Two figures clashed in the endless void, their battle so intense that even space itself fractured under their blows. Neither of them was tall, though one stood a head above the other. One was a being bathed in light—not the light that offers warmth or clarity, but the kind that embodies divinity itself. He was a human-shaped entity, composed of an infinite cascade of shifting limbs, eyes, and faces—each one elegant, yet disturbingly unnatural. His beauty was so flawless that it bled into horror, a perfection too pure to be comforting.
The other figure was its polar opposite. It radiated corruption, as if it were the very origin of decay. Darkness oozed from its form like a sickness, polluting the air around it. Despite its monstrous aura, it looked human—or at least, it once had.
They fought for days. Neither relented. Their swords clashed with a force that could annihilate entire worlds. Each strike was sharp enough to kill. Yet neither showed signs of fatigue. Their faces were unreadable—one concealed by overwhelming divine light, the other hidden behind a black, demonic mask.
But if anyone could have seen their hearts, they would've found not hatred, but sorrow. A deep, burning sadness and anger—not toward each other, but toward the fate that had brought them here.
Eventually, the figure of light landed a clean, decisive blow. His blade cut across the corrupted figure's chest. The one in the demonic mask staggered, then stilled. In his final moments, he felt peace—relief, even. A smile formed behind the mask.
He looked at his opponent with warmth and whispered,
"Thank you…"
Before he could finish, his body crumbled.
The light-drenched figure stood over the dissolving corpse. Tears flowed from the multitude of his radiant eyes. He dismissed his sword, and his body curled inwards, folding into itself as grief consumed him. He closed his eyes, wishing—just for a moment—that someone could hold him. But he was alone.
There was nothing left.
He was truly alone
Time passed. How long, no one could say. The gods themselves were silent.
Then, the figure opened his eyes. Crimson like rubies, they once held sorrow. Now, they burned with defiance.
He summoned his sword once more.
The gods—six ancient beings, watching from beyond—held their breath. They believed the final act was about to begin. After all, this was their plan. The culmination of eons of divine design. He had reached the peak. All he had to do was accept it—embrace godhood, become the ORIGINAL SOURCE OF CREATION.
But instead, the figure did the unthinkable.
He looked at the sword as though it were an old friend, whispered something no god could hear, and plunged it into his own heart.
Silence.
The gods screamed without voices. Their masterpiece shattered before their eyes. The plan they had cultivated across countless cycles—ruined in a single moment.
But they could not stop him.
They were dead. Their influence, like ghosts watching from behind glass, could do nothing but observe.
And still, they did not blame him.
No mortal should have survived what he did. No one should have borne that burden. To suffer what he suffered, to carry the guilt of a cosmic mistake—none of their other creations could have endured.
With his final act, all of existence unraveled. Every star, every world, every creation the gods had ever birthed—gone. Even the gods themselves began to dissolve.
In the void, only one thing remained:
The floating corpse of the man who defied destiny.
Light faded from his body. His form, once radiant, was slowly consumed by the dark nothingness. Then it was gone.
But not entirely.
Seven soul cores hovered where he had fallen, spinning slowly in the dark. They did not vanish.
Instead, they absorbed the void.
The soul cores merged, becoming one—massive, radiant, pulsating.
And then—
A thunderous explosion split through the nothingness, louder than creation itself.
It did not echo.
It erased.
Part of the void—of—existence itself was obliterated.