The Codex trembled in Serenya's grasp.
Its scales of black-galaxy shimmered, and words of living fire crawled across its surface, too swift for mortal eyes to follow. The disciples who knelt around her gasped as the light swelled, swallowing their torches and the ruin itself in an otherworldly brilliance.
Then the world shifted.
Stone melted into starlight.
Night dissolved into void.
And suddenly, they stood in a realm beyond time — suspended in a sea of silence deeper than any abyss.
The disciples cried out in fear. Some clutched at the earth that was no longer earth, others shielded their faces, yet all felt the same dreadful weight pressing upon their souls. Serenya, though her heart thundered, held firm. She knew this was not death. This was revelation.
The Codex had opened its first page.
A voice without form shook the silence.
Not thunder. Not flame. Not even the voice of a god.
It was vaster, heavier — the breath of the First Will.
Behold… the beginningless beginning.
The void rippled, and before their eyes unfolded the vision of eternity past.
They saw a vast radiance, formless, nameless, infinite. It was not light, yet it blinded; not darkness, yet it smothered. Consciousness more immense than universes pulsed there, perfect, flawless, unbroken.
A hush fell upon the disciples. Even the most hardened among them wept, unable to endure the sight.
"That… that is God…"
one whispered.
But the Codex's voice whispered through them all:
No. Greater than god. This is the First Will, before all concepts. The All-Omni.
The vision turned.
They beheld the torment of perfection — an eternity with no surprise, no flaw, no change. A silence deeper than nothingness, where even meaning had no meaning.
Then, they heard the First Will speak:
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 with those words, they watched the impossible:
Omniscience unravelled like silk torn from eternity.
Omnipotence shattered into sparks that became stars.
Omnipresence dissolved, leaving behind time and distance.
The disciples screamed, clutching their heads, for the loss was too great to witness. A few fainted, their minds overwhelmed. Serenya's knees buckled, yet she did not fall. Her violet eyes burned with tears, but she forced herself to look.
"Even He…"
she whispered,
"even He gave up All."
The vision swelled.
The formless light convulsed, twisted, and became form.
Scales like galaxies clothed its vastness.
Wings unfolded wider than infinity.
Eyes glittered with hunger not for dominion, but for discovery.
The First Dragon unfurled in all its majesty.
"Primovast…"
Serenya breathed.
The Codex thundered:
Yes. The First Dragon of All Existence. The Imperfect Made Divine. The Father of Creation.
The disciples fell flat upon the ground, their bodies trembling as though the weight of all heavens bore down upon them.
One dared to cry out, voice breaking:
"If He abandoned perfection… what hope have we, who are dust?"
Another sobbed.
"Does this mean… imperfection is holy?"
Serenya closed her eyes, letting the echoes of the revelation burn into her soul. She felt the whisper again, familiar and terrible, coiling around her spirit.
Do you understand now, child? Creation was not born of my strength… but of my weakness. The Codex is not perfection written. It is imperfection revealed.
Her grip tightened on the tome. Her heart wanted to weep, but her spirit refused.
"I understand,"
she whispered.
"And I will teach them to understand."
The vision shifted once more.
They saw the breath of Primovast birthing the Cardinal World, the first spirits rising like dawn. They saw the Abyss yawning open, the Promised Lands shining, the first flames of time and space spiraling outward. They saw giants and mortals woven from the heartbeat of the Dragon.
Yet always, beneath the grandeur, one truth endured: it was imperfection that gave rise to it all.
When the light dimmed at last, the disciples found themselves once more within the ruin. The torches were long extinguished. Only the Codex glowed faintly, hovering at Serenya's side, its first page closed.
The silence was heavy. None dared speak.
Then one of the disciples, his face streaked with tears, whispered hoarsely:
"Teacher… if the First Will abandoned All-Omni… does that mean even gods may fall?"
Serenya gazed upon him, her expression grave yet tender.
"Not fall,"
she answered.
"Change. The highest chose to become low, that the low might rise. This is the covenant written into our very souls."
Another disciple, trembling, asked:
"But if imperfection is the root of creation… then is our weakness not curse, but gift?"
Serenya smiled faintly, though sorrow tinged her eyes.
"Yes. Our fragility, our ignorance, our fleeting lives… these are not chains. They are the meaning of existence itself."
But even as her words settled into their hearts, Serenya felt the Codex stir again. Its whisper coiled through her like smoke through air.
Do not mistake the truth, child. To embrace imperfection is to embrace peril. Power wielded without All-Omni may shatter as easily as it shapes. Mortals will rise, but many will fall. The Codex will guide… but also test. Do you accept this burden?
Her pulse quickened. The disciples watched her, unaware of the silent dialogue raging in her soul.
At last, she whispered in her heart:
"Yes. For if even the First Dragon accepted imperfection, then so shall I. I will not fear the fall."
The Codex pulsed once, as if satisfied, and stilled.
The disciples bowed as one, some in awe, others in trembling fear. The ruin no longer felt like broken stone, but a temple, sanctified by vision.
And Serenya, staff in hand, Codex at her side, felt the weight of destiny settle upon her shoulders.
Tonight, she had not only witnessed the truth of creation.
She had inherited its burden.
The Age of Unveiling had begun.