They say the gods get bored.
In the silence between stars, when mortals cease to amuse them, they cast their dice upon fate and laugh at the ruin that follows.So they made him—Kaelen, the Chosen One. Not of prophecy, but of pastime.
They gave him seven lives, not as a gift, but as a game.A bird, an insect, a soldier, a king, a false god… each life a mask, each death a curtain fall.And in the seventh, he rose higher than they ever imagined.A king not of men, but of legacies.He led an army to the heavens, not to worship—but to confront.Steel against stars. Mortality against myth.And though his blade sang louder than thunder, he was felled.
The gods didn't end him.That would be mercy.
Instead, they whispered one last twist:
"Let him live again… minus one."
No throne.No name.No glory.
They dropped him into the dirt of the kingdom he once ruled.The empire he bled to build.Now wearing chains instead of a crown, eating scraps in the shadow of a palace that still bore his face—yet no one knew.
And so he became Nullen.Not a name, but a sentence.
The gods watched.The stars trembled.
Because even they forgot one thing about Kaelen:
He never played to lose.