Everything was gone.
The darkness consumed all.
The void had won.
The universe is empty.
There is now nothingness in everywhere of living.
Nothing. Everything—nothing.
Not even one small reality exists.
Not even the balance of shadows lingers anymore.
It is that feeling of knowing everything yet seeing it all fading, overwhelming, underwhelming, all at once.
What happens now?
"We have done everything as their Gods. What do we do now?" a voice was heard.
"Have we done enough? Have we truly tried for them as their Guides?" an another voice questioned.
"We're the Numens, yet we failed. And we can't just create a new world after everything that happened." one contemplated.
"They even failed to reach the prophecied future of advancements." another one answered.
"We're the failure ourselves." one declared.
Voices filled the space. All in different tones yet all sounding resonant.
"And now we're fading. Heh. It was nice while it lasted." a voice spoke.
"Perhaps 'change' do end. I end, we end?" one doubted.
"Maybe."
"Change have chances, we only need one."
"We need hope."
"Can we truly make hope in this abyss?"
"We can. We have to try, especially now that we know better."
A flash was seen, a white light overtook everything.
There were gasps, and steps were heard.
"Oh dear lords of existence. We welcome thee Primordial Numens of actuality." voices spoke in unison.
First came a voice more resonant than others before—deep, urgent, the kind of sound that seemed to push the air back from its path. It did not ask nor introduced itself. It did not explain. It spoke as if the answer were already overdue: "Let us begin witGray came after it, not like fog but like paint seeping under a door. It threaded into the carved seams, slid over golden filigree, and lapped at the runes until they blinked and dimmed. Color loosened its grip and fell away in shreds: emeralds dulled to pewter, violets washed into ash. Sound slackened, notes drawn inward; even the hum of the crystal panes lost its edge. The gray did not hurry. It moved like a tide with no mouth—slow, inevitable, patient as a story told again and again until the meaning is gone.
Gray came after it, not like fog but like paint seeping under a door. It threaded into the carved seams, slid over golden filigree, and lapped at the runes until they blinked and dimmed. Color loosened its grip and fell away in shreds: emeralds dulled to pewter, violets washed into ash. Sound slackened, notes drawn inward; even the hum of the crystal panes lost its edge. The gray did not hurry. It moved like a tide with no mouth—slow, inevitable, patient as a story told again and again until the meaning is gone, slowly filling everything.
"I as the Primordial Numen of Time, inhale with the echoes of memories and flux."
"I as the Primordial Numen of Space, exhale with the presence of measure and movement."
"To when each root of the void had taken place." The Primordial Numen of Time have spoken firmly.
"To where each realm of the lives needed grace." The Primordial Numen of Space have spoken calmly.
"Calling forth each dimensions of time and space." With both of their voices heard.
"Against the battle to the void."
"For continuity. And so mote it be."
Everything began to hum — not from any one source, but from everywhere at once, as if the universe itself had found a single vibrating note. Then came the rupture: a bang so sharp it folded the sound back on itself. In an instant, light spilled into being, not cleanly, but in a riot — colors darting and colliding, bursting like molten glass struck by a hammer. Everything moved. Everything shimmered.
The brilliance did not fade; it came undone. What had been an anthem of creation turned inward, as though the symphony had grown tired of climax and chosen to retreat. Notes stumbled back into silence, but not gracefully — the strings sagged into low, animal groans, the brass inhaled its own echo, and the drums seemed to beat in reverse, their echoes arriving before the touch of the stick. It was the undoing of reason, the world's own score unthreaded — melody collapsing into static, rhythm coiling into itself, leaving behind only a snarl of sound, wild and impossible, like time exhaling backward.
And so, time and space conspired together — quiet architects of everything that ever was. They traced the shape of each world, sketched every flicker of a second that dared to exist. Every place, every breath, every fragile possibility they deemed worthy of becoming. It was not mercy but motion itself: the endless granting of another chance.
Everything rewinded.
Nothing was everything, again.
Can they truly stop the power that even them Gods cannot fathom?
