Before the Age of Powers
In the beginning, there was only her.
Mother Nature—though she had no name then, for names implied distinction and there was nothing to distinguish her from—existed as the singular divine presence that shaped the world from formless void into living system. She was not born. She did not arrive. She simply was, had always been, would always be, woven into the fundamental fabric of existence itself like gravity or time.
The earth beneath human feet was her body. The air they breathed was her exhale. The water that sustained them flowed through channels she had carved with patient centuries of attention. Every green thing that pushed up through soil did so because she had touched that soil and made it fertile. Every animal that walked or flew or swam moved through ecosystems she had balanced with the precision of someone who understood that life was not chaos but intricate clockwork where every piece mattered.
The world she maintained was not large—not by the standards that would come later. Humanity numbered in the hundreds of thousands, not millions, scattered across three continents in settlements that rarely exceeded a thousand people. They lived in structures made from wood and stone and clay, materials she provided in abundance. They ate food grown in earth that yielded crops without complaint, hunted animals that reproduced at rates perfectly calculated to sustain both predator and prey populations.
There were no wars. Not because humans lacked the capacity for violence—Mother Nature had crafted them with all the complexity that implied, including the parts that could choose cruelty—but because scarcity didn't exist. When every settlement had enough food, enough water, enough space, the primary drivers of conflict simply never emerged. Disputes occurred, certainly. Arguments over boundaries or partnerships or the thousand small frictions that came from different people wanting different things. But disputes resolved themselves through conversation and compromise because there was no existential pressure forcing escalation.
She walked among them in those days. Not frequently—her attention was required elsewhere, maintaining the delicate balance of seasonal patterns and weather systems and the invisible chemistry that kept soil rich and water clean. But when she did manifest in form they could perceive, she appeared as a woman whose age was impossible to determine. Sometimes young, sometimes old, sometimes both simultaneously depending on the angle of observation. Her skin carried tones of every human ethnic variation, shifting like light through water. Her hair was sometimes black as volcanic stone, sometimes white as mountain snow, sometimes green as new leaves or brown as fertile earth.
She spoke to them rarely. Words felt unnecessary when she could communicate through more direct means—the sudden abundance of fruit trees near a hungry village, the clearing of storm clouds before they could damage crops, the guidance of animal herds toward hunters who needed them. Her love was expressed through action, through the careful maintenance of a world that provided for its inhabitants without demanding anything in return except that they continue existing.
The humans called her Mother. It was the first name they gave her, and it was accurate. She had not birthed them—they had evolved through natural processes she had set in motion millions of years before they developed consciousness—but she had nurtured them, protected them, shaped their environment into something that allowed not just survival but flourishing.
This was the world as it existed for twenty-three thousand years. Perfect equilibrium. Sustainable peace. Life continuing in cycles that repeated with minor variations but no fundamental disruptions.
Then they arrived.
Mother Nature felt them before she saw them—a distortion in the fabric of existence, seven points of concentrated power that pressed against reality like fingers pushing through cloth. They entered the world not through birth or gradual manifestation but through direct insertion, appearing in seven different locations simultaneously as if they had simply decided that here, now, was where they would begin existing.
They called themselves the Supreme Gods.
She found them within days of their arrival, drawn to the disturbance their presence created in her carefully maintained systems. They had gathered in the northern continent, in a valley she had shaped specifically to support a particular species of migratory bird that required precise elevation and temperature conditions. The birds were gone now, driven away by the seven beings who occupied the valley floor in a loose circle.
They were beautiful. That was her first conscious thought upon seeing them with eyes rather than sensing them through the earth. Beautiful in the way that perfect geometric forms were beautiful—aesthetically flawless but lacking the organic irregularity that made living things compelling. Each one appeared humanoid but wrong, proportions too precise, skin reflecting light at angles that suggested surfaces more solid than flesh should be.
One of them—the tallest, whose form seemed constructed from condensed flame that never quite solidified—stepped forward as she approached. When he spoke, his voice carried harmonics that suggested multiple tones layered together in perfect mathematical ratios.
"Mother Nature." He spoke her title as if he'd known it for years rather than learning it moments ago. "We come seeking partnership."
She stopped ten meters from their circle. Around her feet, grass grew with accelerated intensity, responding to her presence by reaching toward her like children seeking reassurance. "Partnership," she repeated. The word felt strange in her mouth. She had never partnered with anything. She simply was, and the world responded.
