Darkness wrapped around him like a warm sea—thick, endless, and soft. He drifted through it, weightless and eternal, cocooned within the sacred embrace of his Authority. Here, in the deepest heart of the Silent Abyss, he slumbered. And somewhere, beneath the godhood, beneath the throne and the bloodline and the legacy—he dreamed.
It was raining.
Not the silver, whispering rains of the Abyssal Plane, but something softer. Something smaller. Warm droplets tapped against cracked pavement beneath a low, colorless sky. The world was dim, heavy with the scent of wet concrete and forgotten dreams.
He stood at a street corner, hands buried in the pockets of a frayed, secondhand jacket, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of invisible silence. Cars passed. People walked. Neon signs buzzed faintly overhead. Yet not a soul looked at him.
He was human.
A boy—perhaps seventeen, perhaps eighteen—tall, a little too thin. His hair curled slightly when it got wet, clinging to his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were strange: gold and ancient, even then, as if they'd seen too many endings in too short a life. They watched the world with quiet longing, searching for something that didn't exist there.
And now… he remembered.
Not completely. Not clearly. But enough.
He had lived—before the Throne, before the Plane, before the void etched his name into the stars. He had walked among mortals. He had existed as one.
He remembered eating cheap ramen under flickering fluorescent lights, counting coins with trembling fingers just to afford a cup. He remembered flipping through secondhand manga at corner stalls, eyes devouring every panel like scripture. He remembered sleepless nights on a torn, sagging couch, surrounded by empty cans and anime playing endlessly on a small, glitching TV.
Naruto. Bleach. One Piece. Fairy Tail.
Worlds that burned with dreams.Worlds where destiny could be forged from nothing.Worlds where even the forgotten could become gods.
He had watched Luffy proclaim he would be King of the Pirates.He had listened to Naruto swear he would become Hokage.He had seen Ichigo, broken and furious, reach deep inside and awaken something no one else could touch.
And he had laughed.
A broken sound. A whisper of belief.Because some quiet, hidden part of him… had believed.
Some part of him had always known.
"I don't belong here," he had whispered once, staring into the flickering glow of his television, speaking to the emptiness that filled his tiny apartment. His voice cracked as he said it. "I'm meant for something else."
The dream shifted.
Memories melted and fused like molten glass. Moments blurred into myth. He saw fragments—a sky red with blood, a coin pressed into his hand by a woman with silver eyes, a door where none should have been. A decision. A summons.
A destiny.
And then—The Throne.The Void.The Plane.Seraphis, born of his marrow.Caelora, forged from his will.
Veyrath.
The name was his.The truth was his.
It had always been waiting, buried deep in the marrow of the cosmos, in the gap between moments, in the breathless pause before a god opens his eyes.
Inside the Cocoon, Veyrath stirred. The Plane did not shatter—it trembled, as though bracing itself for the return of something ancient and sovereign. But he did not yet awaken. Not fully. His time had not come.
Within the vastness of his dream, the system spoke softly:
[Host Emotional Core: Stabilizing.][Memory Integration: 0.01% Complete.][Primordial Soul Harmonization: In Progress.]
And so, he drifted deeper—into the dream, into himself.
The boy who once stood in the rain, forgotten by the world… was gone.The dreamer who lived off stories and pixel-light… was gone.
But their hopes—their hunger, their ache for something greater—remained.
He had carried them into the Void. He had forged them into rivers and thrones and stars. They had never been lies. They had always been promises.
And Veyrath— The Father of the Primordial Ōtsutsuki—intended to keep them.