Before legends were born… before kingdoms rose… before heroes took their first breath…
there came a night when creation itself trembled.
In the silent void beyond all known dimensions—where even light refused to exist—something stirred.
A presence.
A hunger.
A being forged from the dark half of the Creator’s abandoned power.
He who held the full ten percent.
For eons he hid in the forgotten cracks of the void, strengthening himself, waiting for the day when creation would be weak enough to swallow whole. But tonight… his time had come.
Ten figures emerged with him—his chosen warriors, each carrying fragments of that divine darkness. Their power ranged from 5% to nearly 7%, far beyond anything the mortal realms had ever witnessed.
Their forms were humanoid, yet shadow bled from their skin like living smoke. Their eyes glowed with cold crimson light. Their footsteps cracked the empty space beneath them.
They stood at the edge of the dimensional veil…
ready to force their way into the worlds.
“Finally,” the leader said, his voice echoing like metal grinding against bone. “The realms will kneel. The King of Kings will fall. And creation—”
A light split the void.
Blinding.
Pure.
Absolute.
The darkness recoiled as if struck.
A figure stepped out from that radiance—no grand armor, no wings, no flame. Only a tall man dressed in a simple white robe, holding a staff of ancient, quiet light.
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He spoke no name.
He needed none.
The ten dark warriors stiffened. Even they felt it—a pressure far more terrifying than their master’s power.
But the leader laughed.
“Another fool god?” he sneered. “You dare block our ascension? You are nothing. We carry the abandoned power of the Creator Himself.”
The figure simply watched them—calm, unshaken, almost sorrowful.
The weakest of the ten stepped forward first, grinning with jagged teeth.
“I’ll end him.”
He lunged.
Reality tore behind him from the force of his speed—black cracks splintering outwards.
But the robed figure did not move.
He only shifted his staff gently… a soft touch against the back of the warrior’s neck.
A soundless flash.
The warrior collapsed instantly, face-first into the void floor.
His dark energy sputtered like a dying flame.
Silence followed.
Eight of the remaining warriors drew back in shock. Even the leader’s grin faded.
“What… what did you—”
The figure finally looked at them.
His left hand rose, palm outward.
His eyes opened fully.
And they saw Him.
Not a god.
Not a guardian.
Not a king.
The Creator.
Before the leader could speak, the Creator’s voice filled the void—not loud, not angry. Simply inevitable.
“Return to your chains.”
Light erupted.
Golden sigils spiraled around the warriors’ bodies, binding their limbs, crushing their resistance. They roared, struggled, cursed—but the chains tightened, forged from divine will itself.
The leader screamed as the frost crept over him first.
Ice—crystal-clear and glowing with sacred power—began crawling across their bodies, freezing their dark essence inside a prison stronger than steel, stronger than time.
One by one…
Ten warriors became ten frozen statues.
The Creator lowered his hand, and the void itself folded around them.
A vortex opened—dark, swirling, bottomless.
The Demon Realm.
He cast the frozen warriors inside, burying them deep within a sealed chamber layered with barriers no mortal or demon could break.
Not yet.
For the Creator’s will echoed through every realm:
“One day, they will rise again.”
The chains pulsed, tightening, resonating with ancient energy.
“And when they do… creation will need a defender worthy of facing them.”
The vortex snapped shut, leaving the void silent again.
The Creator looked toward the distant worlds—beautiful, fragile, unprepared.
But a faint smile crossed His face.
“A new era begins. A warrior will rise. And through him… hope.”
His form dissolved into light, scattering across the dimensions like falling stars.