It is now the end for a beginning of trying again.
...
At first, there was only dark, and then — movement. A shimmer broke it open. A butterfly, gilded and burning with the colors of sunrise, drifted through the void, wings whispering in slow, deliberate beats. One became two. Then another. Then a scatter of them — saffron, scarlet, indigo, blue bright as flame. They spiraled and swirled, painting motion across emptiness, their bodies pulsing as though carrying the pulse of some larger heart.
Soon the air, if it could be called air, thickened with their flight. The darkness turned prismatic. They gathered speed — each wingbeat a spark, each spin a thread in a tapestry of impossible color. Then, as if obeying a hidden signal, they converged. One by one they crashed together, wings striking wings, their bodies unraveling into streaks of pure light. The streaks folded inward until they became a single current — a line, then a column, then the faint outline of a human form kneeling in the brilliance. The final butterfly struck and vanished into that figure, and the light burst outward once more — a blinding bloom of gold that slowly dimmed to a breath.
When the glow thinned, eyes opened — deep golden-brown, clear and unhurried. The figure drew its first measured breath. His skin carried the tone of oak under sunlight; his hair, short and unruly, the shade of weathered sand. A man, yes, but touched by myth — his stillness felt earned, ancient.
He stood, the light still ghosting his shoulders. The garments he wore seemed born of both function and ceremony: a sleeveless tunic, soft and pale, caught close at the waist by three distinct toggles; its collar rose high, the fabric dense with golden embroidery that caught what little light remained. His trousers hung loose and heavy, gathered at the ankle, their deep brown fabric crossed with subtle gold studs at the band. Across one arm, a broad leather gauntlet gleamed, its mate absent — balance achieved instead by narrow armlets circling each bicep. He looked assembled by purpose, the way wind shapes dunes: deliberate yet wild, a quiet testament to something both regal and rough.
He blinked once, and the afterimage of gold faded from his vision. When the light cleared, he stood not in shadow but in a hall that seemed to breathe the heavens themselves. It stretched outward and upward in impossible proportion — a cathedral adrift in the black sea of space. The air shimmered faintly, humming with the residue of distant stars. Above him, vaults of dark, polished wood curved into arches bound by gleaming filigree. They met panes of enchanted crystal so vast they might have been slices of the cosmos itself, revealing the deep sprawl of galaxies and nebulae that pulsed in hues of emerald, violet, and blue flame. The place seemed suspended between architecture and dream.
He turned slowly, his boots whispering against a floor tiled in obsidian and rich, dark wood, the two surfaces stitched together by glowing runes that flickered like quiet veins of fire. Below the vast windows, levels of terraced walkways descended toward a central floor crowded with elaborate stations — part workbench, part altar. Each table was an orchestra of craftsmanship: wrought iron curved like vines around smooth panels of mahogany, crystals pulsing atop brass gears, parchments unfurled beneath clamps of gold. Symbols flared and dimmed in steady rhythm, as though the room inhaled and exhaled through them.
All around him, life moved with ordered precision. Cloaked figures crossed the space — scholars in layered silks, mages draped in embroidered robes of crimson and sapphire, artisans with their sleeves rolled back, fingers dusted with starlight and ink. Some leaned over scrolls, others gestured in midair, and in answer their orbs blossomed into miniature constellations that spun above their heads. Conversations murmured like low currents beneath a tide of shimmering energy.
No one stopped to marvel at the cosmic vista surrounding them; it was as ordinary to them as weather. Beyond the crystal walls, the stars wheeled in stately silence, their radiance washing across the vaulted ceiling in soft refractions. Within, brass instruments clicked and chimed, ink quills scratched in steady time, and the scent of oil, parchment, and ozone mingled in the air.
He felt, for a moment, as though he stood at the juncture of creation itself — a place where craft met cosmos, where the pulse of magic threaded through wood and metal alike. Every carving, every beam, every glint of gold seemed to whisper the same truth: that even the infinite could be shaped by hand.
