The night before the Gathering, silence fell across the shattered skyline. Even the wind seemed wary of carrying whispers where so many powers were about to converge. Yet above the quiet city, the truth of this world—and all worlds—burned like a brand on the firmament.
The Origin of Aetherys:
Extract from the Codex of Forgotten Stars, preserved by the Constellation Order.
> "All creation begins in silence.
And from silence came Lucien Dreamveil.
He was the sole exception to nothingness, the dream that dreamed itself awake.
From his breath spilled the Primordial Void, a canvas without end, and within that void he grew the first roots of the World Tree Beyond Eternity. Its branches bent the infinite, birthing realms, universes, and entire multiverses layered one atop another like mirrors cracked and reforged.
To one such universe, he gave a name: Aetherys.
It was not just a title, but a covenant—that this place, unlike others, would hold the freedom to evolve beyond even its Creator's designs.
Yet even a god requires stewards. To Kaelaris Nyr'then, the Flame-Bearer and first among the Constellations, Lucien entrusted the task of watching over Aetherys, to guide without shackling, to judge without binding.
From this charge came centuries of war and awakening. From it came the shaping of our order. From it came the prophecy of the Black End.
And so, when the shadows rose, when hunger became endless and dark matter began to bleed into the marrow of men…
The name was given: Apocalypse Black.
Not a mere end of days, but the proof of Aetherys's freedom—its right to evolve through ruin, as Lucien intended."
The words of that codex still rang in his head as he stepped into the vast obsidian chamber where the Awakeners' Gathering took place.
Rows upon rows of figures stood beneath the cathedral-like vault, warriors and sorcerers, priests and killers—all Awakeners, each marked by the god, power, or abyss that had chosen them. The banners of the three rankings hung above: Dragon, God, and the abyssal black where even banners seemed to refuse the light.
He felt their eyes on him. The Apostle of Void.
Whispers broke like static around the room, but he didn't flinch. If he lowered himself, he'd insult the Void itself.
He tugged his hood back, letting them see the faint trace of dark matter still coiled in his veins like threads of midnight lightning. His mouth curved, sharp, arrogant, alive.
"Is this it?" he muttered, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "The gathering of the so-called strongest? Looks more like a funeral rehearsal."
A ripple of unease spread. Some smirked. Others glared. One or two clenched their fists, itching to strike.
He only smiled wider, stepping onto the arena floor where Awakeners would test themselves against one another. His blood hadn't cooled since his last battle, and though his body still carried scars, he could feel the Void pulsing in his core—stronger, hungrier, sharper. Every creature he'd slain, every ounce of dark matter absorbed, was a step higher.
And tonight, under the gaze of apostles, gods, and the Constellations themselves, he'd carve his name into their ranking.