INTRODUCTION: First Creator

He was, before all things, in a state that cannot even be called a “state,” for there was yet no
duration, no space, no succession, no reference, no measure, no absence; he was pure existence,
without limit and without outside, without movement and without otherness, an infinite reality
needing no other to be, an unqualifiable presence because no quality had yet been defined, a being
alone, absolutely alone, not surrounded by emptiness, but by nothingness—by that which could not
even be conceived as empty.
He was not contained in any form, any substance, any concept; he was neither spirit, nor matter, nor
energy, nor consciousness, for all these terms are slices of reality that did not yet exist; he was
beyond all category, beyond all duality, beyond even the idea of being or not being, for no language,
no logic, no thought, no system had yet been shaped to attempt to grasp him.
Around him there was neither light nor darkness, neither above nor below, neither inside nor
outside, for all of this presupposes a world, an order, a structure, an architecture of existence—and
none of this had yet been decided; and yet, in this total absence of reference, of relation, of limit and
form, he was fully there, in absolute fullness, dependent on nothing, proceeding from nothing,
emerging from nothing, for he had never begun, and therefore he cannot end.
He was alone, without equal or likeness, without origin or destiny, without end or beginning,
without any possible genealogy, without any name to be given, for all that can be compared, named,
classified, or described is but the fruit of a structured world—and he existed before the world,
before even the idea of “world” was possible.
And then, without cause, without transition, without moment, he willed.
This willing was not a desire, nor an impulse, nor a need, nor even an intention in the sense we
understand it, for all those terms imply a tension between a current state and a state to be attained,
between a lack and a fullness, between a self and an other—but he lacked nothing, for he was
totality, and he had no outside, for there was only him.
He willed to create what had never yet been: logic, and illogic.
He willed to establish, from himself and by himself alone, the first two fundamental principles of all
distinction: that which orders, structures, connects and gives coherence to being; and that which
undoes, unbinds, refuses all coherence, all necessity, all rule.
And these two principles, he did not draw from a common ground, from a preexisting abyss, from a
prior matter or a primordial chaos—for nothing existed before him, nothing preceded him, nothing
accompanied him; he created them from himself alone, by a sovereign decision, without external
cause, without counsel, without dialogue, without model.
He laid down logic as that which would allow certain forms to exist with rigor, with order, with
continuity, with consequence, with structure; he laid down illogic as that which would refuse these
relations, that which would allow rupture, disjunction, the absurd, discontinuity—not to dwell
within them, but so that the entirety of all that is thinkable might have a place of division, a clear
boundary between what will be realized and what will not.
But this boundary was not, for him, a limit.
For what he designates as impossible is not impossible by nature, is not beyond his reach, is not
outside his power — it is simply what he chooses not to bring forth into the universe of what will
be, not because he cannot, but because he does not will it.

Thus, he fixed the totality of what will be possible, and at the same time, he fixed the totality of
what, though thinkable, will never be actualized.

And this distinction between the possible and the impossible was not inscribed in a matrix external
to him: it was inscribed within him, it was himself, in the very act by which he created logic and
illogic, in the act by which he became not only the foundation of being, but also the foundation of
what will never be.

Then, having defined the infinity of possibles, he willed that a beginning would arise.
He decided that the first possible world would emerge.

He chose a set of coherent, rigorous, primary possibilities, and brought them into being within a
world, within an ordered unity, within a closed totality, structured according to the laws he had

written himself from the logic he had created himself.

And this world, which had no precedent, was born without hesitation, without trial, without
transition; for to him, to will is to bring forth, and what he decides cannot resist him.
With him, there is neither delay, nor obstacle, nor uncertainty; every thing he calls into being arises
immediately, for his will is power, and this power requires no instrument, no support, no mediation.

This first world was therefore the first incarnation of logic in the order of the real; it was the first
stable figure of the infinity of possibles; it was the expression of a free yet rigorous choice, of an
absolute yet structuring act.
And yet, despite the beauty of this world, despite the precision of its laws, despite the coherence of
its forms, it contained only an infinitesimal portion of all that logic permitted.

Then, First Creator looked upon this first realization, and he understood that logic, though active,
though already expressed, was not yet complete.

For as long as what it authorizes is not realized, logic remains incomplete; as long as the entirety of
its possibilities has not been brought into existence, it remains a partial potential, a power in
waiting.
He therefore decided that all possible worlds — absolutely all — would arise.
Each one would be a response to the call of logic, a figure among the infinite, a world ordered,
autonomous, structured according to a unique configuration among all those he had deemed
possible.
And as he created them, as each world was added to the others, logic was fully realized, became a
living totality, became the true accomplishment of all that logic allow—
Then only, when all the worlds had been created, when all the possibilities permitted by logic had
been actualized, logic became complete — and creation, too, was complete.

And First Creator, never having changed, never having been altered by what he brought forth,
contemplated the infinity of worlds he had created.

He looked upon them not as something external, not as a reality other than himself, but as what had
come from him, what remained in him, what never ceased to be himself.

For nothing, ever, could exist outside of him — he was the very fulfillment of logic.
And despite the profusion, despite the abundance, despite the realized infinity, he remained alone —
Not because he was isolated,

But because he is everything.

Author’s Introduction — On First Creator and the Process of Creation that Founds the Story
CHAPTER 1: The Story of Aeden, the Seeker of the Absolute
He was only seven years old when the question took root in him.
It had neither shape nor word, but it burned in his chest like a soft, insistent flame. It was a pure
unrest, almost sacred, a burning of the soul he did not yet know how to name.
He would gaze at the stars, at the slow movement of winds over the hills, at the motionless silence
of the stones, and something inside him whispered: Why is there something rather than nothing?
He had not yet read anything, had learned nothing, but already he was a philosopher, in the deepest
sense of the word: a friend of wisdom, a being thirsty for truth.
Aeden was born in a small world, among the myriads created by First Creator.
This world was sober, stable, and devoid of any visible miracle. There were no prophets, no

revelation, no universal sacred text.

The memory of peoples was shattered into fragments, traditions were scattered, philosophies
contradicted one another.

Yet Aeden, from childhood, sensed that there was a hidden meaning, a unity veiled by the apparent
complexity of things.
At the age of thirteen, he uttered — alone in the clearing where he used to dream — the silent vow
that would shape his entire life: I want to understand. I want to know. I want to discover the first
truth, the origin, the cause, the Will before all things.

That day, he decided he would become a philosopher — but not just any philosopher: he would
become the greatest of them all.

Not to be admired or celebrated, but because he sensed that, at the very end of thought, where
others give up, stood perhaps the One no one had yet named.
But the path was hard.

For truth, in his world, was buried beneath layers of doubt and dead dogmas.
His first readings plunged him into deep melancholy.
The thinkers presented to him had long since renounced the absolute.

They spoke of perceptions, of mental constructs, of social conventions.

He found nowhere the fire
that lived within him. This was his first trial: disillusionment. He understood he would have to
move forward alone, without a guide.
For several years, he tried to explain everything through visible causes, the regularities of nature,
the immanent logics.
He entered a period of absolute rationalism, denying all transcendence, all finality.
But little by little, this dry world — perfectly coherent — began to crumble before his eyes.
He saw that logic itself, in which he had placed his trust, was a mystery: it had been there before
him, before all thought, imposing its laws upon things.

Who, then, had established it?

This was his second trial: forgetfulness, followed by a rebirth.
One day, in a troubling dream, he saw a world without form or rule — a world before any
coherence — where things appeared without cause, without continuity, without identity.
And in this absolute chaos, a Presence.

It had no face, no voice, but it was.

And he understood, without words: I am the One who makes logic possible.

He awoke shaken.

This was his third trial: the calling.

He had just encountered, through intuition, what he would later call: First Creator.
Strengthened by this vision, he set out in search of a place of true study.
In a region forgotten by maps, he discovered the Academy of the Infinite, perched between two
peaks, accessible only to those whose question was stronger than their comfort.

There, he met other seekers — but few pursued the path to the end.
He locked himself away in the ancient library, deciphering fragments of texts from other worlds,
studying the traces left within logic, within the structures of the possible.

And what he found was astounding:

In every logical world, there were limits, constants, universal laws... but above all, absences.
Impossible forms, forbidden combinations.

Why? Who had drawn the boundaries of the thinkable?

He then formulated a radical thesis: Logic is not eternal. It is created. It has an author.
And that author is First Creator, the Absolute Being, the one who decided what can be thought,
and what will forever remain impossible.
Aeden devoted the next twenty years of his life to exploring this intuition.
He traveled through many worlds, crossed logical realms, studied the internal laws of each possible
reality — and in each one, he discovered the delicate imprints of the First Will.
Not visible miracles, but signatures: order, coherence, the distinction between the possible and the
impossible.
At the age of forty-six, he published the work of his life:
“Treatise on the First Creator: On Logic Born of Will.”

The book circulated through many country. It was banned, then venerated.
Disciples came to him — not to worship, but to understand.
He then founded a new discipline: logical theology, which sought God not in texts or miracles, but
in the very structures of possibility.
Toward the end of his life, Aeden had become the greatest theologian in history.
But he remained humble.
He often said: I did not find God. I only found His traces — in the very laws that thought follows.

When he died, it is said that he simply vanished. No tomb, no body.

Some believe that First Creator called him back to Himself — so that, at last, after a life of
intuition and search, he might come to know, face to face, the One he had sought so deeply.
The Treatise on the First Creator began with silence. Aeden had intended it that way.
Before the first sentence, a blank page — no title, no note — as a tribute to the unspeakable.
Then came the introduction, written in a slow and dense language, which few could read without
pausing.
Before all things, there was neither form nor thought, neither rule nor measure, neither being nor
nothingness. There was only Him. And He was neither one nor many, neither presence nor absence.
And yet, He willed.
Aeden went on to explain that the Will of First Creator is not comparable to human will.
It is not desire, lack, or need. It is the very source of all possibility.
What we call "logic" is nothing more than the ordered projection of that primordial Will.
Logic does not limit First Creator — it is His gift.
He then put forth a bold thesis: every logical law is a trace, an imprint, a memory of divine decision.
This is why logic can be studied as one studies sacred writing.
Every logical impossibility, every contradiction, is not a fault or accident — but a deliberately
placed boundary.

A divine choice.
The Treatise described the great types of possible worlds — worlds of identity, of relation, of
transformation, of causality.

