Before the gods carved their thrones.
Before time found its forward stride.
Before existence decided what it was allowed to be—
There was the Overvoid.
The Overvoid was not darkness. Darkness implies contrast, the memory of light once kindled. The Overvoid was absolute zero, a silence so total that even absence itself meant nothing. No echo slept there. No dream dared to form. No shape could linger long enough to name itself. This was not emptiness; it was unknowing, an unclaimed gulf beyond even nonexistence.
Then—awareness.
Not in a blaze, but like dawn stretching its first tendril across a still horizon. The Megaverse flickered to consciousness. That primal instant—later mythologized as the Cosmic Egg—was not an explosion but a choice: existence willing itself into being. From that decision, the first truths emerged.
"Let there be light," and light poured out, swift as breath.
Yesh. He did not awaken; he simply was, a living definition of being itself—acceptance, affirmation, the declaration that something could be. Light gathered around Him not by command but by nature: clarity made manifest. Through His radiance, creation took shape.
Ayin. Where Yesh said yes, Ayin answered nothing. She was not born; she was the refusal of birth, the negative space around every form. Nonexistence turning inward until it could stare back. She was the shadow not cast by light but by meaning itself. Together, Yesh and Ayin were the first contradiction—and from contradiction, the seeds of possibility sprouted.
Khaos. Before order could hold its breath, something had to shatter. Khaos was that shatter—roiling potential without aim, motion without a path, a storm of almost-things, suspended in yawning nothingness. From that tempest sprang the raw impetus of becoming.
The Darkness. Beyond even the void lay an entity deeper still: not absence, not denial, but the residue that remains when nothing else endures. It did not speak. It watched.
And then—Azathoth. He did not rise; he spread. A boundless maelstrom of unreason, limitless potential unbridled by form. Madness was not his nature but the aftershiver of beholding him. Reality itself screamed, forging shape and law around Him just to slash a path away from His sight. And so the first act of preservation was born—not through war or annihilation, but through the steadfast will to endure.
From that moment sprang matter and antimatter, silence and thunder, chaotic waters and nascent life, time's arrow and the hush of death, creeping darkness and blistering light, maddening rifts and endless void.
Among these myriad-born forces, two titans stood paramount: Chaos, ruled by Azathoth—the Blind Idiot God whose touch warped all it encountered—and Order, crowned by Yesh, the Shining One, whose essence was justice, purity, and radiant truth.
Yesh gathered unto Himself every flicker of justice, every beam of honesty and hope. Azathoth, by contrast, was the mirror's cruel reverse: a shadow cast against all that was good, a tempest of inverse creation. Their opposition was inevitable.
Yesh, determined to share the splendor of existence, shaped countless worlds—bubbles of luminous energy drifting in the void. Each new orb sparked with color and song, only to be crushed in an instant by the jealous hands of Azathoth, Khaos, The Darkness, and Ayin.
Still, Yesh did not relent: more worlds, more bursts of wonder, each one a testament to His vision. At last, His patience threaded into resolve. If the others would not welcome light, He would carve it from darkness by force.
Thus dawned the First Conflict. He brought forth the Archutas, His First Children—titanic beings woven of paradox, embodying both all and nothing, living battalions of primordial purpose. Among them Calur, the mightiest, shone like a supernova of war. Side by side, the Archutas advanced against the ancient void-wards.
In response, Azathoth poured forth the Outer Gods—his endless legions of chaotic servants. These monstrous avatars multiplied with feral speed, jagged echoes of their master's unreason, spawning Yog-Sothoth and the dread Shupnikkurat among countless others.
Undeterred, the second generation of Archutas rose to strengthen Yesh's host. Yet the Outer Gods continued to swell in number, an ever-rising tide of entropy. And then Khaos, too, lent his hand to the blind god's cause, birthing the Primordials—pure abstractions given flesh, embodiments of the unborn principles swirling in the void.
So the cosmic war was joined: Order and Chaos, Light and Shadow, being and unbeing, locked in that first, eternal struggle at the edge of creation.