"Oh—finally! You're here!"
The voice cut through his reverie like sunlight through smoke, bright and unhesitating. It belonged to a woman—no, something a little beyond that word, something sharpened by age or grace or both. He turned, and the sight of her pulled the last threads of disorientation from his mind.
She stood a few paces away, silver-grey hair catching the stray glimmers that drifted through the vast hall. It was braided with care, the long plait sweeping over one shoulder where a few strands had escaped to frame her face. Her ears tapered to elegant points, unmistakably elven, and her eyes—clear green, quick with amusement—studied him with the calm certainty of someone who had been waiting and was pleased to be right about it. The smile that followed was small but deliberate, like a secret she chose to share.
Her attire seemed built on contradiction: refined yet built to move, modern in cut yet old in spirit. A high-collared white blouse billowed slightly at the sleeves before tapering neatly at her wrists, the fabric crisp and immaculate. Over it she wore a sleeveless black vest, fitted close and buttoned down the front, lending sharp definition to her waist and shoulders. The look was softened, somehow, by how easily she wore it—formality made effortless.
Color gathered lower down, where dark violet breeches clung to her form, the weave smooth and tailored for motion. Straps and buckles traced her upper thighs like purposeful ornament, and black panels reinforced the knees and shins. A wide leather belt cinched at her waist, its bronze buckle dull with use, a small pouch resting lightly against her hip. Her boots were plain, black, low-cut—made for travel, not ceremony.
The total impression was disarming: elegance balanced on practicality, grace that suggested danger if provoked. When she stepped forward, the hall's glow caught in her hair again, turning it momentarily white-gold.
"Interesting. Wait, isn't it more logical if you'll be spawned at your first realm already?" The woman's voice rang out with a crisp mix of curiosity and irritation, the kind that belonged to someone used to plans not cooperating. He blinked, unsure what to say, confusion shadowing his features as he turned slowly, taking in the glittering space again. When his gaze returned to her, she had already rolled her eyes, a motion that seemed both theatrical and entirely genuine.
"Ugh. Fucking hell. This is the worst part of my job." She sighed, pressed her palm briefly to her temple, and then — as if flicking a switch — straightened up with a bright, almost customer-service smile. "Hi again! My name's Avry. I'm your designated navigator." Her tone dipped as she patted at her pockets, muttering, "And you're a… what was it again?"
While she rummaged, his attention drifted. The room was alive with quiet brilliance — runes gleaming faintly on metal beams, the slow pulse of magic running beneath the floor. People moved like clockwork figures, their robes whispering as they passed. Everything radiated purpose, though none of it felt his. He turned toward a nearby table strewn with parchments and inked diagrams, his eyes catching on one word repeated across several pages. Something in him recognized it instinctively, like recalling a name whispered in sleep.
"Revisionist," he said aloud.
Avry froze, snapped her fingers, and pointed at him with sudden triumph. "Ooh great! Yes, you are a revisionist named Graydowle and you are here in the headquarters of the New Numen of Continuity! Welcome!" She threw her arms wide in mock ceremony, her grin all teeth and irony. He only blinked back at her, still unsteady, and the grin collapsed into an exaggerated sigh.
"Alright, I'm sure they'll be satisfied with that," she then continued before looking around her as the fake smile in her face faded, "Ugh! Thank goodness you're not an obnoxious one like her that loves things like that. Anyway, I'm sure you're confused but follow me, let's take a shortcut of all these stupid formalities." she expressed and gestured with her hand as she walked past him.
Graydowle hesitated, then looked down at where he stood. The floor beneath his boots wasn't quite floor at all — an iron platform traced with sigils and bordered by four wooden pillars, each capped with a gem that hummed faintly with residual light. Dozens more of the same platforms dotted the hall like a field of quiet machinery, all empty, all waiting.
He stepped down from it, the sound of his heel against the polished stone oddly loud, and trailed after Avry. Around them, the vast chamber continued its rhythm—pages turning, glass spheres rotating, faint murmurs passing between scholars and mages. Yet within that measured hum, the space between them felt distinct, carved out by their movement, by his confusion and her weary impatience.