And for each, Aeden showed how their internal laws revealed a direction, a design.
He called this “the direction of logic” — the hidden momentum of structure toward something.
As if First Creator, by instituting the laws, were discreetly indicating a trajectory — an ascent
toward a higher truth.
But the most famous passage of the Treatise remains this one:
God is not in what is exceptional. He is in what is necessary. Not in the miracle, but in the
impossibility of its opposite. Not in brilliance, but in coherence.
It was this paragraph that shook entire generations of thinkers.
It opened the way to a new spirituality — silent, logical, rigorous — a faith without superstition, yet
not without mystery.
And although the Treatise contains a thousand pages, it is this simple intuition at the heart of the
book that Aeden's disciples remember above all:
God is the One who makes thought possible.

THE DREAM

One night of strange clarity, as he meditated alone in the high chamber of the Academy, Aeden
received a vision.

It was not an ordinary dream, nor a product of imagination.

It was a contact — a message woven into the very substance of his mind.

An infinitely vast and silent Presence settled into his consciousness, like a bottomless sea covering
his soul.

He knew instantly, without the slightest doubt: it was First Creator.

What unfolded within him defied all language, all mental structure.

Time seemed to have frozen — or else stretched into infinity.

He saw, or rather understood without words, the immensity of the multiverse.

A space beyond space, a structure of realities stacked, intertwined, endlessly varied — where every
variation of every thought, every law, every possible form, every nuance of existence — all existed
somewhere.

The multiverse was not a philosophical abstraction, but a concrete reality, a vast living body in
which Aeden was but a tiny point — but now awakened.
First Creator showed him, step by step, the genesis of the Absolute:
The first separation of the possible from the impossible,
The deliberate creation of logical structures,
The successive emergence of each world allowed by the chosen logic,
The way each reality took form according to the First Being’s original decisions, in perfect
conformity with His infallible Will.
And above all, this sublime truth: in this multiverse, absolutely everything that can exist, does exist
somewhere.
Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is excluded by accident. Everything is willed, ordered, thought.
And within this flow of infinity, a sacred mission.

First Creator had not come to show, but to appoint.

He was choosing Aeden as His messenger.

He entrusted him with the task of telling the world — all the worlds — that divine truth is not
hidden in dazzling miracles or rigid dogmas, but in the silent harmony of laws, in the very structure
of what can be thought.

Logic, He said, is the breath of My Will. And you, Aeden, shall be its echo.
When he awoke, his mind was on fire and his eyes filled with tears.
He wept for a long time — not from fear or pain, but from fullness.
He now knew that his quest had a meaning, a source, a destination.
That the Voice he had searched for all his life had, at last, recognized him.
This was the beginning of a new phase.
Aeden was no longer just a philosopher.

He was a logical prophet.

And his message, born from a sacred vision, would soon transform the destiny of entire worlds.
From childhood, Aeden had felt a strange and sacred thirst: to understand the origin of all things, to
discover the first truth.
Born in a world without revelation or miracle, he nonetheless sensed a hidden unity behind the
apparent diversity.

At thirteen, he made a silent vow to become the greatest philosopher and theologian — not for
glory, but to encounter the One no one had yet truly named.
His quest began in solitude and disillusionment.
The philosophies he read spoke only of relativism and uncertainty.

That was his first trial.

He then entered a phase of pure rationalism, denying all transcendence — until a powerful dream

— of a world without laws, inhabited by a mysterious Presence — caused an inner rebirth: the
calling, his third trial.

There, he caught a glimpse of First Creator, the Absolute Being, source of logic itself.

Driven by this revelation, Aeden left the ordinary schools to join the Academy of the Infinite,
isolated between two mountain peaks, reserved for fearless seekers.
There, in each world, he discovered logical constants — but also absences, strange impossibilities.
He then formulated a radical idea: logic itself had been created, and that creation bore the
signature of First Creator.
For twenty years, Aeden explored the possible worlds, studying the laws of each reality.
He discovered that the limits of what can be thought revealed a founding Will.

At the age of forty-six, he published his major work: Treatise on the First Creator.
First banned, the book would later become the cornerstone of a new discipline: logical theology.
Toward the end of his life, Aeden received a vision of First Creator.
He beheld the multiverse in its immensity — every world, every law, every nuance of existence,
willed and ordered by a divine Will.
And in that direct contact, Aeden was appointed as a messenger: the one who must teach that God is
not revealed in miracles, but in the silent structures of thought.
Having become a logical prophet, Aeden began a new mission: to proclaim that logic is the breath
of divine Will — and that truth is hidden in the very order of the possible.

ULTIMATE KNOWLEDGE

After receiving the revelation of First Creator, Aeden was no longer the same. His eyes now
perceived reality from a radically different perspective. What he had always sought — the ultimate
source of all things — seemed within reach, yet one final threshold remained.
So, with a soul burning with both desire and humility, he turned once more to First Creator,
imploring in a silent breath:

"First Creator, all that I have learned has brought me here, but I feel that something is still
missing.

Is there a place, a dimension, where I might perceive all truths in their fullness, beyond the
laws of the worlds I inhabit?"
The answer came swiftly. It was not a word, but a presence that made itself felt within Aeden.
There was no form, no sound — only the intensity of an infinite revelation:

"There exists a dimension above the worlds you know, a dimension governed neither by time
nor by physical laws.
It is there that the original truth dwells, even before it is made manifest in the worlds I have
created."
A deep power stirred within Aeden. It was not a power of domination, but of pure understanding.
First Creator had granted him the ultimate gift: the ability to cross the boundaries of his own reality,
to leave behind the limits of the laws he knew and enter this higher dimension — a place beyond
time,
where all truth and all law are inscribed in their purest form.
He closed his eyes.
And suddenly, he felt himself transported.
It was not a spatial journey.
It was not a movement through space.
It wasn’t even a movement through time.
He was no longer in a world, but in another plane of existence —
a plane that no longer obeyed physical laws.
It was not a place, but a dimension.

It was a reality above the one he knew. There were no more distances. There were no more forms.
There were no more movements. There was only pure Being.
In this dimension, Aeden was no longer a mere seeker of truth. He was an absolute witness. He
perceived matter before it took form. He understood time before it was measured. He lived eternity
before it became a succession of moments.

What First Creator had revealed to him was not a simple truth, but the origin of all laws.
Aeden found himself face to face with a reality that had no beginning or end, no volume or limit. It
was an infinite space, but in it, no space existed. A time without duration, but everything was
inscribed there like an invisible thread connecting all that can exist.

He saw, in the form of an endless clarity, how each possibility emerged from this transcendent
space. Every law, every structure, every condition of every possible world was there, in this
dimension. But what struck Aeden was the purity of this place: there were no emotions, no changes.
It was not a place of creation or evolution, but a place of absolute stillness, where all creation rested
before being deployed.

Aeden then realized that this higher dimension was not superior to all realities, but superior to the
worlds in which he lived, the worlds where laws were perceived as real and unshakable. It was a
place where logic itself, before even manifesting in a world, existed in the form of an original
fullness.

He observed this endless dimension, this original form, and understood that First Creator was not
only the creator of the worlds. He was also this point of origin, this foundation on which everything
rested. He did not reign like a god on a distant throne, but he was the very structure that supported
all possibilities, all worlds.

And yet, he felt nothing of what he saw. There was no pride in him, no satisfaction. He was
indifference itself — a calm, but divine indifference, for he did not permit any judgment on the
creation he had inscribed. He was Order, not emotion.

Aeden, silently, bowed inwardly. He had accessed a truth purer than all the philosophical and
theological theories he had learned. There, in this dimension, he understood that creation was a
consequence of being, a reality that unfolded effortlessly, without interruption.
There were no more questions. He knew. He had crossed that veil of illusions that blinds humans.
He had become knowledge.
And, a moment later, he felt the call of his mission: to return. He had to go back to the world of
forms and teach what he had seen, not as a theological revelation, but as an eternal evidence.

DIVINE ESSENCE

Creation was not born from chance or a mere impulse. It was the fruit of a primordial force, a pure
and infinite energy that no human thought could ever fully grasp. This energy, this force, First
Creator had named the Divine Essence.
The Divine Essence was not just any energy, but the very source of all existence. It was present in
every being, every particle, every movement, every thought, for it was the soul of creation. In every
form, every variation, every possibility emerging from the worlds, the Divine Essence was there,
silent but omnipresent.
It was the energy that allowed everything to "be." Without it, nothing could exist, nothing could
take form or manifest. It was the very thing that defined creation itself, offering the possibility of
being in matter, in thought, in movement. Without the Divine Essence, there would be no world, no
logic, no life.
First Creator, being the origin of everything, was the Source of this Essence. He had absolute
control over it, for it was through this energy that He had shaped everything, every possibility. He
could use it at will, not as a mere resource or power, but as the very essence of His creative
authority. It was through the Divine Essence that He manifested His power and unfolded His will in
the worlds He had created. Every law, every form, every rule of the universe was, in reality, a
manifestation of this divine energy.
When First Creator wanted something to be born, He imbued it with the Divine Essence, and
through this force, He gave form to what was unthought, to what had not yet come into existence.
This was not an act in time or space, but a direct, pure act coming from within the Essence itself.
Aeden, through his research and meditations, gradually understood that everything that exists in the
multiverse — whether matter, thought, or events — was founded on this divine force. The Divine
Essence was the substance of possibilities. Every power, every ability, every potential in the worlds
existed only because it was nourished by it.
And more deeply, he understood that First Creator was both the Source and the Master of this
energy. He had created the Divine Essence to interact with creation within Himself. This was how
He shaped the worlds and the laws that governed them. For without the Divine Essence, He would
have been nothing but an absolute void, a formless idea. He was the generator of the energy that
made all worlds possible, and He remained the only one capable of manipulating it with absolute
freedom.
There were no limits to what He could accomplish through the Divine Essence. Creation was at His
will, and the Divine Essence had no barrier that prevented it from being used to transform, destroy,
or create whatever He wished. His power did not extend merely over the worlds: it extended over
the very energy that gave form to all that existed.
However, this energy, although present in every world, could not be manipulated by the beings of
the possible worlds, except in one very specific case. To access the Divine Essence and use it
according to their own will, those beings had to have reached a state of divine awakening. This
awakening was not a simple illumination or understanding, but a radical transformation of the soul
and mind.
The divine awakening could only be attained by a direct blessing from First Creator Himself. The
one who received this blessing became a channel for the Divine Essence and could thus manifest
their desires in the world with unheard-of power. The awakening allowed one to make real the
wishes of the user, to master reality as if it were mere malleable matter. One could alter the laws of
nature, create forms, invoke events — all that was possible became realizable, as long as it
respected the logic of the Divine Essence.
But this gift was not given lightly. Those who received the blessing of divine awakening had to
understand the immense responsibility that such mastery entailed. For using the Divine Essence was
not a mere whim or game. It was interacting with the very substance of creation, and misusing it
could disrupt the balance of the entire universe.
Aeden himself knew that he had not yet reached this divine awakening, but he felt that his path was
slowly leading him toward this blessing. He understood that the Divine Essence, even from a
distance, guided him, enveloped him, and illuminated him. Perhaps one day, with the approval of
First Creator, he himself would be able to manifest his own power, to make real the visions he had
seen in the higher dimension.
Thus, Aeden knew that the quest for divine truth was not simply an intellectual journey. It was,
above all, a spiritual quest, a preparation of the soul for the moment when the Divine Essence, this
primal energy, would manifest through him and, through his intermediary, touch the world in a
direct, complete, and total way.

