Time passed—but not as mortals counted it. This was the time of beginnings, when a second became a century and a moment could shape eternity.
The nascent world, untouched by the hand of gods, began to grow.
Neither Shinsui, the Demon God King, nor Gaia, the Dawn Sovereign, laid a single finger upon it. By unspoken law—one forged by balance itself—the world was to become the cradle of free existence, its growth dictated not by divine will, but by the will of creation itself.
And so, the world bloomed.
From the molten heart of the earth rose mountains that pierced the firmament, great jagged peaks of obsidian and ice. Oceans spilled from the tears of the sky, carving valleys and giving birth to rivers that sang lullabies to the stones.
Skies churned with storms, clouds crackled with golden lightning, and from the first rain, life began to stir.
Not crafted.
Not designed.
Born.
From the black soil came titanic beasts of scale and bone. From the forests emerged creatures with antlers made of moonlight and eyes that reflected the stars. Fire walked on legs of ash; wind rode upon wings made of glass.
There were no humans.
Not yet.
Only Primordials—beings birthed of the raw, wild chaos of a world finding its own voice.
From his throne deep within the Abyss, Shinsui watched.
He was tempted to intervene—to give this world the structure of kings, the law of strength, the throne of fear. But he did not.
Because this was the pact.
Just as Gaia, radiant upon her Heavenly Throne, watched the world with serene detachment. Her presence was a song of light, hovering far above, never descending.
> "This world is the third voice," she had once said, in the stillness between time.
"It is neither Heaven nor Abyss. It is Potential."
And Shinsui, who had conquered countless realms of chaos, did not argue.
He could see it.
A world untouched by gods was a world unchained.
A world where hope and despair would rise together—intertwined.
A world where legends would one day be born, not of divine command, but from choice.
Still, as he observed from the shadowed spire of the Abyss, he marked the signs of what would come. From the clash of Primordials, from their rage and hunger, something new was being forged—sentience. Will. A desire not merely to exist, but to understand.
They would build tribes.
They would create language.
They would give name to the sky, to death, to fire, to love.
And they would one day look to the stars and wonder.
They would ask: What lies beyond this world? Who made us?
And when they asked…
Gaia would not answer.
Neither would Shinsui.
Because this was a world of mortals.
And their story had only just begun.