"We are the Supreme Gods," the flame-being continued. "We have traveled through void and chaos to reach this world. We seek to make it our domain, to shape it according to principles of order and structure that will elevate it beyond its current state." He gestured at the landscape around them—the rolling hills, the forests, the distant mountains. "Your maintenance is admirable. Functional. But limited by singular perspective. With our combined divine authority, we could transform this world into something magnificent."
Another voice joined his—this one from a figure who seemed made from crystallized ice, her form refracting light into rainbow patterns. "We propose shared governance. Eight divine beings working in concert, each contributing our unique domains. Fire, water, earth, air, light, darkness, order, and chaos." She gestured at Mother Nature. "You would retain your role as sustainer, but benefit from our additions to the system."
Mother Nature considered this. She had never conceived of the world requiring additions. The systems she'd built were complete, balanced, functioning exactly as intended. Adding new elements—especially elements with their own consciousness and agendas—would introduce variables she couldn't control. Would create instabilities that could cascade into failures.
"No." She kept her tone neutral, matter-of-fact. "I decline your partnership. The world functions optimally as it is."
The silence that followed was profound. Seven beings who had introduced themselves as gods, who had crossed vast cosmic distances to reach this world, had just been rejected by its sole custodian.
The flame-being's expression didn't change, but Mother Nature felt the temperature around them increase by three degrees. "You decline."
"Yes."
"May we ask why?"
"The systems are balanced. Additional divine presence would disrupt equilibrium. The result would be instability, suffering, death on scales that currently don't exist here." She spoke with the certainty of someone who had spent twenty-three thousand years understanding exactly how her world functioned. "I appreciate your interest, but your presence is not required."
Another pause. Then the ice-being spoke again, her voice carrying careful diplomacy. "We understand your concern. However, we do not require governance to remain present. We simply ask to exist here, to observe, to experience this world you have created. Surely you would not deny us that?"
Mother Nature considered. They were asking permission to stay, not to rule. That was different. Less threatening. And looking at them—seven beings of obvious power who had somehow crossed the void between worlds—she felt something she hadn't experienced before. Curiosity. They were different from anything she had created. Different from her. Their existence suggested larger realities beyond her world, cosmologies she had never considered.
"You may stay," she said finally. "As observers. As guests. Not as rulers."
The flame-being bowed—a gesture of respect that felt rehearsed rather than genuine. "We accept your generous hospitality, Mother Nature. We will not forget this kindness."
They dispersed after that, the seven Supreme Gods spreading across the three continents to establish what they called "domains of observation." Mother Nature returned to her work, maintaining the cycles and systems that kept her world functioning. For three years, nothing changed. The Supreme Gods kept to themselves, rarely interacting with human populations, making no attempts to alter the careful balance she had established.
She should have known better.
The first sign came from the eastern continent, where settlements that had coexisted peacefully for generations suddenly erupted into boundary disputes. A village claimed that their neighbors had stolen water from a shared river. The neighbors denied it, claimed the accusers were actually the thieves. The argument escalated from words to violence in the space of a week—the first blood deliberately spilled between humans in living memory.
Mother Nature arrived to find twelve dead, dozens wounded, and both villages fortifying their borders against further attack. She tried to mediate, tried to restore the understanding that had existed before. But something had changed in how the humans perceived each other. Where before they had seen neighbors, now they saw threats. Where before they had trusted, now they suspected.
She traced the source of the conflict back through conversations and discovered whispers—rumors that had spread through both villages in the weeks before violence erupted. Rumors about water theft, about boundary violations, about insults and slights that may or may not have actually occurred. And at the origin of many of these rumors, if she traced back far enough, she found the same source.
One of the Supreme Gods. The one who appeared as concentrated darkness, who moved through shadows and left no physical trace.
She confronted him in a forest north of the affected settlements. He manifested from the space between trees, his form rippling like smoke.
"Did you cause this?" She kept her voice level, but the ground beneath them trembled slightly. "The conflict between the villages?"
The darkness-being tilted his head—a gesture that might have been curiosity or amusement. "Cause? No. We simply revealed existing tensions. Humans have always possessed capacity for violence—you know this. We merely demonstrated that capacity through strategic information dispersal."
"They were at peace."