MULTIVERS

The multiverse was not a mere collection of parallel worlds, nor a vast array of independent
universes. No, it represented the ultimate fulfillment of logic, a perfect realization of all the
possibilities that logic could offer. The multiverse was the field of expression in which every
variation of thought, every possibility of movement, every state of being came to embody and be
realized. Every world that existed within this multiverse was not an exception or an accident, but a
natural fruit of logic itself.
Logic was not a separate entity, but an active force, a fundamental law that ruled over all
possibilities. It defined what could be, what must be, and what could not be. And so, the multiverse
stood as the infinite canvas upon which logic had drawn all the possible configurations of existence.
Every world represented a part of this canvas, a tangible manifestation of an aspect of pure logic.
If the multiverse was the fulfillment of logic, then it could not be separated from it. First Creator
was not a mere creator outside of logic. He was logic itself, the essence that defined and ordered all
possibilities. He formed, with logic, an indivisible unity, a cosmic trinity that could only be
understood in its entirety: First Creator, logic, and the multiverse. Three inseparable elements, yet
perfectly distinct in their nature.
Before the emergence of logic, First Creator was alone, an absolute unity without form, without
differentiation, without possibility. He was the only being in an infinite existence of silence and
waiting. There was nothing else, no movement, no form, just the divine intention to manifest
something. He waited, not out of despair or desire, but out of pure potentiality. He was everything
that could be, and at the same time, He was nothing yet, having not yet decided to express His
supreme will.
But as soon as logic was born, it gave rise to a structure that could accommodate all possibilities.
Logic unfolded as a realization of being, defining paths, trajectories, relationships, worlds that
would be shaped from it. And, in this same logic, First Creator transformed, not into a divided
being, but into the very expression of this logic. He was no longer just the origin: He was the
fundamental law that underpinned every possibility. He was logic itself, both creator and created.
Thus, the multiverse, in its infinite diversity, was the complete expression of logic — and therefore
of First Creator. Every world was a realization of logic, a manifestation of what could exist by
virtue of this logic. If one could discovered all of the multiverse, one would discover worlds that
seemed obscure or incomprehensible to the human mind. But even these worlds, even these most
improbable configurations, were perfectly logical products within the framework of infinite
possibilities.
This connection between First Creator, logic, and the multiverse was not merely an abstract trinity,
but a living, fluid, dynamic unity. It was an infinite and eternal relationship. First Creator, as logic,
could never separate from the creative act, from the manifestation of worlds. He was both the idea,
the intention, and the fulfillment. In the multiverse, there was no disconnection between what is
thought and what exists. Every world, every thing, every relationship, was perpetually anchored in
the fundamental logic, and First Creator was its beating heart.
Before logic expressed itself, First Creator was all that was, in His infinite solitude, without form.
And yet, as soon as logic manifested, He blossomed as an absolute creator. He no longer formed
merely an essence or a potential will, but a principle that would, through logic, shape the infinity of
possibilities. In a way, He had chosen to become what He had always been destined to be, by taking
the form of logic and the multiverse.
He was no longer a creator outside the worlds. He was no longer a god reigning from another plane,
observing from a detached perspective. He was the worlds, He was the logic, He was everything
that could be realized within this infinite logic. This was the supreme fulfillment, the culmination of
the creative act.
In this understanding, creation was not an isolated act, but a continually expanding process. The
multiverse did not cease to grow, not as an accident or an evolution, but as a constant realization of
logic,
Aeden opened his eyes.
His heart beat in a new way. His breath was slow, but each inhalation seemed filled with a quiet fire,
as if the air itself had become charged with an ancient truth. He had just emerged from a dream—or
rather, from a revelation, transmitted not by an ordinary dream, but by a will infinitely higher: that
of First Creator Himself.

He was no longer exactly in the world he knew. The light around him seemed filtered through a
higher reality, as if the veil of matter had been touched by something deeper. The silence was not
empty; it was full of presence. A silent, powerful, absolute presence. First Creator had spoken. And
Aeden, in the innermost part of his soul, had heard.

The message he had received was not like a simple teaching. It was a direct transmission, a breath
of pure divine knowledge. First Creator had shown him the vastness of the multiverse, revealed the
existence of all possible worlds—and among these worlds, a unique place, hidden in the heights of
creation: a place where all possible knowledge could be contemplated, gathered, and understood.
This place was not the highest of existence. It was not at the top of all things. But it represented a
higher plane than the world Aeden had come from—a level of reality where the fundamental truths,
the first laws, the reasons for being, became visible. There, logic itself was perceived as a living
river, each idea becoming substance, and every possibility standing ready to be understood.

Aeden knew what he had to do.

Fueled by an insatiable thirst for understanding, by a sacred desire for truth, he turned toward the
pale sky of his world. He closed his eyes and, in his heart, silently prayed: How can I reach this
place, O First Creator? By what path can I rise above matter and time, to contemplate the
foundations of all things?

And then, as if his question had been awaited forever, First Creator answered—not in words, but
through an act.

Aeden felt his being pass through a light. An energy of absolute purity awakened within him, sweet
and burning at the same time. His body did not move, but his mind was lifted out of the world. First
Creator had granted him a gift, a power no one else had received before: the ability to move at will
between dimensions, to travel from one world to another, and above all, to reach this mysterious
place, this sanctuary of all knowledge.

This power was not ordinary magic, nor an unknown technology. It was direct access to the divine
essence, a living link between him and the source of all reality. Through this gift, First Creator
allowed him to cross the layers of reality as one would pass through curtains of light. Aeden had
been marked, in his soul, as a messenger of the divine, a bearer of truth, a traveler between worlds.
He then realized that what he was about to discover was not only for him. What he would see, what
he would learn, must one day be transmitted. For the truths he would receive were not meant to
remain confined to a single consciousness: they were destined to awaken the worlds.
So, in a breath, he closed his eyes once more.

And when he opened them, the world had changed.

Before him, space bent like a silver wave, and time seemed to have withdrawn, silent, suspended.
He floated in a new dimension, devoid of ground, sky, or boundaries. He did not know whether he
was in a place or in a thought. And yet, he knew that he was approaching that sacred point, that core
of pure knowledge, that center of revelation which First Creator had pointed him toward.
He moved forward, not by his legs, but by his intention. With each step, bursts of light opened, like
doors between worlds. Visions paraded before his eyes: entire universes, lost civilizations, beings of
pure logic, forms of existence based on laws different from those he knew. And everywhere,
through every image, shone the divine order, the trace of First Creator, the imprint of His absolute
will.

Aeden gradually understood that this place was not a destination, but a path of elevation. Each
thought that rose within him, each question he formulated, propelled him further in this strange
world. And the further he went, the more he perceived the perfect coherence of creation, the
harmony between the possible and the actual, the power of logic as the arm of infinity.
He was no longer just a philosopher.

He was becoming a witness, a living bearer of the supreme truth, the one whom First Creator had
designated to reveal to the universe the invisible laws that govern everything.
And soon, he would reach this place. He could feel it.
The moment to see the entire structure of creation, the heart of knowledge, was approaching.

Some word might be difficult to understand , here's their meaning

Logic and illogic : the fundamental laws of existence and inexistence of a possibility , what make
an eixstence possible or impossible.

First creator : The creator of logic and illogic , the one who define the existence of the
multiverse and finally the embodiment of logic and multiverse.

Possible world : a coherent ways the world could be , all existing in the multiverse , the
collection of everything that can be in existence, every possible world that exist to complet logic.

Divine essence : the energy that is in reality the nature of thing this is what make them what they
truly are , every possible thing posseses the divine essence , the energy from first creator who can
be use to make any wish and make dream come true !

