I do not know how long I stood there, frozen in that vast white expanse.
The shelves of endless books loomed over me like silent witnesses, each one a world, a life, a memory… and among them, mine lay open—mocking me with every word written in its pages.
The God of the Underworld.
That title, once a symbol of my dominion, now feels like a cruel jest carved by unseen hands.
Every triumph, every wound, every choice I thought was mine—it was all mere imagination.
Imagination of possibly a bored being wanting to see something exciting.
Nothing more.
I thought I was a god. I thought I had defied fate when I grew stronger than my brothers and any other Primordials, when I broke the limits and achieved transcendence, when I stood against the Outer One and tore eternity itself asunder.
But now… now I know I was never a god. Not even a spirit nor a mortal.
I was a puppet with delusions of freedom, dancing in the hollow light of a story that was never mine to tell.
