Not even the most ancient immortal sages, hidden in the abysses of time and consciousness, have been able to decipher with certainty what One is. Some believe it was forged by the laws governing cosmic balance; others, that it emerged as a response to a threat yet to be understood. But all agree on one thing: One belongs to no known era, world, or logic.
It has no flesh, bones, or organs. Its form, covered by ancient armor, recalls a knight lost in a forgotten time. The metal doesn't reflect light; it absorbs it, as if devouring its surroundings. Where a face should be, an amorphous, dancing energy burns, like a pure consciousness manifested in fire without heat, without shadow... only an unsettling certainty: it is alive, but not entirely.
Its sword was born with it. It wasn't forged by mortal hands or common fires, but emerged from the same dark substance that dwells between dimensions: a vibrant, ethereal energy, shaped by universal imbalance. When wielded, there is no sound. Only silence... just before collapse.
One walks through the veil that separates realities: a region that is neither time nor space. There, aberrant creatures—hungry for rupture—attempt to tear the limits of what is possible. They feel no fear, only primitive instinct. Upon seeing it, they rush in waves, guided by a force they themselves don't comprehend. They seek to bring it down, breaking its flow. But with a single movement of its sword, One reduces them to ash: broken fragments of failed realities.
A dance of destruction that has been repeated for nameless eons. There is no fury in its actions. No glory. No justice. Only necessity. Where it treads, chaos retreats.
Each step leaves a slowly dissolving trail, closing the invisible wounds of the dimensional fabric. Behind it, the fissures seal. The horrors cannot follow it. As if, by walking, it weaves a last thread of order, protecting each fragment and restoring balance.
Throughout infinity, even the most ancient observers—entities that existed before the concepts of time or matter—have tried to follow its steps, to analyze its nature. And yet, they failed again and again. Its logic, its intention, its purpose... are like a perfect formula written in a language yet to be invented. It is said there were others like it. Failed attempts, forged by civilizations so advanced their science bordered on the divine. Beings created to protect the integrity of realities, warriors born from the need for order. But none survived. None managed to withstand the pressure of crossed dimensions, the corruption of the abyss, nor the condemnation of nameless time. None, save One.
There are those who describe it as a figure of judgment, a balance in the form of a warrior. And yet, every step it takes is a sentence. Every dimension it crosses, a wound healed.
The horrors attack it, not understanding that they cannot defeat it. Not because it is invincible, but because it is inevitable. There is no wrath in its sword, nor passion in its fiery gaze. Only logic.
A logic that transcends all forms of understanding, even for the wise who dwell in the caverns of knowledge. And as the fissures multiply, as new horrors emerge with every attempt to break the structure of the whole, One keeps walking.
It does not sleep. It does not rest. It does not speak. And yet, every step it takes shouts a truth that no creature, however ancient, can ignore:
Balance must be preserved.
But something else stalks it. From the most ancient corners of the multiverse, beyond the named planes, something manifests. It has no form, face, or sound. Its mere proximity makes the layers of existence tremble. And One, even before seeing it, already knows: the time has come.
Then the multiverse holds its breath. The sword rises. Judgment is about to begin. But Volgrath, the Dimensional Devourer, bursts into reality, opening a rift that not only tears the sky but destabilizes all spatio-temporal logic.
Its arrival drags a wave that makes the universe recoil, as if even the laws of everything sought to flee.
One instinctively turns. Not out of surprise, but out of ancestral instinct. It senses the danger an instant before the abomination reaches it.
The air folds and space cracks like liquid crystal. Volgrath's claw descends with ancestral violence. One raises its sword by pure reaction, without time to calculate, and blocks it. The impact is colossal. The screech it emits does not come from the metal... but from the very fabric of dimension. The clash generates a visible fissure in space-time: a tear that ripples backward like a wave in water, breaking the physical laws of the place where they fight.
The impact is colossal. The screech it emits does not come from the metal... but from the very fabric of dimension. The clash generates a visible fissure in space-time: a tear that ripples backward like a wave in water, breaking the physical laws of the place where they fight.
The ground (which does not exist between dimensions) trembles, briefly curves, and collapses. One's armor resists, but its sword vibrates with a dissonant frequency. The blade is marked with a red network of fractal cracks, as if it had contained the weight of an entire galaxy. And yet, it does not yield.
One does not retreat. It takes a step forward. Volgrath doesn't seem to retreat, but it does measure One. The combat escalates in seconds. Deformed monsters, summoned from collapsed dimensions, fall upon the field like rain. One resists.
Every cut with its sword becomes a death sentence... until the sword begins to mutate, to deform. Something within it awakens. And the instant the sword, upon piercing a titan, absorbs more than it can contain. The runes pulse one last time, and then collapse, releasing a wave that disarms the very notion of reality.
One is thrown backward with unnatural violence.
But not from weakness or error: the explosion itself opens a chaotic dimensional corridor. A tunnel of ruptures, broken limits, fragments of unconnected realities. The sword could not withstand the fusion between One's power and the titan's corrupted energy.
One, furious, tries to stay anchored to the plane, but the vortex sucks it in. It refuses to leave the battle, clawing at the decomposing earth, but the force drags it away. During the journey, it collides with structures that shouldn't exist: fragments of dead universes, multiversal stones, ruins of dimensions that collapsed eons ago.
Each impact wears down its armor, tearing it, breaking it, shattering it. But these are not just physical damages: the desperate attempt to resist being dragged causes its own energy to overload the suit, fracturing it even further.
And so, expelled from the plane, without its sword, with its armor in tatters and the echo of judgment still beating in its chest, One disappears among the ruins of the multiverse.