In a boundless void of nothingness, there was no horizon, no up or down, no air, no stars. Only silence vast enough to smother thought. Yet at the very center of that abyss stood a throne.
The throne was not carved of stone nor forged of iron, but of something older—something that pulsed faintly, as though alive. Its frame stretched high as mountains, its arms engraved with scars of light that flickered like dying constellations. It was not built. It had always been.
And upon it sat a figure.
God. Avatar. Illusion. Kai could not tell. Perhaps it was all of these things. Perhaps none. For the shape on the throne wore the skin of a man, but the weight of its gaze pressed like galaxies upon him. The being leaned upon its arm as though weary, golden eyes burning with endless depth. A smile hovered upon its lips, human in form but not in essence.
Before the throne drifted a soul. His soul.
Kai floated there, transparent, fragile, faintly glowing as though the last ember of a dying fire. He looked at his own hands—hollow, luminous, trembling—and then at the god before him, dread carving lines into his translucent face.
The void trembled. Somewhere far, far beyond the black, a bang erupted. A sound so heavy it should have split worlds. Yet there were no worlds to shatter. Only void. The sound came again, and again, echoing as though the universe itself were a drum beaten by unseen hands.
Time did not exist here. But the banging did.
Kai tore his gaze away, forcing himself to meet the god's golden stare. His voice was a faint whisper, trembling through the emptiness.
"I told you everything… how I came here. How the altar… how the blades…"
His words faltered. He swallowed, though he had no throat.
"…how it all ended."
The god listened in silence. His human form leaned slightly forward, as if intrigued by the tale. And when Kai's recounting ended, the god laughed.
It was not the laughter of men. It was vast, rolling, rhythmic, layered with tones that shifted like verses of a poem. The sound bent the void around it, each laugh a ripple that shook the fabric of nothingness. There was no cruelty in it—only a strange, distant amusement, as though watching children play with the bones of giants.
When the laughter ended, the god spoke, his words slow, deliberate, dripping like honeyed poison into the silence.
"Thief of Creation."
The title lingered in the void like smoke.
"Ah… so this is what humanity has named itself. To grasp fire, water, earth, and wind, and call them pillars. To wield fragments of broken chains and call it creation. To bind themselves to a lie, and wear the word thief as though it were a crown."
The god's smile deepened, his eyes burning brighter.
"Humans cannot steal what was never theirs to begin with. They cannot pluck from the world what the world has not given. And yet…"
He leaned forward, voice slipping into a rhythm, almost like a chant, almost like a curse:
"Breaking nature is breaking law.
Breaking law is breaking truth.
Breaking truth is breaking the chain.
And the chains of creation, once broken,
spill what was meant to be sealed."
Kai's chest tightened. His soul flickered, trembling at the cadence of those words.
The god rose from the throne. He towered, impossibly tall, though still wearing the form of man. The void bent beneath his step as he descended toward Kai.
"Someone broke the chains."
The words fell like meteors.
Kai's eyes widened. "What… do you mean?"
The god tilted his head, studying him with endless patience, like a teacher marveling at a child's ignorance.
"The elements… the powers you call creation. They were not stolen by man. They were not granted. They were loosed. Torn free of the bonds that bound them. Spilled into your world like blood from a vein. And humans—fragile, desperate—caught the drops. Called them gifts. Called themselves thieves."
His smile sharpened, shadow flickering across his face.
"The truth? They are not yours. They never were. They are fragments of chains. Keys without locks. Bones without flesh."
Kai's voice trembled, breaking.
"Then who—who broke them?"
The god laughed again. This time it was quieter, softer, yet colder than before.
"Does it matter? The act was done. The cage was weakened. And so—here I sit."
He gestured vaguely to the throne, as though mocking his own imprisonment.
"You see, little ember, I was sealed here by a hand greater than yours. Greater even than mine. A hand that feared what I was, or perhaps what I carried. But that hand… is gone. No trace. No echo. The one who bound me is no more. And now…"
For the first time, the god's golden eyes dimmed, a flicker of weariness passing across his human mask.
"…I do not know how long I can endure."
The void trembled again. The bangs returned, heavier this time, like fists against a door. Each impact sent cracks through the nothingness, veins of light stretching like fractures across glass.
Kai stared, trembling, his mind unraveling beneath the weight of revelation. His world, his fate, his very existence—it was all a lie.
The god only smiled.
The golden light in the god's eyes dimmed, then flared again, like a dying sun roaring back to life. He leaned forward, his form shifting—human one breath, unknowable the next, a cascade of faces bleeding into one another until at last he returned to the mask of man.
His voice came, cryptic, carrying the weight of riddles and eternity:
"Your soul is too weak to understand. There are plays far older, far greater, than your kind can see. Threads tangled in the loom of eternity, where your so-called gods barter not for mercy, but for dominion."
The void stirred, and the bangs returned, echoing faintly in the distance like fists against the vault of creation.
"They used their wishes to suppress the world. To bind what was meant to roam free. To chain the tide of chaos and call it order. But hear me, little ember—" his golden eyes narrowed, "what they call preservation will be their undoing. The end of their world will not be delayed. It will be hastened."
Kai's lips parted. His voice was raw, hollow, barely more than a whisper.
"Then… what are you saying?"
The god—avatar—smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only secrets.
"I do not know what that god is planning. Nor do I care to wait eons for a hand that may never move. Perhaps he, she, they—whatever face eternity wears—have written a script. But I do not intend to sit upon this throne and wait until the page turns."
The void rippled with his words. Every syllable seemed to warp the nothingness, shaping it like clay.
"I will make my own plan."
Kai's hollow chest trembled. He wanted to speak, to demand, to ask—what plan? What do you want from me?
But the god raised a hand, silencing him before the words left his lips.
"There are things you must know before I send you forth. Truths buried beneath the skin of your world. Lies that bind even your blood. But…" The god leaned back against the throne, a sigh slipping through him that rattled like a dying star. "…not yet. For now, hold still."
His golden eyes ignited, burning brighter than suns. The light stabbed into Kai's hollow form, piercing through his soul as though it were parchment held to fire. The void trembled. Reality bent.
And before Kai could cry out—before his voice could find the shape of a question—everything changed.