They walked in silence for a time. The corridor they entered was vast—nearly as grand as the central chamber they had just left—its floor made of transparent crystal that revealed the universe beneath. Stars drifted there, a slow current of light and motion, as though they were walking on the skin of creation itself. The hall was empty of people, but its walls were crowded with life: painted figures, carved reliefs, and etched names of faces long forgotten. Gold doors punctuated the corridor at even intervals, each closed, their filigree glimmering faintly like veins of sunlight caught in motion.
Avry's boots made no sound. She walked as one accustomed to silence, her braid swaying against her back, her expression unreadable. Graydowle followed a pace behind, his eyes catching on the endless art along the walls—warriors, scholars, kings, and faces he could not name but somehow felt he should know. They reached the hall's end, where the corridor opened into a mural so large it seemed to pulse with its own breath.
Painted across the wall was a circle of figures, each one distinct—some radiant, some shadowed—bent toward the same center. Their hands reached for a tall staff crowned by a gem of blinding light, and within that light lay a symbol: two circles bound together, the quiet emblem of infinity.
Avry stopped before it, her voice soft when she finally spoke. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
He watched her profile, surprised at the absence of mockery in her tone. Her gaze stayed fixed on the mural, the reflection of its colors caught in her green eyes.
"When I'm bored or stressed, I take a time off to look at this for some minutes, though I know that our job as navigators of realities is too precious for such distractions, but looking at this reminds me of why I'm here." she continued.
He stared at the mural beside her, eyes tracing the painted hands reaching toward light. "Why am I here?"
Her answer came without hesitation. "To save everyone."
He looked at her sharply, then half-opened his mouth before deciding against it. She noticed, smirked faintly, and added, "I know it's unbelievable, like eew, saying it is as squeamish as chewing cheese but I'm just as confused as you are, Gray. We're not that different." She stated.
He frowned, searching her expression. "How do we save everyone?"
Avry turned to the mural again, her gloved hand rising to point toward a streak of shadow woven through the colors. "By stopping that."
He followed her gesture. A black fissure sliced across the painted scene like an ink spill—a void swallowing the hands that reached toward it.
"The void," she said quietly. "The nothingness. The abyss, the dark hole, and the ending of everything. Universe had once died, it was gone, nothing was left. But a chance was given to rewrite everything and so there comes the birth of the Numen of Continuity, blessed by time and space, to fight against complete annihilation of the wyrd from that mysterious entity that even them as deities cannot fully understand." she explained.
He looked back at her. "Numen. Deities. Wouldn't that make them powerful enough to stop it on their own?"
"Well... that's insightful and unfortunately, Her mouth twisted into a humorless smile. "You'd think so. I've been wondering that for a few thousand years." She shrugged, the gesture half weary, half amused.
""I see." His gaze lingered on the mural again, as if the paint might move, as if the people within might whisper their own truths back to him.
Avry exhaled and placed her hands on her hips, her energy shifting again—her grin returning, restless and bright. "Alright, Revisionist. You ready for your first respair?"
He blinked. "I'm not sure. I don't even know who I—"
"Oh, come on!" she interrupted, groaning. "It'll be exciting, I know you have many questions on whys and whats and hows but I've been there Gray, done that, suffered that, and then reShe turned away, already walking.She turned away, already walking.
"But how do I-"
"Graydowle." Her voice snapped back to him, sudden and sharp. He stopped. She looked over her shoulder, her expression stripped of humor.
"As much as I want to help you, I do not possess the information you need to understand everything, not even myself... yet. But I'm sure that when we start, when you're in their worlds and experiencing everything, you'll get to at least understand or even remember something, hopefully." she explained and looked back at the mural for a second.
She looked at him again, "But of course with only the smallest percentage possible, I mean there are countless universes out there that won't be able to shake your memory and soul. then she paused, her tone easing into something almost kind, "—I'll be here, I'll help you. You won't face it alone." she continued and smiled at him, this time it was a smile of confidence and assurance and a calmer more genuine smile of her.
