Silence.
Not the kind that followed the end of a sound—but the kind that existed before sound was ever born.
In a cold, endless void that stretched beyond reason, a soul drifted aimlessly. There was no light to guide it. No darkness to consume it. No up or down, no forward or back. Only existence—bare, unshaped, and indifferent.
The soul had no consciousness.
No intent.
It did not know where it came from, nor where it was going.
It simply was.
Time held no meaning here. What felt like moments could have been centuries. What felt like eternity might have been nothing at all. The soul moved without resistance, carried by forces it could neither understand nor oppose.
Eons passed.
Or perhaps nothing passed at all.
There was no pain. No comfort. No warmth to seek, no cold to flee from. Just endless motion through a space that did not care whether anything existed within it.
This was the place between endings and beginnings.
A place where cause had not yet met consequence.
And the soul drifting within it once belonged to Ethan Heart.
Far away—so far that distance itself lost meaning—another truth unfolded.
Many believed the great calamity that shook the universe fifteen years ago was a war between worlds.
Others whispered it was a battle between gods.
Some claimed it was a clash between supreme forces so ancient that even their names bent reality.
They were all wrong.
It was none of those things.
The war was not fought for power.
Not for territory.
Not for dominance.
It was a war of ideals.
A war of belief.
The truth was far smaller.
And far crueler.
It was not born from ambition, nor from conquest. It was not a struggle for supremacy or control.
It was a conflict ignited by love.
How ironic.
Love—praised across countless civilizations as the purest of emotions—had once again revealed its hidden blade. For while love could elevate souls, it could also corrupt them. When mixed with pride, bloodline, and fear, love became possessive. When bound by ego, it became violent.
Love promised connection, yet demanded ownership.
Love offered protection, yet suffocated freedom.
Love claimed selflessness, yet justified cruelty.
One loved without condition.
Another loved with limits.
And neither believed themselves wrong.
Love, when twisted by possessiveness.
Love, when stained by ego.
Love, when treated not as devotion, but as entitlement.
What began as care turned into control. What began as protection became confinement. And what began as affection transformed into destruction.
Two people.
Two beliefs.
One newborn.
That was all it took.
At the center of the storm stood a woman.
She could have been called the most beautiful being ever born—yet beauty felt meaningless before the sorrow etched into her face. Small, delicate horns curved from her head, subtle yet undeniable, proof of a lineage touched by something ancient and revered. Her reptilian red eyes, sharp enough to intimidate empires and command battlefields, were now dulled by exhaustion and grief.
Her body was elegant, honed through discipline and war, shaped by years of training and expectation. Yet now it appeared fragile, weakened by recent childbirth. Strength still lingered within her—vast, restrained—but it was overshadowed by the weight she carried in her arms.
A newborn.
Small.
Silent.
Unaware that its first breath had sent tremors through the universe.
The woman held the child gently, as though the slightest pressure might break something irreplaceable. There was no arrogance in her posture. No pride in her gaze. Only sadness.
A sorrow so profound it eclipsed her beauty entirely.
She had been born with terrifying potential.
Destined for greatness before she had ever chosen it.
And yet, she fell in love with someone she should not have.
A man from a lower world.
A human with no title, no backing, no grand heritage to speak of.
Someone history would overlook.
Someone power would ignore.
And yet… his potential rivaled the heavens themselves.
An unremarkable swordsman, they called him.
But the universe disagreed.
Their union defied order.
Not because it was weak.
But because it was unacceptable.
When the child was born, the universe itself trembled.
Reality shuddered, as though recognizing something it wished it had never seen. The laws that governed existence bent, if only for a moment.
And something ancient stirred.
A truth surfaced—one that should never have been known.
Fear spread faster than reason.
For some unknown reason, the elders demanded the infant's death.
To them, it was logic.
Cold.
Clean.
Necessary.
Sacrifice one life to save countless others.
A simple equation.
But logic means nothing to parents.
The mother refused.
Without hesitation.
Without compromise.
The father stood against the world.
Not as a hero.
Not as a martyr.
But as a parent.
And the patriarch—who loved his daughter as deeply as he feared what lay ahead—stood torn between blood and belief, between legacy and love.
That was when ideals collided.
That was when belief became a weapon.
That was when love transformed into a battlefield.
The war that followed shook stars and cracked worlds. Space itself trembled beneath the weight of conviction and despair. Countless lives were altered, erased, or forgotten—collateral to a conflict born not from hatred, but from devotion taken too far.
And when it ended, the truth was buried.
Buried beneath silence.
Buried beneath history rewritten by survivors.
The child vanished.
The echoes faded.
The universe moved on.
Or so it believed.