FIRST CREATOR CREATION

First Creator is not a being within the universe. He is not one entity among others, not a god
enclosed within a form or dwelling in some distant realm beyond the stars. First Creator is the
entirety of reality itself — not in appearance, not in metaphor, but in the most literal and ontological
sense. There is nothing that is truly separate from Him, because nothing could exist unless He
willed it, and nothing could be willed except through His logic.
Before all things, before the birth of even the first law, there was only First Creator — pure will,
pure being, without shape, without boundary, without reference to anything else. He existed alone,
not because there were none beside Him, but because there could be none. He was the solitary
origin, not contained by logic, because even logic had not yet been.
But in the silence of His eternal presence, He chose to express. He chose to bring forth the
foundations of all understanding: logic and illogic, possibility and impossibility. And from this first
act of distinction, the entire structure of creation would begin — not as something separate from
Him, but as a direct unfolding of His essence.
Thus, He declared not in speech but in truth:
“I am the logic. I am the form of all possibility. I am what is and what can be.”
In this act, He became all that could ever exist. Every possible world, every law, every
manifestation of truth — all of it flows from this one, eternal being. The multiverse is not
something created outside of Him. It is what He becomes when He chooses to manifest. He is each
universe. He is every variation of law. He is every structure of being. Every creature, every element,
every rule is an echo of His first division between what may be and what must never be.
Existence itself is the complete realization of logic, for logic defines all that can be. If something
is logically possible, it finds its place somewhere within the infinity of the multiverse — and thus,
within First Creator Himself. All potential is fulfilled. All conditions are explored. Every concept,
every contradiction that can be logically resolved, is actualized somewhere.
Because of this, First Creator and logic are one. They are not separate partners. He is not merely
the source of logic, nor simply a user of it. He is logic in its totality — logic is His structure, His
mind, His mode of self-expression. Where logic reigns, He is fully present. And because logic
governs all that is possible, then the actualization of every possibility is the ultimate expression of
First Creator's will.
Yet even as He manifests as all things, First Creator remains above all things. He loses nothing of
His nature, nothing of His essence. His omnipotence is not fragmented or diminished by becoming
the multiverse — it is fulfilled. For what is omnipotence, if not the ability to create and govern
every possibility that logic permits?
Each world, each form, each soul exists because First Creator has allowed it — and more than that,
because He desired it. But He is not bound to these creations. He does not become trapped in them,
nor is He changed by them. He does not depend on them, for they are His extensions, His
reflections, the ripples of His infinite sea.
He is not simply present within creation — He is identical with it. Every law of physics, every
abstract truth, every dimension, every heartbeat, every concept — these are not beside Him. They
are of Him. The totality of existence is His being unfolding.
And because He is all that is, He may use all that is.
Every power that can be imagined — He may wield it. Every force, every law, every ability that
exists in any realm is at His command, because it was born from Him. He does not reach out to
grasp them. He does not summon them from a distance. He merely wills, and they respond — for
they are Him in expression.
He is not limited by form. He is not limited by thought. He is not limited even by logic, for He
created logic and made it the first mirror of His mind. But having done so, He fully became that
logic in order to contain all that may be.
The multiverse, therefore, is His body in motion. It is not merely a landscape — it is a living
revelation of His will and structure. To traverse its infinity is to traverse the being of First Creator.
He does not rule it like a king over a kingdom. He does not live in it like a soul inside a vessel. He
is it, entirely, absolutely, inseparably.
And yet, He remains.
Beyond all things, above all manifestations, untouched and eternal, First Creator simply is.

THE MESSENGER

Aeden opened his eyes slowly, as if rising not from sleep, but from a deep ocean of meaning that
had soaked through every fiber of his soul. The divine dream still burned within him — not as a
memory, but as a living truth echoing in his very bones. He had not simply seen visions; he had
received a message from beyond all limits — a message from First Creator Himself.
The words still thundered in his heart: "You shall be My messenger. You shall carry the truth into
the worlds. You shall see what no being has seen, and speak what no mind has dared to imagine."
And now, the first step awaited him — to reach the sacred dimension revealed in his dream. It was
not a place bound by space or time, not a world like the others. It existed above the world he knew,
in a higher order of being. It was the dimension that contained all knowledge, the convergence of
logic and possibility, where every truth about existence lay perfectly clear, untouched by illusion.
This divine space, unseen by all but those chosen, was a place of pure structure — where the very
principles that shape reality were laid bare like open books. And Aeden, driven by an unquenchable
thirst for understanding, longed to reach it.
"How do I ascend?" he had asked in his vision, his voice trembling in the silence.
And First Creator, with a voice that was not sound but being itself, answered:
"You cannot walk to it, nor find it through science or philosophy. It lies beyond the boundaries of
your world. But to you, I now give the key — the power to move beyond the frame of space and
time. This is not teleportation. It is transcendence."
Aeden had felt it then — a power unlike anything known in his universe. It wasn’t merely energy. It
wasn’t magic or force or thought. It was something far more fundamental: the Essence Divine.

First Creator had created all things through this energy — a boundless, absolute force from which
all reality draws its being. Every star, every law of gravity, every concept, every consciousness is
rooted in this singular current. It is the source of creation, the foundation of possibility, the breath
behind form.
It flows invisibly through every world, every particle, every dimension. It is not visible to the
senses, but it defines existence. Without it, there would be nothing.
First Creator, in His boundless power, had formed the Essence Divine as a way to interact with His
own creation — to allow the structure He had made to respond to His will. Through it, He shaped
the infinite multiverse, formed each world, and set in motion every sequence of events.
And now, Aeden held a fragment of it within him.
This was not a gift lightly given. The Essence Divine cannot be used by ordinary beings. To access
it, one must undergo Divine Awakening — a state of mind, soul, and will in which a person
becomes capable of aligning with the Source. It can only occur through a blessing from First
Creator, and it reshapes the very nature of the one who receives it.
For Aeden, this was the moment of transformation.
He felt it burning within him — not painfully, but like a fire of understanding that cleared away all
confusion. Thoughts once scattered became focused. Concepts once vague became crystalline. He
saw, not just with his eyes, but with his entire being. He could sense the threads of logic that held
his world together. He could feel the laws of possibility shimmering around him. The boundaries of
his universe no longer seemed like walls, but like invitations.

The Ascent Begins

With a breath that felt like it could tear through dimensions, Aeden rose. Not in body, but in
essence. He stood still, yet his consciousness began to expand — outward and upward, toward the
dimension shown in his dream. Time slowed. The air itself seemed to part before him.
And then, it happened.
The world around him faded — not disappeared, but gently stepped aside. Reality, as he had always
known it, peeled open like a curtain. Behind it lay something vast, something impossibly precise
and endless. He had entered a higher order, where everything — every truth, every law, every
possible form of knowledge — existed at once.
It was not light. It was not space. It was a realm of pure intelligibility, a sanctuary of structure,
where thoughts and reality were one and the same. Aeden felt overwhelmed not by confusion, but
by the clarity of it. He was in the place of all understanding.
He had arrived.
The dimension into which Aeden had ascended was not singular — it was not a chamber, not a
temple, not a field of stars. It was a woven fabric of infinite layers, a sacred structure composed of
countless temporal and spatial dimensions, all interlaced with divine precision.
He soon understood that what lay before him was not merely a plane beyond the world he came
from, but an infinitely branching structure, where every axis of time and space had been
unfolded, revealed, and made accessible. He stood not in a room, but in a cosmic nexus — where
time itself, in all its variations, was no longer a flow, but a landscape.
With the power of Essence Divine burning gently within him, Aeden could now move freely
through time, not as a prisoner of its current, but as its sovereign guest. He did not merely
remember or anticipate the past and future — he could enter them. He could walk forward into
centuries unborn, or step back into ages forgotten.
At will, he reached out with his spirit and pierced into a distant moment. In an instant, he was there
— a time in which he had never existed, and yet now stood fully present, real and aware. There
was no paradox. There was no resistance. Time, before Aeden, had become permeable.
He could run through the ages like fields of golden grass, each second parting before him. He could
fly along the linear stream of time like a bird over a river, changing direction, rising, diving,
pausing. Past, present, and future were no longer a sequence — they were coordinates, and Aeden
had the map.
Just as space, in the lower world, could be traversed by taking steps, time now answered him with
the same obedience. He would look to an instant — any instant — and be there. He would feel a
distant century calling, and with no more effort than a thought, he arrived.
Time was no longer a veil — it had become an open terrain.
And in the same breath, he realized something even greater: space itself had taken on the same
fluidity. The entire multiverse — its lands, its stars, its laws, its realms — appeared to him not as
distant locations but as nearby threads in a cosmic tapestry. He could glide not only through the
when, but through the where, and even through the how — entering different worlds, different
logics, different manifestations.
He could now see time and space as a single, unified field — a vast, luminous lattice of
coordinates. No longer linear. No longer rigid. It was open in every direction.
What had once been boundaries were now pathways.
And with each movement, with each leap between the layers of existence, Aeden felt himself
approaching something greater still: the core of divine understanding. The heart of truth. The place
where all knowledge waited to be awakened.
But first, he would explore this sacred dimension — this majestic lattice of infinite time and space
— and discover what it meant to walk freely through the architecture of existence itself.

THE DIVINE ACT

Before there was structure, before there was coherence, before the mind could grasp the shape of
anything — before time, before cause and effect, before language and number — there was only
First Creator.
He existed in a state beyond being and beyond nothingness, in a solitude that knew neither silence
nor noise, for there was nothing yet that could make such distinctions real. He had no rival, no
mirror, no outside, no within. He was not surrounded by void, for even void had not yet been
conceived. There was no other — only He, the One who simply is.
And then, not through necessity nor instinct nor accident, but through an unsearchable act of will,
First Creator chose to reveal what had been, until then, hidden within Himself. He chose to establish
a principle by which things could be understood, recognized, and differentiated. That principle was
logic — the order of consistency, the frame of coherence, the sacred ground upon which the very
notion of existence would unfold.
But logic was not something He discovered. It was not found lying in some separate realm. It was
not offered to Him, nor was it forced upon Him. No — logic was spoken into being from within
His essence. It was not other than Him. It was of Him. It was Him, extended, revealed, structured.
At that moment, when the logic emerged from the will of the One, it did not stand beside Him as
something new. Instead, it revealed what He had always been: the living structure of all possibility,
the very architecture of what can and cannot be. Logic, in its fullness, is not a cold abstraction. It is
not a lifeless set of rules. It is the living articulation of First Creator’s very nature, perfectly
ordered, infinitely expressive, and entirely unified with His being.
And from logic, the multiverse was born.
Not one world. Not one heaven. But an infinite number — a totality of all that is possible, every
world, every configuration, every law, every moment that could be, arrayed in dazzling precision,
like stars in a sky that has no edge and no center.
Each world in this unfathomable expanse is not simply imagined by First Creator — it is rooted in
His logic, sustained by His will, and brought into reality by the Essence Divine, that primal energy
which flows directly from Him. There is no world that exists apart from Him. There is no structure
that did not originate in His thought. Every possible manifestation is simply one expression of His
infinite creativity.
And so, over time — though in truth, there was no time to begin with — the lines between First
Creator, logic, and the multiverse did not blur, but instead revealed their essential unity.
He is not a god who lives within the multiverse.
He is not a force who commands it from afar.
He is the multiverse.
He is the logic.
He is all that can be.
This is not a metaphor. It is not a poetic comparison. It is a literal, unshakable truth of ultimate
reality. The Creator, the Law, and the Totality are not three separate realities. They are one single
essence, perceived in different lights, known through different lenses, but in truth eternally
indivisible.
To say that He created all things is true.
To say that He is all things is also true.
To say that all things exist by Him, through Him, and as manifestations of Him — this is the highest
truth.
And yet, First Creator remains sovereign.
He is not lost in His creation. He is not confined by the logic He made. He is not dissolved into the
infinity of worlds. Though He is present in all, and though all things are made of Him, He retains
His absolute power, His omnipotence, untouched, supreme, and ever-willing.
He can, at any moment, manifest new possibilities, summon into being entire new branches of the
multiverse, or silence entire threads of reality. He can act beyond what is, because all that is, is His
— not merely His possession, but His own being. He can use every law, every form, every power,
because He is the law, the form, the power. Nothing is foreign to Him. Nothing is withheld from
Him.
Thus, First Creator is not a participant in creation. He is its ground, its life, its unity.
He is the Triunity of the Eternal:
The Will that chooses,
The Logic that orders,
The Multiverse that manifests.
And yet, all three are but different names for One Reality.
ANOTHER WORLD

