A distant universe—one that light would take billions upon billions of billions of years to reach—quietly throbbed.
There, stars burned not with hydrogen but with concepts, and gravity was shaped by an ancient will. A deep space opened up, and from it, a giant arm of light and darkness simultaneously stretched out from the third dimension.
A voice rang out, old and stretched like the wrinkles in reality:
"…The vacancy has appeared. One with the 'magic' has departed."
Another entity appeared—formless, just a swirling mass of lightning, like an unformed idea.
"So the wheel is set… The gods will not last long without someone to keep the balance."
A long silence.
"It is time for someone else to step into that role."
Farther away — where no light had ever touched — a pair of eyes opened.
A small village nestled among lush green hillsides, where flowers bloom all year round and streams babble along with the clear laughter of children.
The sky is blue, the sunlight gently falls on the wooden roofs. The people here live simply but warmly — they smile at each other, work in the fields together, bake bread together, and tell old stories by the fire.
In the corner of the village, near a giant old tree, there is a small white stone house. There, a young man — peaceful eyes, slightly messy brown hair — is sitting on the porch, intently observing the sky as if searching for something that has long since disappeared.
Beneath the cozy serenity of the village, an unexpected truth lurks.
This village is no ordinary place. It is one of the rare sanctuaries of an ancient faith — a religion that worships Chaos, not in a negative sense, but as the original Chaos, where all possibilities, all existence and nonexistence are accepted as the true nature of the universe.
The people here, despite their friendly appearance, all carry a mark — a strange pattern hidden under the skin of their hands, only revealed when exposed to the red moonlight.
On blood moon nights, they gather under the giant ancient tree — what they call the "Chaos Vein." There, they whisper ancient prayers, their voices blending with the wind and the frantic beat of drums. They do not ask for anything in particular — for to them, Chaos neither gives nor takes — they simply become one with the uncertainty of all things.
The man sat on the porch, still telling stories to the children. But those with keen eyes would notice that his eyes glowed red as the night fell — as if his soul were resonating with something much greater.
That night, the crimson moonlight illuminated the sky like a blood stain in the night. The village became strangely quiet, not a dog barked, not a insect sounded — only the sound of bone wind chimes clanging in the wind.
All the villagers, from children to the elderly, were dressed in black robes and gathered at the center of the village — where the Temple of Chaos reigned, an ancient spiral structure with no beginning or end, built from black stone that had been warped according to non-geometric rules.
They knelt, heads touching the ground, arms outstretched, and began chanting in a strange language that no civilization had ever known.
"Zh'agur neth chaos... Thlem agh'ash..."
The light of the temple began to twist as if space itself was being torn apart. A rift opened up in reality above the temple — where the "Glance of Chaos" descended.
Each of them began to evaporate, not melt, not burn, but crumble into fragments of reality—their physical bodies vanished, leaving only their disordered wills to spread across the universe like mad winds.
They had become part of Chaos, no longer in form, no longer bound by the limits of their bodies. They were living beings of paradox, "indescribable beings," spreading chaos wherever they were—or even when they were not.
In the final moments, a voice echoed throughout the realm:
"The apostles have gathered. Bring chaos to the untouched."
That night, the wind blew in no direction—it swirled, roaring like a rebellious being roaring through the sky. Invisible cracks spread across the ground, appearing and disappearing as if they had never been there.
At the center of the Temple of Chaos, a column of black light suddenly shot straight up into the sky, reaching into dimensions unimaginable to mortal eyes. From within the column of light, the apostles of Chaos stepped out—no longer human, but twisted entities of form, sound, and thought.
They did not speak, did not breathe, did not look at each other, but all moved together, as if a common will had entered them.
"Tonight, Midgard will be erased from order."
Midgard—the central city of what remained of order in the current universe, once a symbol of stability, faith, and light—became the target of the servants of chaos.
The sky above Midgard suddenly cracked like glass, the starlight disappeared, replaced by glowing red eyes that grew out of nothingness, watching the city's every breath.
And then, the campaign began.
Thousands of chaotic apostles teleported, without means, without magic — they transcended the definition of space to appear right in front of the gates of Midgard, distorting, twisting, constantly changing shape, causing anyone who looked at them to go insane within seconds.