Somewhere in the absolute deepest, most silent embrace of the void, where not even the faint echo of light or the whisper of time could reach, a figure sat in meditation.
This place was not simply empty space; it was the conceptual heart of nothingness itself. Here, Yin, the embodiment of Uncreation, floated cross-legged. The void around him was not dark; it was the absence of the concept of light. It was not cold; it was the absence of heat.
His eyes had been closed for what felt like eternities, but now, they slowly opened.
The eyes that opened were not like they were before. Previously, they had been pools of deep, intelligent void. Now, they were endless. They did not reflect the universe; they seemed to contain it. Galaxies swirled within their depths, stars were born and died in microseconds, entire civilizations rose and fell in the space of a blink. They were windows into the infinite cycles of existence and the silent eternity that followed.