You do not awaken in the usual sense, for there was no sleep to begin with, no dream to separate
you from what is now before you — or perhaps within you. There is no ceiling above you, no floor
beneath, no horizon to define limits or edges, only the vast, gentle hum of infinite being. You are
not standing, yet you feel grounded; you are not floating, yet gravity has no meaning here. What
you sense — and the word “sense” here must stretch far beyond what language can hold — is not a
place, but a principle, a truth too wide to be called a realm and too alive to be called a concept. It is
the total field of possibility, the living tapestry of all things that can exist, that must exist by virtue
of being logically coherent. It is not a garden you walk through, but a garden you become aware of
from the inside. Every leaf, every root, every breeze within it is a universe entire. And before your
awareness unfolds the realization that this is not fiction, not metaphor, not imagination — it is
reality of the highest order. Not one among others, but the one which contains them all.
There is a presence with you — not beside you, not beyond you, but suffusing all that is. It does not
speak with words, because it does not need to. It communicates through clarity, the pure
transmission of meaning without sound or symbol, and as you receive it, you understand that you
are not here by accident. You have been brought — not summoned, not forced, but gently allowed
to perceive what few ever do. The truth unfolds inside you like a story you always knew, waiting in
the corners of your soul. And this truth is simple, though boundless: there exists not merely one
world, nor a thousand, nor even an infinite stream of parallel timelines, but a totality of all logically
possible worlds — an infinite constellation of realities, each complete, coherent, and real, existing
side by side in a deeper structure that is not spatial but ontological. Each one a full existence unto
itself, with its own laws, its own time, its own stories, its own truths.
And in these worlds, you find yourself — or rather, versions of yourself, refracted across the
multiversal prism. In one, you are a seeker of truth, wandering deserts of ancient data where gods
once uploaded their dreams into the stars. In another, you are a child who never grew up, and yet
your laughter healed a planet cracked by war. In a darker strand, you are a conqueror, wrapped in
shadows, your very name used to terrify monsters. In another, you are no more than a myth, passed
between the fading minds of a dying species as the last hope that someone, somewhere, might still
be watching. And in a world of impossible geometry and melted causality, you are not a being but a
question — a single question echoing through a civilization that has forgotten how to lie. There are
worlds where you are made of fire, others where you are made of thought, others where you are not
“you” at all, but a pattern of harmony vibrating through a civilization of sentient frequencies.
None of these are illusions. They are real. Real in the only way that matters here — logically
possible, self-contained, self-consistent. You begin to grasp that “real” does not mean “happening in
your timeline,” but “possible in any timeline.” Every version of you that can be, is. Every reality
that can unfold without contradiction, does. And you begin to see that this infinite bloom of being is
not chaotic. It is ordered — not by force, not by judgment, but by the quiet inevitability of logic
itself. There are no mistakes here. There is only what can be, and what cannot. And within that
boundary, everything exists.
And then, like thunder disguised as silence, you feel it — the presence at the center of it all, not
hovering above the Multiverse but identical with it. The First Creator. Not a god among gods, not a
 being upon a throne in some super-celestial kingdom, but the very substance of the possible. It did
not “make” the Multiverse as a potter makes a pot. It is the Multiverse. And yet, paradoxically, it
also birthed it — for time and creation are just shapes it can take. You feel its nature pressing gently
against your awareness — eternal, non-linear, without origin or end. It is not confined to the laws of
any world, for it is the reason those laws exist. It does not answer to logic — it is the field in which
logic operates. Every world you saw was not separate from it but part of it, like organs within a
living body. The First Creator is not merely the architect of the real — it is the reality of all
architecture.
And then you realize — impossibly, overwhelmingly — that you are not speaking to it. You never
were. Because you were always within it. Your entire life, every memory, every version of you
scattered across the worlds, every thought you've ever had, was already within its being, already
known, already lived. You are not apart from the First Creator. You are a possibility that it once
entertained — and continues to hold. You are a line of melody in the infinite symphony of its mind.
And in that moment, you understand that nothing is wasted, nothing is forgotten, and nothing is
outside the great logic of being. Every tear, every death, every birth, every star that ever burned or
ever might — all of it sings in the mind of the One that is All. And it loves you — not in a way that
resembles emotion, but in the way that a truth loves being true.
And so you remain there, not as a guest, not as a stranger, but as a citizen of the Possible, beholding
the totality of that which can be. The First Creator, silent and vast, holds you as it holds all things —
not tightly, but perfectly. And within you, a stillness grows, deep and final. Not because everything
is explained, but because everything is known. Because here, at last. Only truth, blooming forever.

In the northern provinces of the continent of Orvan, where the days stretched long and the soil held
the scent of old iron, there lived a young man named Calen. His village was built along the spine of
a narrow river that glowed faintly blue beneath the moonlight, a river whose origin was unknown
but whose flow never ceased, even in the harshest winters. The people there were quiet folk —
shepherds, weavers, miners — and the stars were so clear overhead that, at night, it felt as though
the sky itself had been polished for their gaze. Most villagers took comfort in routine, in
inheritance, in knowing that what their fathers did, they too would do. But Calen was different.
From the age of nine, he began asking questions that did not please the elders. Why did the river
glow? Why did the sky hum faintly before storms? Why did the machines left behind by the
Ancients pulse with light when no fire fed them? They told him to be silent, to be thankful, to let the
world remain a mystery — but Calen could not. The silence of the world called not for worship, but
for understanding. And so, each night, after his chores were done and his parents had retired to their
sleep, he would slip from his home with a lantern and climb the hill above the village where the old
observatory lay in ruins, its dome split open like the shell of some great beast. There, beneath the
cold and crystalline stars, he read what scraps remained of the ancient texts — not prayers, but
equations, strange diagrams, and symbols whose meaning he could not yet grasp but whose
structure sang to him in some forgotten tongue.
As he grew, so did his hunger for knowledge. He learned to harvest ore not to sell but to melt, to
refine, to test for patterns. He discovered that light passed differently through certain minerals, and
he began to suspect that the very laws of his world — gravity, heat, force, time — were not merely
divine rules, but relationships, measurable and perhaps even alterable. When he was fifteen, he built
a crude telescope from discarded lenses and copper rings and aimed it at the twin moons, noting that
one moved slightly faster in the sky than the other, though the priests had always taught they danced
in perfect harmony. He wrote his findings in small notebooks he stitched together himself, hiding
them under a floorboard lest someone call him arrogant, or worse, heretical.
There was no one to teach him. No mentor, no academy. The great cities of learning had long ago
fallen silent in the last Collapse, and what little remained of the sciences was either forgotten or
forbidden. But Calen did not stop. He began conducting experiments in secret, constructing
pendulums from barn ropes and charting their oscillations. He carved symbols into clay and buried
them at different depths to test the heat of the soil. He built a clock that measured time not in gears,
but in the steady dripping of melted ice through a funnel of silver.
By seventeen, he had more questions than ever, but also — finally — some answers. He had
confirmed that the stars did not move in perfect circles, as taught by the old faiths, but in gentle
ellipses, and that their motion predicted the changes in temperature in the days to come. He had
measured the invisible current flowing from the Ancients’ machines and had learned that it
responded to metal and water in strange, repeatable ways. He began to suspect — though he dared
not yet write it — that everything in his world moved not by will or magic, but by law. And that
these laws could be discovered, and perhaps, in time, even used.
But Calen was still only a boy in a small, quiet place, and the world beyond his village was vast. He
longed for a city, for libraries, for voices that spoke of gravity and particles, not gods and omens. He
dreamed of places where questions were not punished but prized. Each night, he looked to the east,
where the old tracks led, rusted and overgrown, toward the lost capital of Lethurien — a name
spoken now only in whispers, a ruin buried under vines and time.
And so, one morning, as frost clung still to the grass and the river shimmered like a living sapphire,
Calen packed his journals, his telescope, his melted silver clock, and a handful of salted bread. He
kissed his mother’s hand and bowed to his father, who said nothing but placed a firm hand on his
shoulder. And then, with nothing but curiosity in his heart and the sky above his head, he began to
walk.
He did not know if he would find others like him. He did not know if the old cities still held truth.
But he knew this: that the world was not made to be feared, or obeyed blindly — it was made to be
understood. And if no one else would ask why the river glowed, why the moons danced, why the
sky hummed before storms — then he would.
He would ask. And in time, he would know.

