Before existence learned how to breathe, it waited.
There was no sky to look upward into, no earth to stand upon, no stars to measure distance. There was only awareness—vast, patient, and unchallenged.
At the center of that awareness was Drake.
He did not arrive.
He did not awaken.
He simply was.
Reality curved around him without instruction. Time did not flow; it listened. Space did not stretch; it aligned. Concepts such as light and darkness, beginning and end, cause and effect—none of them existed yet, but all of them were already understood.
Drake observed the nothingness and found it… empty.
So he filled it.
A single thought fractured silence, and with that fracture came motion. Time unfolded forward, hesitant at first, then steady. Space expanded to give motion somewhere to exist. Light emerged not as fire, but as clarity—something to be seen by.
Stars ignited like punctuation marks across an endless sentence.
Worlds followed.
They formed naturally, effortlessly, because Drake allowed them to.
Creation was not difficult. It never had been.
But order required delegation.
And so, Drake created gods.
Not as equals.
Not as rivals.
But as administrators.
Time was entrusted to one who could perceive eternity. Space was shaped by another who understood distance and form. Life was guided, death restrained, fate threaded loosely enough to allow choice.
They were given power.
They were given purpose.
They were not given authority over Drake.
They knelt instinctively, not because they were told to, but because existence itself remembered who came first.
Demons were created next—not as evil, but as resistance. Where gods imposed structure, demons introduced pressure. Chaos was necessary. Without it, order stagnated.
Angels followed, precise and obedient, carrying out divine will without hesitation. Devils came after, crude but tireless, built to labor where others would not.
And finally—last of all—came mortals.
Humans.
Elves.
Dwarves.
Dragons.
Beings who would live briefly and feel deeply.
Drake watched them more than any other creation.
They struggled. They failed. They adapted. They lived without eternity, and because of that, every moment mattered to them. Their joy was loud. Their grief was devastating. Their love was irrational—and yet sincere.
Gods ruled concepts.
Mortals lived meaning.
At first, Drake observed closely.
Then from afar.
Then only when something broke.
And eventually, he noticed a pattern.
The gods argued.
They questioned one another's authority. They demanded worship—not as gratitude, but as validation. Demons grew hungry, not for balance, but for dominion. Angels enforced laws without understanding them. Devils multiplied endlessly, dull and violent.
Wars followed.
Not wars of necessity.
Wars of pride.
Mortals were caught between them—used as proof of righteousness, fuel for belief, collateral for ideology.
Drake did not feel anger.
He felt tired.
Creation was repeating itself.