In a place outside of time and space, a platform floated in the void. It was plain—no intricate carvings, no gemstones, no golden trim—yet its very existence radiated such unbearable presence that even gods would be forced to bow in fear and reverence. It was not grand by design, but absolute in authority.
The platform itself was no larger than a common living room, but size meant nothing here. In this place, reality bent to its will, and what was small could dwarf the cosmos.
At its center stood a round table. It was not forged by mortal hands, but woven from cosmic dust, luminous as starlight, and bound together by supernatural vines and roots that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive. Each breath they exhaled filled the air with a strange rhythm, the heartbeat of creation and destruction.