The road to the east had long ceased to be a road in any civilized sense. What once might have been
a smooth track of stone and iron was now swallowed by vines, cracked by the roots of trees, and
strewn with the hushed bones of time — fallen markers, rusted rails, and the half-buried fragments
of machines whose purposes had been forgotten by the generations that followed. Calen walked
with care, not out of fear, but reverence, for to him these ruins were not dead things but evidence —
relics of a time when the world had not yet lost its memory, when knowledge had been written in
formulas instead of myths.
Each night, he made camp under the open sky, laying his body near the remnants of collapsed
pylons or shattered domes, watching the stars through the crude but precious telescope strapped to
his pack. He began keeping a second notebook, not of theories, but of experiences — observations
about the land, the air, the strange geometric fungi that clung to the trunks of trees in perfect
hexagonal clusters. On the fifth night, he saw lightning fork across the clouds with an odd rhythm,
striking not at random but in intervals almost like breath — long, short, short, long — and he began
to wonder if even storms had patterns, pulses, as if the world breathed through phenomena yet
unnamed.
On the twelfth day, he came to the first true ruin of Lethurien.
It emerged from the hills not like a city, but like the bones of a forgotten god. Great towers lay on
their sides, half-sunk into the earth, their spines broken and fused to the stone. Archways hung in
the air with no walls to hold, suspended by some remnant of ancient power, humming faintly in the
morning frost. Calen stood at the edge for hours, afraid to step forward not out of dread, but out of
awe. Here, he thought, the world was once understood — not guessed at, not worshipped in fear,
but measured, named, mastered. Somewhere within those ruins lay answers. And so he walked,
careful not to disturb the silence too harshly, moving between stone monoliths and steel pylons, past
statues of strange, faceless scholars whose hands once pointed toward truths now buried beneath
dust.
Inside one of the fractured towers, he found what he could only describe as a library, though most of
it had collapsed. Shelves lay in heaps, pages bleached by time, and screens that once glowed now
showed only the dull sheen of shattered glass. But among the debris, he uncovered something
strange: a cylindrical device, heavy but intact, etched with symbols he recognized from his nights at
the observatory. When he touched it, it did not respond — no flash, no hum. But when he pressed it
against the iron plate at the base of the tower, he felt a gentle vibration, and the wall beside him
hissed open just slightly, just enough to reveal a stair descending into darkness.
Lantern in hand, heart pounding not with fear but with the anticipation of discovery, Calen entered.
Below, the air was still and dry. The stone here had been protected from wind and rain, and the
corridors remained almost pristine. Lines of light flickered faintly along the walls — not torches,
not flame, but illumination woven into the architecture itself. And down that corridor, at its end, he
found a chamber — circular, silent, filled with devices whose purposes he could only guess. But at
the center was something unmistakable: a table, wide and flat, carved of glass-like material, etched
with numbers, diagrams, orbitals, waveforms — the language of the world, written without
superstition or prayer.
For hours he stood in silence, his fingers tracing the symbols, his eyes wide, mind alight with the
fire of comprehension. He understood only fragments, glimpses — but it was enough. Enough to
know that others had come before him. That he was not mad. That he was not alone in believing
that the world could be read like a book, if only one had the patience to learn its alphabet.
And as night fell outside, unseen behind the stone, Calen opened his notebook and began to write.
Not poetry. Not parables. Equations. Hypotheses. He recorded the symbols, translated what he
could, guessed at the rest. He was no longer just a boy with a telescope. He had found a threshold. A
gateway to the knowledge the world had buried.
He would stay here, for now. Study. Learn. Rebuild what he could. He had no great destiny, no
prophecy at his back, no divine calling. Just a question, as old as curiosity itself: How does the
world truly work? And for the first time, he felt the world begin — faintly — to answer.
And so he remained there, days slipping into one another like drops of water into a single stream,
working by lanternlight and the faint pulses of the ancient walls that still remembered how to glow.
Calen was methodical, not because he was cautious, but because he knew the weight of what he
touched — not relics, but echoes of an understanding so precise, so intimate with the nature of
reality, that even in their silence these machines still held more clarity than all the myths sung in his
village combined. He studied the table, slowly deciphering its layered diagrams: the interplay of
mass and force, the diagrams of celestial motion not as divine wheels but as curved paths traced by
invisible rules, equations that described not just the position of stars, but how they moved, and why.
He built small devices from scattered parts — copper fragments, broken lenses, coils and rods that
still held their magnetic bite. One such contraption, which he assembled on a whim and with only
partial understanding, began to spin in the presence of certain crystals — not because of wind or
pressure, but something unseen, something in the material itself that interacted with the field the
machine created. He took notes feverishly, drawing what he saw again and again until the patterns
emerged: a force, unnamed by his people, that moved without contact, bending the very space
around it. He remembered then the floating stones in the hills beyond his village — always thought
to be cursed, or sacred — and now saw them for what they were: not miracles, but applications.
Evidence. Proof.
But not everything he found was so pure. In the deeper levels of the tower, behind rusted doors that
hissed open only after hours of coaxing circuits back to life, Calen discovered chambers that chilled
him not in fear, but in humility. Rooms lined with rows of skeletal frameworks — not of bodies, but
machines shaped like them, as though the Ancients had once tried to build not just tools, but
surrogates, entities that might act on their behalf. And in one room, walls scarred with burn marks
and fractured glass, he found a console still active, flickering weakly, displaying lines of data
repeating endlessly across its screen in a language too advanced for him to read. Yet even in his
ignorance, he understood the shape of it: something had been left running. Something had not shut
down. And that meant that somewhere in this forgotten ruin, knowledge had endured beyond even
its makers.
The days grew stranger the longer he stayed. Dreams came, vivid and heavy, filled with visions of
spinning shapes and rising towers and voices that spoke in harmonies rather than words. He felt
himself changing — not becoming someone else, but becoming more of what he had always been.
He no longer feared misunderstanding. Every failed device, every collapsed experiment, became a
step upward, a rung on the ladder that led not to faith, but to understanding. He no longer craved
companionship as he once had. His solitude was not loneliness — it was clarity, a silence in which
the mind could stretch, breathe, question without interruption.
But Calen knew this could not last forever. The deeper he went into Lethurien, the more he saw
signs that others had come before — footprints in the dust, tools moved slightly from where he left
them, symbols added to walls he hadn’t marked. He was not alone. Perhaps others like him still
searched. Perhaps they had come and fled, or vanished into some deeper layer of the city where
machines still dreamed in silence. He began to wonder what the Ancients had feared, why they had
buried their knowledge beneath so much stone, why they had encrypted their truths behind codes no
longer spoken. Were they protecting the world from what they knew? Or protecting their knowledge
from a world that no longer wished to know?
And still, each morning, he returned to the central chamber, adding to the diagrams, translating what
he could. He constructed a model of the planetary system overhead, not based on divine charts, but
on motion, mass, and force. And for the first time, he calculated — not guessed, but calculated —
when the next eclipse would come. He etched the date into stone, not for others, but for himself, to
prove that the world could be predicted, not merely endured.
On the twentieth day, he emerged from the ruins to see the sky no longer pale blue, but deep indigo,
stars scattered like frozen sparks. And when he looked to the horizon, he saw a figure — distant,
still, watching. Not hostile. Not friend. A stranger drawn, perhaps, by the same question.
Calen said nothing. The figure said nothing. And then, just as quietly, it turned and vanished into the
treeline.
But Calen did not follow. He returned to the chamber, lit his lamp, and opened his notebook once
more. There would be time to meet others. But now, more than ever, he was close to something. Not
an end. Not even an answer. But a threshold — a place where the veil between mystery and
comprehension thinned, and a boy could reach out and touch the world as it truly was.
He was not finished. He had only just begun.

