverse was born.