Names are heavy things.
They carry history, weight, memory.
But Prime… Prime carried none of that.
He gave no name to the world, no story of where he had come from, no oath of why he fought. When strangers demanded answers, when allies tried to break his silence, they found only one truth: Prime did not speak unless it was necessary.
That silence unsettled some, angered others, but in time, it became something else entirely. A language.
---
The first records of Prime's action came from ruins long buried beneath the endless sea of dust. Survivors spoke of his mask first: a perfect oval of violet and silver, without eyes, without mouth, marked with patterns that seemed to shift when one looked too long. It covered everything — and so none could tell what face lay beneath.
Beneath the mask, he wore black leather stitched to fit his frame. It was practical, not ceremonial. Worn from battle, scarred by time, but unyielding. Survivors would often mistake it for armor until they saw him fight. Prime had no need for steel plates. Space itself was his defense. And his fist was his only weapon...
When danger approached, he did not run. He would extend his hand, fingers cutting through reality as if it were paper. Portals opened in silence, bending the battlefield to his will. One moment he stood before you, the next he was behind the enemy, striking from angles impossible to predict.
And then there was his pocket dimension. Few knew of it, fewer still had seen it. But those who had spoke of a place untouched by sight. An endless plain of quiet, free from corruption, where Prime would leave those he chose to save. A sanctuary carved from nothingness itself.
---
It was in one of these ruins, a city swallowed halfway into a canyon of void, that Prime's legend truly began.
The corruption had gathered there, a swarm unlike any other. Dozens, then hundreds, shrieking with mouths that stretched too wide. They moved like water, flowing around obstacles, devouring everything.
Survivors hid in the shadows of fallen towers, but they knew the truth — they would not see another dawn. And then… he arrived.
A rift opened above the battlefield, and Prime descended through it, stepping as though he had merely walked through a doorway. He landed silently on the cracked earth, the mask glinting in what little light the sky still offered.
The creatures shrieked, sensing his presence. They charged.
Prime raised no weapon. He lifted his hand, and the first wave vanished into a rift. The second wave followed, devoured by space itself. But when the third wave lunged, Prime twisted the air differently. This time, he redirected them — opening one rift before their charge, another behind his enemies, slamming them into each other until their bodies crumbled into dust.
He never spoke.
He never faltered.
Every motion was precise, calculated, inevitable.
By the time the dust settled, the battlefield was silent. The corruption lay scattered, its numbers broken. Prime stood amidst the ruins, unmoved by victory, unmoved by the stares of those he had saved.
One survivor dared to speak:
"Why… why do you fight?"
Prime did not answer. He turned, opening a final rift. But before stepping through, his masked head shifted ever so slightly, as if acknowledging the question without giving it voice. Then he was gone.
---
From that day forward, he was no longer just a figure in black leather.
The whispers grew, crossing settlements and ruins alike:
The Silent One.
The Riftwalker.
The Choosen Awakened.
People gave him names because he would not give them one himself. And in that silence, Prime became more than a man. He became a promise — that even in the broken world, there was still someone who stood between the living and the void.
The world did not yet know of Stream, Omega, Volcan, or Typhoon. They had not yet gathered, not yet fought as one. But even then, in those earliest days, the name of Prime was already carved into the story that was coming.
For silence, when carried by purpose, is louder than any war cry.
---