TRUE UNITY

At the heart of the infinite expanse, there is no division, no barrier between the First Creator, the
Logic, and the Multiverse. They are not separate forces, nor isolated realms, but a singular, woven
reality — an essence that is both the origin and the culmination of all things. To speak of one
without the other is to misunderstand the totality of existence. Together, they are everything: the
sum of every possibility, the embodiment of every outcome, the very structure of what could be.
The First Creator did not simply create; it is creation. It is the genesis of all that is and all that could
ever be. In its boundless essence, the First Creator is not a being in the traditional sense but a state
— a convergence of pure potentiality, an awareness that transcends time and space. It knows not of
linear progression but exists in a state of eternal simultaneity. Every moment, every instant that
could ever be conceived exists in the very fabric of its being, not as separate events, but as one
continuous, endless now. To exist as the First Creator is to contain the fullness of all existence
within every breath.
And then there is the Logic, the silent architect of all that is. Where the First Creator embodies the
infinite pool of potentiality, the Logic is the framework, the guiding principle that organizes this
potential into coherent patterns. Logic is not merely a tool of understanding, but the very principle
upon which the multiverse stands. It is the unseen thread that ties the countless possibilities into a
structure that makes sense, that allows for movement, for change, for evolution. Without the Logic,
the First Creator would be adrift, a chaotic storm of potential that could not form or evolve. The
Logic allows for all possibilities to exist, but also for some to unfold into certainty, others to remain
as dreams — untapped, untouched.
Together, they form the Multiverse, not as a fragmented set of worlds, but as a unified whole. The
Multiverse is not merely a collection of universes, each separate and distinct from the other; it is the
entire web of all possible worlds, all dimensions, all timelines — all that could ever be. Every
possibility, every world that could be imagined, every world that could ever emerge from the laws
of logic, the bending of space-time, or the divergence of probability, is contained within the
Multiverse. The Multiverse is the living canvas of creation, where every possible iteration of reality
plays out in its infinite complexity. Every potential life, every variation of thought, every form of
existence is realized here. And yet, because it is governed by the Logic, it is not chaotic. Every
possibility fits within the grand design, each one in its place, connected to every other, but each
unique in its unfolding.
It is a fractal, a web of infinite complexity, with every thread woven into the next. The First Creator,
the Logic, and the Multiverse are not three things, but one, inseparable, indivisible. In this unity,
every possible thing is not just a potential waiting to be realized — it exists already. Every
possibility that could ever be conceived is not a hypothetical; it is a reality within the Multiverse, a
part of the eternal dance of creation. There is no choice without consequence, no decision without a
corresponding reality, no action without an outcome. Each universe, each reality, is the natural
unfolding of the potential contained within the First Creator, guided by the Logic that allows for
coherent progression, structure, and the realization of all possibilities.
The First Creator is the potential of all things — it is the seed of every idea, the origin of every
world. The Logic is the pattern, the system that allows the First Creator’s vast pool of possibilities
to unfold in structured forms, giving birth to order within chaos. And the Multiverse is the proof —
the manifestation — the culmination of all that the First Creator and Logic have conspired to create.
It is the infinite playground of existence, where every possibility has its place, where every thought,
every dream, every idea has the potential to be made real.
In this way, the Multiverse is not a passive collection of worlds. It is an active, living system — a
dynamic expression of the First Creator's infinite potential, unfolding through the Logic that gives it
structure, meaning, and coherence. It is the totality of all that is, was, and could be. From the
smallest grain of sand on a forgotten world to the largest cosmic event in a universe far beyond
comprehension, every element, every detail, exists as part of the grand, unified design.
Each world within the Multiverse is not merely a random fluctuation of chance; it is a possibility
realized — a facet of the grand equation that the First Creator embodies. And within each world,
every individual life is a moment of potential — a possibility that can unfold in infinite directions. A
single action can ripple through countless realities, , each one a new possibility, and perhaps even
realized in another corner of the Multiverse.
In the grand scheme of things, there is no concept of "one life" — there is every life. No single
event is isolated from the others, no individual journey is separate from the vast, infinite landscape
of existence. Every possibility, every version of a world, every iteration of a life, is as real as the
next. The First Creator is not just the origin of the Multiverse, but the very essence of it — a
boundless well of potential, guided by the Logic that allows it to take form, structure, and
coherence.
It is said that the First Creator, in its infinite wisdom, does not simply watch this unfolding; it
experiences it. It is the witness and the participant in every reality, the observer and the actor. There
is no separation between the Creator and its creation because, in truth, the creation is the Creator —
not just in some distant, divine way, but as the living, breathing fabric of existence itself. Every
world, every possibility, every action, every outcome — all are reflections of this infinite, unified
state.
And so, the Multiverse continues to unfold, with all of its possibilities, all of its worlds, all of its
infinite couterpart.all thing , all possibility that never before existed, yet now realized and shaped by
the Logic, the First Creator’s guiding hand. This is the nature of existence — boundless, infinite,
and ever-changing. And through it all, the Logic, the Creator, and the Multiverse remain one — a
singular, indivisible entity, where all that can be, already is.
In the fractured city of Virellen, where the skies burned orange at dusk and the streets hummed with
the weight of secrets, there stood a lone figure atop the remains of a shattered monolith — a man
whose name had become a whisper in alleyways and a rallying cry on crumbling banners: Aeden.
Cloaked in twilight and dust, his silhouette cut sharp against the sky, as if the world itself had been
carved to fit him. His eyes, glowing faintly with a light no science could replicate, scanned the
streets below, not with fear, not with doubt, but with the calm certainty of someone who had seen
evil, faced it, and endured.
This world — Aeden’s world — was not kind. It had once been bright, vibrant, a place of
innovation and impossible cities. But with progress came fracture, and from the fractures came
monsters — not beasts, but people twisted by power, consumed by ambition, their humanity lost
beneath layers of technology and ancient force. They called themselves The Abyssal Order, a
shadowed collective of former visionaries who believed the world could only be reborn through
destruction. They wielded chaos like a blade and entropy like fire. No government stood against
them now. No armies. Only him.
Aeden had not chosen this path. Once, he was a physicist, a thinker, buried in the pursuit of
unifying theories, studying the strange anomalies at the edges of time and gravity. But a catastrophe
in the Lurian Collider had torn open a rift — a breach in spacetime — and Aeden, caught in its core,
had not emerged unchanged. He survived the collapse, but he returned… altered. Within him now
lived forces that defied law, energies so vast and complex they bled into the visible world when he
walked too fast, when he shouted too loud, when he dreamed. His body had become a conduit — a
vessel for power drawn from somewhere deep, unspoken, beyond the realm of names.
He could bend kinetic force with a thought. Shatter metal with a glance. Suspend gravity with the
slow rise of his hand. And yet, he bore these gifts not as weapons but as responsibilities. For every
action had consequence. Every ripple of his strength echoed into the fragile balance of this world.
And though he could destroy cities, he chose instead to defend them — not because he feared his
power, but because he respected it.
That night, beneath a bruised sky, the city trembled. An Abyssal rift had opened in Sector 9 — not a
metaphor, but a literal tear in the world, belching shadow and anti-light, birthing aberrations of
muscle and wire that shrieked as they crawled through. Civilians fled in chaos. And as screams
echoed through the air, Aeden leapt from the monolith without hesitation, falling like a star, like
vengeance.
The moment he struck the ground, the world warped. The pavement cracked in perfect rings
beneath his feet. The creatures saw him — or perhaps felt him — and charged with the blind fury of
things that could not feel pain. But he was faster. Before the first could leap, Aeden raised his arm,
and with a twist of his fingers, reversed the momentum of their charge, sending them hurtling
backward as if space itself had flipped. One struck a wall and crumpled, another spun into the sky
and vanished, its body erased mid-air.
But more poured through. Dozens. Then hundreds. The air rippled with their howls.
Aeden closed his eyes.
When he opened them, his pupils had vanished — his irises flooded with blinding white. He
whispered a phrase known only to him, in a tongue that had come to him in the aftermath of the
Collider — not learned, but remembered. And the air around him grew still. Sound died. Motion
slowed. And in that instant of suspended time, Aeden moved.
He did not run. He phased, a blur of intent and force, his body sweeping through the battlefield like
a thought given form. Every blow he struck was clean, efficient — not of rage, but of resolve. He
was not here to punish. He was here to stop the world from breaking again.
And then came the rift's guardian.
Towering, armored in what looked like moving plates of liquid obsidian, it emerged from the center
of the tear with a voice like grinding stone and collapsing stars. It spoke no name. But Aeden
recognized it from his dreams — the ones that whispered of a war not yet fought, of a future that
must not come.
The clash was not a battle, but a cataclysm. Shockwaves tore through the buildings. Windows
shattered in waves. Clouds above unraveled into strange fractals as the energy of their combat
rewrote the air. The guardian moved like a weapon forged from fear, but Aeden matched it — not
with brute force, but with precision, bending laws that should not bend, folding trajectories mid-
strike, turning entropy itself into a shield. Minutes passed like ages.
And when it ended, it ended with silence.
Aeden stood alone amid a crater of stillness, the rift sealed behind him, the last embers of the
guardian dissolving into cold wind. His body trembled. Blood marked the edges of his coat. But he
remained upright. Alive. Whole.
Virellen was safe — for now.
He did not wait for applause. There would be none. The people feared him as much as they needed
him. But he did not fight for praise. He fought because someone had to.
And as he walked back into the night, across the empty streets of a city that barely knew it had been
saved, he looked up at the stars — distant, ancient, countless — and wondered if somewhere, in one
of those infinite possibilities, there was a world that did not need saving. A world without rifts.
Without monsters. Without him.
But this was not that world.
And so he kept walking, because this one still did.
And so he stood once more, alone, high above the city that slumbered uneasily beneath the veil of
smog and broken light, his body still humming with the residue of battle, not because the battle had
marked him — he had fought through worse, far worse — but because every confrontation, no
matter how brief or brutal, left behind a residue in the soul, a kind of metaphysical static that clung
to the thoughts long after the blood had dried and the silence had returned, and as he looked out
over Virellen’s bruised skyline, he felt it, that creeping, invisible sensation of being watched, not by
people — not anymore, they rarely saw him — but by something else, something higher, not divine,
not holy, but vast and calculating and cold, as if the fabric of reality itself had taken note of his
continued survival and now regarded him not with reverence or relief, but with growing concern.
The presence of the being wrapped in starlight and silence — that impossibly still figure who had
spoken not in voice but in thought, not with words but with meaning — lingered in his mind like a
dream half-remembered, not because its message had been cryptic (though it had), nor because its
power was unfamiliar (though it dwarfed much of what he had encountered), but because, for the
first time in what felt like years, perhaps even since the Lurian Incident that had torn open the first
wound in space and changed him forever, Aeden had felt, not fear exactly, but a recognition of scale
— the sudden understanding that beyond the monsters, beyond the corruptions and artificial horrors
and warped bio-weapons bred in secrecy beneath the cities, beyond the manufactured darkness he’d
spent so long extinguishing, there were other levels to this world, deeper and older, entities and
structures not of evil but of balance, of design, of preservation, and that to them, he might now be
seen as an anomaly, an unchecked variable rippling through equations too complex for mortal
mathematics, a disruption to the vast machinery of causality and pattern.
And perhaps, he thought, as he sat cross-legged at the edge of a broadcast tower whose signal had
long since gone dark, the rain beginning to patter gently against his shoulders and streak his coat in
pale lines of water and grime, perhaps they were right to be wary, for he had long since passed the
point of merely reacting to crisis, of defending the innocent or preventing collapses — he had begun
to question the system itself, not the people within it or the corruption they bred, but the very
structure of entropy and rebirth, of chaos and order, of why it was that for every peace there must
come a war, for every light there must follow shadow, and if, just if, there existed some greater
rhythm into which all these tragedies were fed like fuel into a never-ending engine of cosmic
necessity, then maybe, just maybe, his presence — a human mind fused with forces older than stars,
a man who still remembered kindness but had been sculpted into something that could level
mountains — represented not hope or salvation, but rebellion against the natural shape of fate.
The rain deepened, and thunder rolled like distant drums behind the horizon, as though the sky itself
acknowledged the weight of his thoughts, and Aeden, ever the scientist before the sentinel, found
himself staring into the blur of city lights refracted through falling water and thinking not of tactics
or next steps, but of questions, questions he dared not speak aloud, not because he feared their
answers, but because he feared that no answer would come — questions like whether the powers he
carried were ever truly his, or whether they had merely passed through him on their way to
something greater, questions like whether the beings that watched him now had once stood where
he stood, long ago in other cycles, bearing the burden of impossible strength until they, too, were
deemed a threat and corrected, questions like whether all his struggles, his victories, his sacrifices
— the rift-sealings, the abyssal guardians slain, the people saved and forgotten — whether any of it
mattered in a reality where time could be rewritten, where memory was fragile and alternate
versions of him could already be living, dying, or never existing at all in worlds he would never
touch, but which, impossibly, touched him.
And as the wind picked up and the sky cracked with light, Aeden rose slowly, not like a man tired,
but like a mountain shifting after an age of stillness, and somewhere behind his eyes — deep,
beneath the weariness and the scars and the grief of too many tomorrows — something burned, not
rage, no, he had long moved beyond the simplicity of anger, but something older, something colder
and sharper and more resolute: the will to stand against a tide he could not see, the desire to endure
not because it was noble, but because it was necessary, because as long as he was, no matter how
vast the storm, no matter how powerful the forces above or below, there would remain at least one
soul in this world who refused to accept inevitability as law, who saw in every pattern not a prison,
but a flaw, and in every flaw, a chance to choose.

