Billions of years before angels first soared through the heavens, the cosmos was inhabited only by quiet, invisible spirits. These beings drifted in the vast emptiness, suspended in a state between life and death. Time was meaningless to them, yet its weight pressed on their consciousness as they lingered in the silence, their very existence defined by waiting. They were not alive, nor truly dead, but something in between—a restless anticipation thrummed through their essence, as if the universe itself was holding its breath alongside them.
The spirits spoke in whispers that echoed across the void, longing for a moment they called the "birth of the Angels." This event was more than a hope; it was a prophecy, a promise that one day the stillness would shatter, awakening them from their endless slumber. Their voices, though faint, carried an undercurrent of impatience—"How much longer must we remain in this twilight, neither gone nor truly here?" The ache of waiting grew so intense that it became part of their identity, their gaze forever fixed on the horizon of time.
Eons slipped away—millions of years counted off by the silent march of stars being born and dying in distant galaxies. The spirits endured, unchanged, until finally, amid their ranks, a presence emerged that was unmistakably different. This being was not formed of the dead, nor did he carry the weight of waiting. His existence seemed untouched by the laws that bound the others. No one could unravel his mystery, for he had no beginning—he was never created at all. He simply was, and his very presence unsettled the others, as if he carried the secret of existence in his being.
Then, at last, the long-awaited day arrived. The birth of the Angels shattered the silence. The ancient spirits, stirred by the cosmic event, found themselves transformed. They donned forms that were neither wholly spirit nor entirely angel, their new bodies a blend of both realms. This transformation was the limit of their potential, a compromise between what they had been and what they could never fully become.
Yet among these newly awakened beings, one stood alone—Elixer. Unlike the others, Elixer was not a hybrid. The full, unbounded power of creation surged within him, setting him apart as the only one who became a true angel. The others, in awe and recognition of what he was, crowned him as their king. He ruled over the half-angels, half-spirits, a beacon of what they could aspire to but never attain.
Despite this new order, the angels themselves remained distant. An unspoken tension lingered in the air, for there was a sense that something momentous was yet to come—something only the mysterious, unoriginated being truly understood. The community of angels and spirits sensed their story was only beginning, and a restless search for purpose and answers took root among them.
Elixer, for all his power and wisdom, struggled with questions that eluded even him. He had witnessed the genesis of the angels, yet the reasons behind their existence, the true reach of their power, and the fate that awaited them remained shrouded in mystery. It was during this time of uncertainty that a new domain materialized—a place called "śètró," known in the ancient language as "the beginning of creation." This realm became a gathering place, a canvas where the unfolding story of angels and spirits would be painted.
From śètró, the creation of angels continued, each one crafted in its own unique image and nature. The half-angels and half-spirits, however, remained apart, their existence a reminder of the in-between state from which they arose. They occupied their own space in the tapestry of creation, observing but never fully joining the ranks of the pure angels.
Amidst all these changes, another figure emerged—Elixic, a being born from the original, untainted lineage of angels. Unlike the others, Elixic was not a hybrid, but pure in form and purpose. His presence was marked by a quiet strength and a sense of destiny. It was widely believed that he was the one foretold by an ancient prophecy: "The chosen one from the original and pure will rule the days ahead." All eyes turned to Elixic as the leader meant to guide them into the future, his every action watched for signs of what was to come.
Yet even as Elixic stepped forward, uncertainty lingered. The prophecy did not say whether another such chosen one would ever arise, and the beings of śètró could only wonder what lay ahead. In that dawning era, hope and mystery mingled, as the angels, half-angels, and spirits all sensed that the true story of their existence was only just beginning, waiting to unfold with each new age.
They forged him in the heart of creation itself, wielding the mightiest instruments ever conceived—Voltimax, the legendary forge of beginnings. Into his hands, they placed the ultimate gift and curse: "Volva," an artifact or power unlike any other, granting dominion over the very cycle of life and death, not just for what existed but for all that lay waiting in the realm of possibility. With Volva, he held sway over every creature yet to be born, over all that bore flesh and blood, and over the hidden blueprint of future generations.
