...Darkness.
It was an absolute void. Not merely the absence of light, but a hollow abyss that swallowed time, space, and existence itself. Within this womb of nothingness, a consciousness slumbered, swathed in an eternal cocoon woven from the threads of ended histories.
One year. Ten years. A hundred.
To this entity, numbers held no meaning. Time was but a shallow stream that could not even dampen its feet.
Then, a tremor occurred.
Small. Subtle. Nearly imperceptible.
Like a grain of dust settling upon the surface of a lake that had remained frozen for thousands of years.
A pair of eyelids, sealed for ten millennia, stirred. The cosmic dust clinging to the lashes fell away, manifesting as tiny stars that flickered and died instantly within the gloom.
Thump.
A heart that had ceased to beat since the collapse of the last civilization pulsed once more. The shockwave rippled outward, fracturing the very fabric of reality. The absolute darkness recoiled, split asunder by a faint yet primordial golden light.
The entity opened its eyes.
Its pupils were whirlpools of newborn galaxies—cold and bottomless. Within them lay no emotion, no memory; only a void slowly filling with a nagging, irritating sense of foreignness.
"...Too long."
A voice echoed. It did not emerge from a throat but as a manifestation of will that vibrated through the foundations of existence. It sounded weary, heavy with the weight of uncounted eons, yet possessed an undeniable authority.
It attempted to move. Its body, which had fused with an ancient stone throne, felt stiff. The throne itself drifted above an endless sea of grey mist—a realm absent from any map of reality.
This was The Mist Palace, a sanctum that had slept alongside its master. And now, its gargantuan obsidian pillars began to glow with a dim radiance, hailing the return of their lord.
Sovereign. The Great Dreamer. The Ruler of Authority.
These titles drifted through its mind, feeling both alien and familiar. It tried to recall the reason for its slumber, but its memories were like shards of a shattered mirror scattered across a dark seabed. Only one thing remained: a pact yet unfulfilled.
Resting its chin upon its right hand, the entity gazed down at the sea of mist. Out there, in the mortal realm, civilizations had sprouted and withered like summer grass.
It flicked the fingers of its left hand.
SNAP.
The sound rang out like a death knell.
Tiny fragments of power broke away from its fingertips, plunging through the mist and hurtling toward the mortal world below. These shards did not take the form of mere energy, but of concepts—authorities seeking a vessel. They would manifest as whispering blades, soul-devouring tomes, or living beings possessed by the ambitions of gods.
They were the "seeds" of its curiosity.
"If this play proves tedious..." It leaned back against the throne, its gaze piercing through space and time, "...then I shall create the actors myself."
Upon the throne untouched by destiny, the Great One had awakened. And within that majestic stillness, it waited for the first voice brave enough to shatter the silence of its palace.