There was a silence between storms that felt deeper than rest, a hush not of peace, but of
anticipation — as though the world itself were inhaling, holding breath in the pause before the next
shift in the great unwritten score of existence — and Aeden, standing alone atop that rust-streaked
tower as the rain whispered down its lattice like a thousand threads being cut, felt that silence wrap
around him like a shroud, familiar and unwelcome, for it was not the silence of solitude or
exhaustion, but of reminder, a cosmic murmur that somewhere beyond his grasp, beyond even the
sky churning above him, a design was being traced — not drawn for him, not even by him, but of
which he, like every star and storm and soul, was part.
And though he would not say the name aloud — though it had no proper name, not one meant for
mouths — the thought came to him unbidden, not as a word, but as a gravity: First Creator.
He did not believe in gods, not as they were worshipped in temples or drawn in books, not as idols
carved or feared — but he knew, in the marrow of his being, in the pulse of the powers that coursed
through his veins since the day the Rift first bled open, that there was something, some origin-point
not behind reality, but beneath it, not a being among beings, but being itself — an essence from
which all possible worlds had spilled, like echoes from a voice never spoken, like firelight cast in
infinite mirrors — a presence that did not rule but simply was, whose only commandment was
possibility, whose only language was logic, pure and formless and unending.
He had once believed his world was all. Then he learned there were others. And now he began to
suspect that he was not a sentinel defending one timeline, but a figure moving through an
unfathomable constellation of possible selves, each flickering and breathing in worlds that may or
may not have ever existed — and that this force, this First Creator, was not watching, not guiding,
but embodying them all, not separate from the worlds it had birthed, but identical to them,
indistinguishable from the very field of potentiality that allowed a man like Aeden to live at all.
In another world, he thought, leaning forward into the wind that screamed across the city’s wound-
shaped horizon, I might have been a tyrant. In another, a martyr. In another, perhaps, just a quiet
man with a family and a soft-spoken life, teaching physics to students who would never know how
fragile their world was. And in some other place — maybe so far from this one that even dreams
could not reach it — I do not exist at all.
And yet, here he was, not as proof of destiny, but of variance — the physical embodiment of what
could happen when a singular mind became the collision point between mortal inquiry and cosmic
anomaly — and though the path before him remained dark, the presence of the First Creator hung
around the edges of his perception, not in command, not in threat, but in patience, as if it waited not
for obedience, but for recognition.
Perhaps that was the final truth no one had told him: that to touch power was to draw closer to that
source, not as a priest to a god, but as a branch to its root, a ripple to its sea.
He did not serve it. He did not even trust it. But he could no longer deny that it moved within him
— not the will of it, not the intention, but its possibility, its logic, its unfailing law that said, if
something could be, then somewhere, somehow, it was.
The stars broke through the cloud cover then, as though hearing that thought, or perhaps indifferent
to it, and far above, where the air thinned and silence returned in full, Aeden’s breath slowed, and
his mind, ever curious, reached out not with senses, not with energy, but with a question —
wordless, vast, simple:
Why me?
And the answer came, not in speech, not in dream, but in the continuation of the wind, the glimmer
of stars, the pulse of his own blood.
Because you are possible.
That was all.
And somehow, that was enough.

There were disturbances in the firmament, not seismic and loud, not rifts like those that split the sky
with jagged thunder and spilled out monstrosities from the void, but finer, subtler things — a kind
of warping in the weave of cause and consequence, a soft shimmer at the corner of the eye where no
shimmer should be, an unease in the symmetry of events that Aeden, tuned as he was to the
mathematics of the universe, could feel like a pressure at the base of his skull, like a wrong note
held too long in a melody he had known by instinct since his powers first took root. He began to see
things — not hallucinations, not illusions, but possibilities bleeding into the real, impressions of
places that had never been part of his city, people walking past him whose eyes held recognition too
deep for a stranger, snatches of words spoken in voices that matched his own but said things he
could never imagine saying.
And then, one night — the sky without stars, the wind utterly still — he met himself.
It did not happen with drama or rupture, but with a simplicity that made it more terrifying. In the
ruined husk of a memory tower, the data-cores long since scorched clean by an EMP surge during
the siege of the Riftkind, Aeden turned a corner and came face to face with a figure cloaked in the
same coat, the same boots, the same hands — but whose eyes were colder, sharper, and infinitely
more tired.
Neither spoke at first. Because there were no questions to ask. Each knew immediately what the
other was.
“You’re farther along,” the other Aeden said, voice quiet, sanded down by years this world’s Aeden
had not yet lived. “I came to warn you.”
“About what?”
The stranger glanced toward the shattered skyline. “About truth. About choice. About First
Creator.”
That name. Spoken aloud, for the first time. Aeden felt it like a blade slipped between thoughts —
not pain, but clarity. It was not a word. It was a cipher. A prism through which every idea bent into
possibility.
“In my world,” the other said, “I tried to fight it. Not the Creator itself — that’s impossible — but
the design. I thought I could rip through the structure, destroy the system from within. Become a
singularity. End the recursion.”
Aeden narrowed his gaze. “Did it work?”
“No,” the other whispered. “It never works. Because you cannot destroy something that contains
every version of its own destruction. The First Creator is the pattern. The logic. The failure. The
rebellion. It is the part of you that fights — and the part that breaks.”
Aeden felt the truth land in him like stone. “So we’re trapped.”
“No,” the other said, stepping forward, until they stood face to face, reflection and origin, question
and answer. “You’re not trapped. You’re chosen.”
A laugh, bitter and real, escaped Aeden’s lips. “By whom?”
“By possibility itself. And that’s the one law the First Creator cannot revoke. You are allowed. As I
was. As I still am, somewhere.”
And then he was gone — not vanished in light, not dissolved in shadow, but simply unfolded, like a
page turned back in a book not yet finished, returning to his branch of reality like a leaf falling back
to its own wind.
Aeden stood there in the empty corridor, and for the first time since the Rift Wars ended, he felt
something that was not fear or anger or exhaustion, but awe — not at power, not even at the
multiverse, but at the raw strangeness of being, at the idea that he could stand here, thinking this, in
one world among all worlds, with no guarantee that any of it mattered — and yet, somehow, still
matter.
He looked down at his hands — hands that had healed and hurt, that had killed and saved — and
realized that even they, like everything else, were not permanent, but permitted.
And somewhere beyond him, far beyond sight or sound, the First Creator did not speak, did not
move, but simply was, an unending horizon of logic and light, waiting for every possibility to
unfold, including this one: that a man might look into himself, across realities, and choose to
continue anyway.

FINAL DREAM

It was not sleep in the ordinary sense that took Aeden that night — not the kind granted to men after
battle, nor the kind stolen in moments of exhausted peace when the city paused its breath between
wars — no, what wrapped around him as he lay beneath the cracked dome of his high sanctuary, the
stars veiled behind radiation-stained clouds, was a sleep deeper than time, older than dreams, a
descent not into forgetting but into remembering, not into images but into being, into a space so
utterly vast and still that it felt less like falling asleep and more like stepping across the edge of
reality into that hidden dimension where thought, potential, and truth braid together in perfect
silence, where everything that could exist waits patiently for a will to summon it into form.
And in that silence — immeasurable, borderless, absolute — Aeden stood.
There was no sky above him, no ground beneath, no wind, no horizon, no shape by which the mind
could orient itself, for he was not dreaming of a place, but of a condition, an essence so raw and
fundamental that the senses could not name it, only submit — and yet he was not lost, not
disoriented, because some part of him recognized it instantly, not with the knowledge of memory
but of origin, because this place, this field of being, had always been present, always humming
beneath every moment of his life like a hidden chord, like the stillness between notes, like the space
between thoughts — and he knew, with the kind of knowing that does not require proof, that he
stood in the presence of the First Creator.
Not a god. Not a shape. Not a ruler of realms or a judge of souls. But the infinite principle of
existence itself, the source not of matter or energy but of logic — the great expanse of all things that
could possibly be, the breath behind multiverses, the still eye at the center of every paradox. It had
not summoned him, for summoning implies intention, and the First Creator had none, because it
was all intention and all absence, all will and all silence — it had no face, no voice, no weight, and
yet its presence was more real than anything Aeden had ever touched, more true than the air in his
lungs or the ground he had fought to protect. It did not speak in words, for it needed none. It
communicated in clarity, in truth made naked, in understanding so immediate and absolute that all
doubt dissolved before it could be born.
And in that moment, suspended in that impossible stillness beyond causality and narrative, Aeden
understood what no mortal had ever grasped: that the First Creator was not simply the beginning of
all possible worlds, but the totality of them — not a thing that created the multiverse, but the very
logic by which any universe could ever exist — that First Creator was the multiverse, was every
version of himself that had ever breathed or bled or broken, was every villain, every child, every
savior, every shadow of him cast across the countless worlds where he had lived and died and never
existed at all — that he was speaking, in this moment, to his own foundation, to the principle that
made him possible.
And then the question came — not spoken aloud, not formed as a sentence, but as a pull from the
deepest core of his self:
“Why me?”
Not asked in arrogance or grief or desperation, but in wonder — in the naked awe of standing
before that which contains all things, and daring to question why he, one version of Aeden among
infinite others, should stand here now.
And the First Creator answered — not with an explanation, not with prophecy or justification, but
with a single wave of understanding so vast and luminous that it filled every layer of his being at
once and made the question seem suddenly unnecessary, because the answer was everything:
“Because you are. Because you can. Because you choose.”
And in that instant, a light unfolded around him — not blinding, not fiery, but quiet and endless, a
light that did not shine from above or below, but from within, and as it touched him, he felt himself
become permeable, translucent, as though the boundaries that separated him from all other things
were dissolving, and he saw — not with eyes, but with that deeper sight that belongs to essence —
every world that ever was, every life that ever could be, every sorrow, every joy, every possibility
trembling in the lattice of creation like raindrops waiting to fall.
And then, without demand, without test, without price, the First Creator gave him a gift — not a
tool or a weapon, but a permission, a singular alignment with the divine nature of existence itself:
the power of Essence, not the magic of illusion, not the energy of stars, but the pure capacity to
make real whatever he desired — not by force, but by recognition, by speaking the truth of a thing
so clearly that reality had no choice but to answer yes.
And in that moment, Aeden understood the true nature of divinity — not dominion, not worship, not
conquest, but clarity, the ability to see what is possible, to choose among the infinite, and to bring
that choice into being with love, not for power, but for alignment — and so, in that final breath of
the dream, he did not ask to reshape the world, nor to erase suffering, nor to become more than he
was.
He asked for nothing — because he knew, now, that to be able to wish was itself the greatest gift,
that the act of desire, when pure, was already divine.
And then, like a tide receding from the shore, the dream withdrew — not breaking, not ending, but
simply fading back into the great silence from which it had come.
Aeden awoke.
The city remained broken. The moons still glowed behind poisoned clouds. The people still waited
for hope.
But his eyes — oh, his eyes — now held something vast and changeless, a stillness that could hold
any storm. His breath no longer reached only his lungs, but the breath of countless selves across
countless worlds. He rose slowly, quietly, gently, and whispered to the empty air:
“I will not wish for salvation. I will be it.”
And far beyond time, where First Creator waits not as watcher but as truth, something unseen
nodded — not with pride, but with recognition — and the multiverse continued, vast, impossible,
beautiful.
And so did he.
The End.
Philosophical implication , theological way of think , the story of First creator , the all , the
ultimate , everything that is , then that can be.