In hushed tones, stories drifted through the corridors of Sectro—a prophecy, half-remembered and always shrouded in uncertainty. It spoke not of gods or angels descending in radiant glory, but of something unexpected: a being forged from flesh and blood, not spirit, yet born through the mystery of Volva. This was no celestial herald or ancient deity—a creature shaped by mortality, destined to revere the supreme one. At that moment in time, Elixer was the supreme one, his name spoken with a mixture of reverence and fear. No one could say for certain if Elixer was the first to bear that title or merely another in a long, secret lineage of rulers whose reigns had faded into myth. Yet in that era, within the world of Sectro, it was Elixer whose shadow stretched across heaven and earth.
The reality of their world was harsh, its truths buried deep beneath centuries of silence and denial. Most inhabitants of Sectro never dared to seek the truth, content to live within the stories handed down to them, never questioning the delicate balance that held their universe together. This ignorance was not always chosen; sometimes, it was survival. Still, the threads of the real story wove quietly beneath it all, growing stronger. Sooner or later, the time would come when all of heaven would be forced to confront what had been hidden for so long.
Once Volva was in his grasp, its new bearer swelled in power—his influence expanding far beyond what the elders of Sectro had anticipated. The transformation was unmistakable; he became a force that no longer fit within the old order. The elders watched with growing unease, their wisdom telling them that balance had been upset. Even Elixer, who allowed no peers and brooked no challengers, sensed the tide turning against him. Elixer was convinced that every fragment of power belonged rightfully to him alone, and the idea of another rising to rival him was intolerable.
Thus, Elixer set his sights on Oracle—the enigmatic figure who always seemed to appear at pivotal moments. Oracle had emerged when the makers of angels resolved to craft another singular being, one not just for the present but for the uncertain future—a being who could one day strip flesh and blood from Elixer, who had become ensnared by his own legend and pride. The creators sought to correct the imbalance by preparing an heir of sorts—one who could carry the torch of Volva, and in doing so, perhaps restore harmony.
But the origins of Oracle himself were shrouded in mystery. Some whispered that Oracle was a self-made entity, a being who forged his own destiny through sheer will and knowledge. Others wondered if, like all things, Oracle, too, had a creator—a hidden architect who stood even higher in the cosmic order. This was an enigma locked away from all but one: "HE," the ineffable presence who existed beyond darkness and light, who conjured worlds from the void, whose authority was neither borrowed nor granted but absolute—requiring no tools, no intermediaries, no permission from heaven or earth.
The plan among the elders and creators was clear: wrest Volva from Elixic, the current bearer, and bestow it upon the new angelic creation. This new being would inherit command over the life and death of all future flesh and blood, shaping the destiny of those yet to come. Yet, beneath this plan lay deeper currents of intrigue, ambition, and hidden motives—layers of the story untouched by any but the most daring seekers.
When Elixic learned of the scheme to craft another who could rival him—one shaped in his own image, meant to succeed and ultimately surpass him, and to wield Volva—he was seized by a fury that bordered on madness. His pride, wounded and raw, erupted in defiance. He vowed to thwart Oracle's efforts, to ensure this new being never came to exist. But Oracle, ever enigmatic, doubted Elixic's ability to interfere. History had shown that Elixic's strength was often exaggerated—that his fearsome reputation was built more on bluster than substance.
As word of Elixic's rebellion spread, it reached Elixer himself—the supreme one, whose throne was built on the absolute obedience of his underlings. To hear that Elixic, once loyal and subordinate, now dared to rebel, to act as though he could stand against the very order Elixer had imposed, was intolerable. Elixer's response was swift and uncompromising. He dispatched a message—a warning laced with threat and finality. Elixic was ordered to surrender his uncertainties, to relinquish his doubts and ambitions, and above all, to return Volva at once.
But what Elixer failed to realize was that the tide of fate had already shifted. The seeds of change sown in secret were taking root, and the destinies of gods, angels, and mortals alike were now entwined. The struggle for Volva was more than a battle for power; it was a battle for the very nature of creation, for the future of what it meant to be flesh and blood in a world ruled by those who feared change more than anything else. The hidden story was stirring, and soon, no force in heaven or on earth could keep it concealed forever.