I am God.
I am not the worshipped kind, not the one carved into stone tablets or sung about in trembling hymns. I am the architect, the eternal inventor, the one responsible for filling the endless black of the cosmos with things, ideas, beings, machines, suns, dreams, some horrors, and a few fun toys.
Creation is my curse and my purpose. And most of the time, it is unbelievably boring.
When existence first shivered into being, I had enthusiasm. I crafted galaxies with the enthusiasm of a child. I forged stars like jewels, smashed matter together until planets burst into oceans and mountains, and breathed life into formless mud until it stood up and argued with itself.
For a while, that was entertaining, and the novelty kept me awake. However, eternity is vast, and even divine imagination has its limits.
So, naturally, I did what any logical God would do: I began copying myself.
Not literally cloning, that would be too easy, but ideas, Concepts and Variants.
Some of my worlds were inspired by assumptions made by my creations themselves. They imagined gods living inside the sun.
I thought,
"Fine, let's give them one."
They believed celestial beings ruled the heat and fire beyond their reach, so I created a race capable of swimming inside solar furnaces.
These Sunborn were magnificent and radiant creatures of plasma and consciousness, able to shape starfire like clay. I gave them advanced power, superior intellect, and, for fun, an unshakable god complex. A delicious irony, really.
Just imagine, Beings who believed they were gods, created by the true God who found them amusing.
Naturally, they were worshipped, and enslaved other species. Other planets rebelled against the very existence of hierarchy after ten thousand millennia of being adored. The collapse of their empire was glorious: a war of planets and stars, imploding suns, civilisations burning brighter and shorter than they were meant to.
It was an entertaining spectacle, and I never intervene. Half the entertainment is watching what they do when they think no one is watching.
After a few godly months, even the brightest flames go dim. For a long time, I had been waiting for something new and interesting and worth turning even a fraction of my infinite gaze toward. And then came 988684901.
It's not the name I gave it. I never thought it was worth it. It's merely a registry in my memory, one of the many billions of living solar systems catalogued somewhere inside my omniscient mind. This is actually referred to as indexes. Once a solar system loses all its life, then it will lose its index by default, and the garbage collector SE will eat it. They, those tiny crawling mortals, called themselves by much cuter names.
Sun, Earth, Moon, Planets and Solar System.
How quaint and adorably primitive.
At first, like with all new cosmic toys, I merely watched from afar. They killed each other in cycles, developed weapons strong enough to wound continents, prayed to gods that were not me, and struggled through their small, tragic lives.
Then, inexplicably, they stopped, wars quieted, fear lessened, and curiosity replaced destruction. And like all bored humans do, they started exploring.
One day, unexpectedly, they sent something out of their solar system. A little metal thing, narely alive, barely conscious, barely even worth noticing.
It left.
It crawled beyond the boundaries of its star like a bug stumbling out of its crack in the wall and caught my attention. They had been background noise in far away thrown galaxy.
Now they were different. Bold, And willing to look beyond the cage they were born in. So I turned my gaze toward them, and stumbled onto something I never anticipated:
Anime.
It's not the medium itself, but a particular event.
A young mortal, in the middle of a gathering, was killing more than five hundred people. I had to rewind time to understand what happened, something I rarely do for mortals. This bizarre massacre took place during an "Anime Summit", apparently a celebration where mortals gather to argue about animated fiction.
The boy was young and fragile, with slightly anaemic bones, and wore a headband. A simple cloth symbolising loyalty to something called Naruto. He stood on a chair, screamed:
"Naruto is great! One Piece is trash!"
And the crowd of One Piece devotees beat him black and blue, cracking bones.
I watched again. And again. Mortals can be astonishingly entertaining when they forget consequences.
Another year passes, and the summit remains the same. He returned, but this time, he came prepared with a Terminator-level weapon. He tore holes in everyone around him. A few tried to avenge themselves by fighting back, and the "censored rifle" fired, and all of them are down.
Funny, even the boy fell with his censored rifle.
Pure chaos and pure stupidity, and pure entertainment.
I had found something interesting, I didn't know I needed:
Anime Wars.
Thus began my fascination with this strange, fictional universe they adored. Naruto. One Piece. Shinobi. Pirates. Chakra. Devil Fruits. Grand battles and childish dreams. Myth, power, passion, everything their own world lacked.
At some particular period of time, I even thought about introducing those power in morta humans in this world, And it's going to difficult explain the reviewer on next review. And so, an idea sparked inside me.
I would create my own multiverse based on their mortal fiction. A place where I would control every thread, every destiny, and every catastrophe.
First, I watched, studied, and inhaled their stories.
Naruto - tragic, stubborn, burning with unrealised glory.
One Piece - joyful chaos wrapped in adventure.
They are worthy of simulation and experimentation.
I envisioned two mirrored solar systems, crafted with divine precision, each containing:
"A Naruto world.
A One Piece world.
Additional planets for Kaguya's people and other cosmic forces.
Summoning realms.
Beast worlds.
And countless ecosystems of chakra, magic, and madness.
Created a special planet with multiple 11-tailed monsters"
A playground and multiverse designed for my entertainment.
It took one godly day, equivalent to nine months in their solar system's time, to craft. Finally, I did it. I shaped every continent, every bloodline, every hidden village. I sculpted every Devil Fruit. I wrote every law of nature and power.
And all the while, a whisper in my mind asked:
"Why am I doing this by hand? Why not just create it instantly?"
But my rules are eternal and unbreakable, dictating that every creation must be written first. Inscribed manually. Recorded in detail. I don't know who imposed this rule. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was something older. Something deeper. Something even gods cannot disobey.
Regardless, I wrote, created, and waited. This was going to be fun. I could feel it. As eternity has taught me, the moment I think I have full control, the disaster is inevitable.