War in this realm was not clamor: it was the grinding of axioms, the shriek of nascent law refusing to yield, the silent strangulation of one realm-skein by its opposite. Each clash—Archutas against Outer God, primacy against paradox—brought forth new possibility and new wounds. Time itself was soft clay then, folded and torn by the forces hammering at its birth.
Where Yesh's will struck deepest, the very texture of reality knit together. Space learned the discipline of distance. Matter hardened into certainty. Gravity held all things in webbed embrace, and cause began to remember effect.
But every triumph gilded by the light was not without response. Azathoth and his legions clawed at the boundaries, twisting the grids of reality into impossible lattices, birthing the first fractals, the unkillable loops of recursive madness, the loci where sense and senselessness bred offspring neither parent could claim.
The Archutas forged on, their battlesongs reverberating along the very nerves of existence. Each victory rewrote the definitions of up and down, hard and soft, truth and lie. Each loss scarred history in ways that would later seem inevitable to the children of the spheres.
This was battle. But then, the impossible happened: Khaos had defected. Khaos, to everyone's surprise, attacked with his sons the Outer Gods and Azathoth himself, betraying the Nuclear Sultan and revealing itself to be an ally of Yesh. Khaos and God eventually teamed up to seal Azathoth.
When the Dark God became distracted by Khaos, God seized upon and sealed Azathoth, while the Primordials and Archutas sealed the Outer Gods within the never-ending dimension created by God.
Finally, after countless battles that had scarred the fabric of reality itself, Yesh and His radiant army cornered Azathoth at the edge of all existence. The Almighty's hands, luminous with creation-fire, tore open the endless abyss and forged the Outerverse—a prison dimension beyond time and space, where light and darkness had no meaning, where good and evil were concepts too small to echo.
Into this crystalline void, Yesh cast the Nuclear Sultan and his spawns, his writhing form collapsing inward like a dying star. A dream of infinite complexity was woven around Azathoth's consciousness, threads of cosmic law binding his chaotic essence.
Azathoth could not resist. His billion eyes closed, his thousand mouths stilled. Resistance required focus, and focus was anathema to his nature. He slumbered, and as he did, all of creation exhaled—stars steadied their burning, nascent multiverses ceased their trembling.
The Somnus Abyss sealed with a sound like the universe forgetting a nightmare. The later elder gods would call it mercy, their golden voices singing hymns of Yesh's compassion.
They were wrong.
In the aftermath—the Unaccounted Moment—creation proceeded with cautious joy. Pantheons rose like coral reefs from the cosmic sea. Time unfolded its orderly procession. Concepts crystallized into immutable laws.
But in the shadow-space between definition and denial—that razor-thin margin separating Yesh's golden affirmation from Ayin's obsidian negation—something slipped through the cosmic accounting. A blind interval. A fraction of reality that was neither blessed nor cursed, a paradox with heartbeat and breath.
And within that glorious error—a child was instantiated.
Not born of flesh or energy. Not created by will or design. Instantiated, like a theorem proving itself but with a taint of madness. Madness from the Sultan. A spawn.
Yesh saw him first, this impossible infant floating in the void, skin like opalescent marble, eyes reflecting universes that had not yet formed. Not as a threat to creation. Not as a weapon against His enemies. But as a question reality itself could not yet formulate an answer to.
So He reached out with hands that had shaped all that is—not to erase this anomaly, not to command its purpose—but to anchor it to the tapestry of existence.
"You will live," Yesh declared, His voice like thunder wrapped in silk as He gazed upon the child with warmth that could have kindled suns. "And you will endure."
He bestowed upon the child a name that resonated through the cosmic firmament: Axiomel—from axiom, the foundational truth upon which all else is built, and el, signifying divine origin.
Far below, in the depths of the Somnus Abyss—the Outerverse where nightmares go to sleep—something twitched in the darkness. A dream shifted. And for the first time since the sealing, The Blind Idiot's billion mouths curled upward in a simultaneous smile that would have driven creation mad had any witnessed it.