He lowered his eyes to the glass floor, watching the stars ripple beneath his reflection. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded, firm, steady. "Thank you. I'll mark your words."
Her grin returned at once, light sparking in her eyes. She then clasped her hand in excitement, "Okay great! Let's go, I'm sure they'll think of me slacking off again if we ever stay here longer." she said as she then started walking towards the halls again.
As she strode back toward the corridor, the sound of her steps fading into the hum of distant machinery, Graydowle turned once more to the mural. The painted hands still reached upward, caught between color and darkness. He studied them in silence, then followed her into the echoing light of the hall.
They stood before the heart of Avry's place—a platform suspended in starlight, facing a towering glass prism that pulsed with shifting visions. Across its surface, landscapes flared and vanished: deserts gilded in red sun, forests veined with silver rivers, cities woven from light. A single seat and a narrow table rested before the projection, and beside them a tall, oval crystal glowed faintly, its sparks scattering like fireflies against the floor. Beyond it all, the transparent wall opened to the stars—an endless ocean of black and gold.
"This," Avry said, spreading her arms, "is my workstation. And here"—her grin sharpened—"is where we begin our very first mission."
Graydowle looked from her to the machinery, unsure which was more daunting. "Okay," he said slowly. "So what happens now?"
Avry dropped into the chair, her elbows resting against the table as the glass prism brightened and reshaped itself into a shimmering screen. Her fingers began to dance across it, summoning constellations, fragments of text, and maps that twisted through dimensions he could hardly name. "You," she said, pointing without looking up, "stand there—by the portal."
He hesitated, then obeyed. The oval crystal beside him hummed low, the tone burrowing into his ribs. He glanced at Avry again; her face was lit by the blue-white glow of the screen, her focus absolute. The smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth made her look equal parts scientist and gambler.
"Usually," she said, still working, "You get at least a year to study all relevant information of the world of our expedition, despite that I am here as your navigator to provide you details from time to time." she said to him with her eyes locked on manipulating the images of her screen.
He frowned. "Wait, if that's the case, then why—"
"Why am I breaking the rules?" She interrupted, voice crisp. "We can't afford to waste time of a year here and a minute out there, time works differently but every second, every choice, and every breath matters, Gray." she stated with her hands blurred across the glass now, the surface responding in waves of light.
He nodded. "Alright. If it works, it works."
"Trust me, it will."
He looked around the workstation, at the floating images and quiet hum of energy. "What if I bring at least something? Like that book or something to learn from something?" he wondered and asked.
"Oh Gray," Avry laughed softly, not unkindly. "You'll hate me for this but I'm sorry, you won't have time to read in this place and time." she replied coldly, eyes still locked at her screen.
"What? Why?"
"You'll see," she said, and then, brighter: "Ah, got it!"
"Huh?"
"Nothing you need to worry about." She leaned back, finally meeting his eyes. "Now, as much as I want to skip this part, you really have to say yes to what I'll be saying so we can start, okay?" she said as she now placed her hands back on her table and looked at him.
"Uh huh. Wait isn't that kinda-"
"Perfect. Let's begin!" Her voice lifted theatrically. "As a Revisionist of the Numen of Continuity, you solemnly swear to uphold the essence of existence, do you truly promise, in your whole borrowed soul, and your every part of yourself, of both little and entirety, that you will work towards the freedom of all beings to experience life?" she asked.
He seemed lost for a second, thinking of what she just said, he then had a little smile on his lips and replied, "Yes."
"Good. As a Revisionist of the Numen of Continuity, do you revere the mission of our Numen and will be determined to fight against the vision of the null?"
"Yes." he replied.
"And finally—" her eyes flicked up to him, the smile sharpening, "As a revisionist, are you willing to surrender your whole self should the Void corrupt you, should you ever turn and fight for its will instead of ours?"
