Darkness.
Absolute, unbroken darkness.
There was no air, no wind, no sound. Not even the faint pressure of time seemed to exist. Only a small weight pressed into the soil, heavy yet fragile, unmoving yet aware of itself in the vaguest sense.
It was a seed. And it was waking.
The first stirrings were weak, like whispers that almost weren't. Nothing could be called thought. Nothing could be called perception. Only fragments of sensation that hinted at a world beyond the darkness — faint pulses in the soil, a soft vibration that might have been imagined.
Something is here.
Not words. Not consciousness. Not understanding. Only a faint acknowledgment, a spark of awareness so subtle it could have been mistaken for nothing.
Time had no meaning. Minutes, hours, days — they blurred together like water flowing over stone. And yet, gradually, the seed became aware of pressure around it. The soil above pressed down. Moisture clung to its outer shell. Beneath, grains of earth shifted imperceptibly, touching it, brushing against it.
It moved. A tiny quiver in its body, a root curling into the soil. Not searching. Not thinking. Simply… responding.
Another faint vibration came. Something alive, distant, beyond the darkness. Perhaps it was a root in the soil. Perhaps an insect scuttling above. Perhaps something else, something the seed could not yet name. And yet the seed sensed it. Not with understanding, but with a trembling, instinctive acknowledgment: Life exists.
The darkness pressed in from all sides. It was oppressive, but also familiar, comforting in a strange way. In this stillness, the seed understood a truth it did not yet have the words for: to exist was enough.
A spark of sensation — warm, fleeting — brushed against its consciousness. A touch of sunlight? Or mana? It could not tell. But it was there, fleeting as a whisper, leaving a lingering impression that tickled the edges of awareness.
I am.
The thought was not hope. Not ambition. Not even recognition. It was a fact. Simple. Indisputable.
For hours, perhaps days, the seed curled tighter into the soil, holding onto that spark. Darkness was still absolute. And yet, through that darkness, the world whispered. A soft vibration here, a subtle pulse there. Tiny movements, almost imperceptible, brushing the limits of perception.
The seed could not see them. Could not name them. Could not yet understand them. But it sensed them. And in sensing, the seed changed. Imperceptibly. Slowly.
Roots extended. Not far. Not fast. Just enough to taste the soil, to feel its density, its moisture, its warmth. A faint current of mana brushed against it — a sensation without form, without substance, but unmistakable. Something that would later be called life, power, growth. Something that hinted at the vastness of the world beyond the darkness.
The first encounter with another consciousness was subtle. A tendril of moss curled along the soil, brushing against the seed. No words were spoken, not yet. But a faint vibration pressed into the seed's awareness. It did not understand what it was, only that it mattered.
Time passed. Stillness reigned. And yet within that stillness, awareness began to grow. The seed began to notice the smallest variations in the soil, the faintest shifts in pressure, the tiniest flickers of energy that passed unseen through the earth.
It did not yet know hunger, or thirst, or pain. Not fully. But it felt something — a desire to stretch, to probe, to connect with the world beyond its shell.
Days merged into weeks. The sun rose and fell, though the seed could not see it. It felt warmth creeping into the soil from above, subtle, fleeting. Light, though not yet light, touched it, brushing its consciousness with something distant, something promising.
The moss pressed closer. Its vibration grew more complex. Move. Sense. Respond.
The seed understood. Slowly. Tentatively. A small root extended upward, not breaking the soil, not seeking light yet, only reaching toward the warmth and energy. It trembled, as if unsure whether it had the right to move.
But movement itself was learning.
Days passed. Or perhaps weeks. Time had no real meaning here, yet the seed felt change. Soil shifted. Water seeped. Light came and went in silent rhythms. A faint pulse, barely perceptible, throbbed through the ground.
The seed sensed it now — the world was not empty. Even in darkness, even in soil, life whispered in every tremor, every vibration. Tiny creatures, unseen but felt, moved through the earth. Their presence brushed the seed, teaching it in ways that were not instruction, but sensation, instinct, awareness.
And slowly, the seed began to notice something else. Not yet understanding it, but sensing it: a connection between these fragments of life. The way the moss, the soil, the water, the faint spark of light, and the creatures moved in subtle harmony. Patterns. Rhythm. Balance. Inequality too — some pulses stronger, others weaker, some lasting, some fading.
It was… mesmerizing. And terrifying.
The seed trembled. It did not know why. Not yet. But it felt the stirrings of something that would, in time, become purpose. Observation. Patience. Understanding.
Its shell hardened slightly, its first growth. Not much, almost imperceptible, but enough to signal that life was asserting itself, however faintly.
A small thought emerged, as fragile as a droplet of dew clinging to a leaf:
I exist. I am alive. I will grow.
Not yet determination. Not yet ambition. Just recognition. But it was enough.
Above, the light shifted. A faint warmth brushed the soil. Water trickled through channels in the earth. Tiny creatures scuttled, unaware of the small seed that watched them, sensing them, learning.
And for the first time, the seed felt… curiosity.
What was this warmth? What was this water? What were these pulses of life? Why did some die and others survive?
Questions it could not answer. Questions it would carry with it, slowly, for years, decades, centuries.
And as it curled its tiny roots deeper into the soil, feeling, sensing, learning, a quiet understanding settled into its mind:
Growth is not sudden. Power is not sudden. Awareness comes slowly, and patience is everything.
The seed closed itself into the earth. Darkness was still around it. Shadows still pressed upon it. But it was no longer afraid.
It had begun.