The Voidreach Galaxy was quiet that night, but only in the sense that it allowed the chaos of life to move unnoticed. Stars shimmered like molten embers, hovering in the dark like distant witnesses to something far greater than their twinkle could suggest. Nebulae sprawled across the void, clouds of cosmic dust tinted with purples, oranges, and the faint metallic gleam of latent energy. Far above, the energy shield of Eryndor Prime stretched across the sky, faintly humming with the resonance of countless hidden threads. No ordinary citizen could perceive it, yet it was there, a barrier against the chaos that stirred in the shadows—threads of power that would someday come to define the world.
Below this cosmic theater sprawled the capital planet of the Voidreach Galaxy: Eryndor Prime. A planet of contrasts, where ultra-modern technology interwove seamlessly with ancient, noble architecture, creating streets where hovering vehicles hummed past towers carved from stone older than any living soul, etched with faintly glowing runes no one dared to decipher. Neon lights bounced off spires, reflected in glass walkways, and the air was rich with the scent of ionized energy and the faint metallic tang of machine oil. Somewhere deep below, in the arteries of this city, the hum of dormant cosmic threads pulsed faintly, waiting for the right hands to awaken them.
It was here, nestled in a district that masqueraded as cheerful but reeked of wear and struggle, that Hearthlight Orphanage perched. The building was massive, multi-tiered, its walls of ancient stone infused with energy conduits that pulsated faintly at night. From the street, it looked solid and safe; inside, it was chaos incarnate.
Children ran in every direction. Some raced across the energy-lit hallways, tripping over exposed conduits and narrowly avoiding collisions with floating holographic lesson panels. Laughter and shrieks punctuated the air, some genuine, some nervous. Here, in the midst of disorder, sat Altharion, his dark eyes piercing the chaos as though it were a puzzle to be solved.
He had always been different. Too still, too observant. His posture was straight even when everyone else collapsed in exhaustion or slouching. His black hair fell slightly over his eyes, but his gaze cut sharper than any weapon. Already, at fourteen, he moved with a deliberate precision that made the caretakers both wary and wary of disturbing him.
A small mishap snapped the tension for a fraction of a second. Altharion had leaned over to recalibrate one of the holographic teaching panels. The panel sparked, arced, and exploded with a flash that sent him stumbling backward, knocking over a stack of energy-lit textbooks. Two mischievous kids squealed in delight, dashing past him to add fuel to the chaos by tossing miniature energy grenades at each other, narrowly missing an elderly caretaker who yelped in frustration.
Altharion merely sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Typical day in a place that claims to nurture, but only thrives on controlled chaos, he thought. There was no anger, only an analytical detachment. And somewhere deep inside, hidden beneath layers even he didn't fully understand, a subtle pulse flickered in his hand—so faint that it could have been dismissed as imagination.
That pulse would have been invisible to anyone else, but it wasn't imagination. Something ancient, unseen, stirred quietly within him, threads of power that predated every star in the sky.
The bell above the orphanage's main entrance chimed, slicing through the chaos. Altharion's eyes shifted, and the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the threads themselves recognized the arrival of something significant.
The door opened, revealing a figure that seemed to bend the very shadows around him. Ryvaris—tall, silent, impossibly calm—stepped into the light. His long, dark coat swirled as though moved by a wind no one else could feel. From the edges of his aura, faint null-like threads shimmered, coiling and retreating as if alive. Scars faintly traced his forearms and neck, relics of battles that had shaped him into a predator in human form. His gaze immediately locked onto Altharion, piercing through the boy's calculated composure.
Ryvaris' presence alone quieted the room, yet he made no move to assert dominance—he did not need to. He observed. He assessed. And in the depths of his mind, he calculated potential, danger, and brilliance. This one… has threads beyond control, and yet so raw. A seed of genius and chaos.
The caretaker, still recovering from his near heart attack, stepped forward hesitantly. "Uh… yes, can I help you, sir?"
Ryvaris inclined his head slightly, voice low but commanding. "I am here for the boy they call Altharion. I have come to… take him into my care."
A ripple of muttered confusion spread among the children. Altharion's head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Take me? By whose authority?
The caretaker hesitated, fumbling over paperwork. "Uh… well, you see, the fees—"
Before the caretaker could finish, Ryvaris held up a hand. A subtle pulse of null threads radiated from his form, bending the light slightly around him. A small energy flare danced in his palm—a silent demonstration of power. The caretaker froze. The children whispered. Altharion's eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in intrigue.
Ryvaris did not need to speak further. His aura alone suggested that he was not a man to be trifled with. After a moment, the caretaker sighed, muttered about "modern times and the wealthy," and nodded.
Altharion's pulse quickened—not from fear, but curiosity. He didn't know why this man had come, nor did he understand why his gut whispered that life, as he knew it, was about to fracture.
Ryvaris extended his hand. "Come with me. There is work to be done, potential to be realized."
Altharion paused for a heartbeat, taking in the chaos of the orphanage—the laughing, the crying, the misfires of energy conduits, the small glimpses of life that had been his entire world. Then, as though the threads inside him tugged, he stepped forward.
The ride to Ryvaris' facility was unlike anything he had experienced. The hovering transport hummed quietly, shielding them from the prying eyes of the city below. Neon lights streaked past the window like falling stars. Every so often, Altharion leaned forward, curious, only to be shushed by a quiet, "Observe." Ryvaris' eyes never left the road ahead—or the faint, imperceptible shimmer of threads around Altharion's hand.
Inside the facility, the world changed. Towering architecture stretched impossibly high, walls of translucent energy flowed like liquid glass, and strands of latent power wove through the very air like invisible rivers. The hum of core energy was almost musical, a symphony Altharion could feel resonate in his chest.
He stepped onto the observation deck, looking over training chambers, holo-simulators, and gravity-defying arenas. Something inside him twitched—a memory, a pulse, a thread that whispered of creation and destruction in the same breath.
Ryvaris watched him silently, noting how Altharion's instincts adapted to the alien environment, how his gaze caught on subtle energy fluctuations. He didn't speak, and yet his presence communicated volumes: You are no ordinary child. And neither am I merely a teacher.
Altharion's hand twitched again. A faint pulse, unnoticed by him, flickered across the deck. It was subtle, almost a sigh of power, but it was there. Invisible, secret, and infinitely dangerous. The first spark of what no one—including Altharion himself—would later call the GENESIS Strand.
Outside, the galaxy continued its silent spin. Stars burned, threads of fate wove unseen, and a child—bought from obscurity—was about to step into a world where he would either become its savior or its absolute entity.
And somewhere in the depths of the universe, threads stirred in anticipation.