He stared at her. "That's… possible?"
"Yes," she said plainly. "Now just say yes so we can get on with it."
"Uhm... can I trust you Avry?"
He hesitated. "Avry… can I trust you?"
For the first time, her expression softened, the sharpness giving way to something steady. "You and I are partners now whether we like it or not. Of course, you can trust me, and I'll trust you that we'll work together, and we have to." she replied.
He exhaled. "I suppose that's comforting enough."
"Now?" Avry asked awaiting his answer.
"Then yes, I give my—uhh I forgot what words you said." he replied while scratching the back of his head.
"But yes, I say yes to... it!"
"Fuck yeah let's go!" she then pressed the screen in front of her with her pointing finger.
Her finger pressed against the screen, and the air behind him tore open in a roar of light. A portal, bright neon blue, spiraled into existence, its edges sparking with raw energy. Graydowle barely had time to turn before the force caught him.
The floor vanished.
He screamed—not from pain but from shock—as he was pulled backward into the vortex. The universe turned to motion: shades of blue spinning in an endless spiral. His body stretched and folded, dragged through a tunnel of shifting color that breathed like a living thing. The last thing he saw before the stars collapsed into blur was Avry's silhouette framed in gold light, one hand lifted in farewell.
A voice, smooth and everywhere at once, folded across his senses like a hand laid over the sky. "Oh — a curious one," it said, and the sound seemed to come from the air itself rather than any throat.
He spun, eyes darting over blue and light, but there was no figure—only the tunnel of motion still echoing in his bones. "Huh?" he managed, the word small and pointless against the vastness.
"You, Avry, and this reality," the voice continued, as casual as a clock striking. "This will be… interesting." It lingered, amused, as if testing the taste of him.
Then the pull intensified. His body answered with a scream that began in his ribs and ripped outward. He tried to grab at anything—air, light—but fingers closed on emptiness. The spiral tightened; the world narrowed to a single, violent motion. "AHH!" he cried, hoarse and tiny.
Blue bled into white. A flare swallowed his vision, so bright it felt like being peeled from the inside. Light filled his ears, filled his teeth, filled his lungs—then everything stopped as if someone had slammed a lid on the world.
Silence came first, absolute and heavy. He lay still, pulse thudding in his throat, and then sound returned like a flood. It rose around him—metal on metal, guttural shouts, a wet, sucking slap—and the noise climbed until it was almost physical pressure against his skull.
He bolted upright. The scene hit him all at once: men in armor heaving against one another, halberds slicing, swords ringing, shields splintering. Blood speckled the grass in ragged sprays; the metallic tang of it filled his mouth. A rider thundered past him, iron and leather groaning as a lance smashed down where his head had just been. He dropped to his knees, breath leaving him in a shocked rasp.
A knight, massive and ornate, bore down on him astride a snorting destrier, a long halberd dipping like a pendulum. Instinct shoved him forward; he ducked under the falling tip, the air whooshing over his head with a sound like a scythe. The horse thundered by, its rider shouting a single animal scream, and then the world was a blur of motion again.
Around him the plain rolled toward the shadowed edge of a forest; a mountain slope marked the horizon, the sky bruised with the low burn of afternoon sun. Bodies moved in wild tessellations of color and steel—men and women of different sizes and complexions, armors stamped with unfamiliar sigils, banners tearing as they passed. Some fought with desperate grace, others with brutal, careless force. Screams punctuated the clashing: quick, high, then cut short.
He tasted dust and iron. A child's wail cut through the din and he flinched as if struck. The smell of frying fat from a distant campfire mingled grotesquely with the scent of fresh ruin. He could name nothing here—no banner, no face—but he understood one thing with the terrible clarity that comes before panic: this was a place meant for dying.
He heard himself speak, voice thin against the battlefield, "So this is why I'll hate her?" The question floated and then was swept away by another wave of noise.
"This can't be the end," he told himself, the words small and final, and for the first time since the blue had seized him, terror rested in him. It seems truly the end for him.