"They were stagnant. Peace without challenge produces no growth, no advancement. Conflict drives innovation, adaptation, evolution." The being's voice carried no malice, just intellectual detachment. "We are doing them a favor."
Mother Nature felt something cold settle in her chest—not fear, but recognition. The Supreme Gods had lied. They had no intention of remaining passive observers. They wanted to shape the world, and they had begun doing so the moment she had permitted them to stay.
Over the next two years, conflicts spread like infection through previously peaceful populations. Villages that had traded amicably for generations suddenly discovered reasons to distrust each other. Settlements that had shared resources began hoarding them. Arguments that should have resolved through dialogue instead escalated to violence.
And in the midst of this growing chaos, the Supreme Gods introduced something new.
They called it Uncos.
The first human to manifest the power was a young woman in the southern continent named Aria. She had lost her family to a raid by a neighboring settlement—a raid that had been orchestrated through whispered rumors and manufactured grievances, though Aria didn't know that. What she knew was grief and rage and the desire to protect what remained of her community.
The Supreme God of fire found her in that moment of extremity and offered her power.
When Aria accepted, something fundamental changed in her physiology. Mother Nature felt it from three thousand kilometers away—a distortion in the natural order, human biology being rewritten to channel forces it had never been designed to contain. Aria's emotional state, her rage and grief, became fuel. The fire Uncos manifested through her hands, turning her into a weapon capable of incinerating anyone who threatened her village.
Within weeks, others began manifesting Uncos powers. Always in moments of extremity. Always linked to emotional intensity. Always granted by one of the Supreme Gods, though the recipients rarely understood the source. They believed the powers were gifts from the divine, blessings to help them survive in a world that was suddenly much more dangerous.
The Supreme Gods encouraged this belief. Encouraged the humans to pray, to worship, to see these new powers as evidence of divine favor rather than manipulation.
Mother Nature tried to intervene. Tried to show the humans what was happening, how they were being turned against each other by beings who saw them as experimental subjects rather than living people deserving protection. But her voice had always been subtle—expressed through abundance and care rather than dramatic displays. The Supreme Gods offered immediate, tangible power in the form of Uncos. They offered protection in a world they themselves had made dangerous.
Humans stopped listening to her. Stopped seeing her as mother and began seeing her as irrelevant.
She felt it like physical wounds—the severing of connections she had maintained for twenty-three thousand years. Every prayer redirected to the Supreme Gods was a cut. Every human who accepted Uncos power was a betrayal. Not of her personally, but of the world she had built for them. They were choosing violence and power over peace and sufficiency, and they were doing so because the Supreme Gods had systematically destroyed every alternative.
Mother Nature tried to restore balance. Tried to heal the damage, to rebuild the systems that were collapsing under the weight of human conflict. But the scale of destruction was overwhelming. Wars erupted across all three continents. Humans with Uncos powers clashed in battles that reshaped geography, that burned forests she had spent centuries cultivating, that poisoned rivers she had carefully balanced, that drove species to extinction in months rather than the millennia such processes should require.
She was dying. Not in the way humans died—her existence was too fundamental to simply cease. But her connection to the world was fraying. Every destroyed forest was a piece of her awareness going dark. Every poisoned river was pain she couldn't block. Every extinct species was a failure she felt personally.
The earth itself was dying with her. The green that had covered the continents turned brown and gray. Seasons became erratic as the careful patterns she'd maintained fell apart without her constant attention. The sky itself changed color, pollution from human warfare mixing with disrupted weather systems to create atmospheric conditions that had never existed before.
And through it all, the Supreme Gods watched with satisfaction. They had done what they set out to do—demonstrated that their systems of power and hierarchy produced more interesting results than Mother Nature's systems of balance and care. The fact that those results included mass death and ecological collapse was irrelevant. What mattered was that humans now looked to them for guidance, for power, for salvation from problems the Supreme Gods themselves had created.
Mother Nature understood, finally, that she had lost. Not through direct confrontation—the Supreme Gods had been careful to never attack her directly, to maintain the fiction that they were simply offering humans choices. But through systematic manipulation, they had turned her world against her. Had transformed paradise into hell and convinced the inhabitants that this was progress.
She left without announcement. Didn't explain her departure to the humans or confront the Supreme Gods one final time. She simply withdrew her presence, allowed her consciousness to drift away from the world she had spent eternity maintaining.
Within days, the consequences became catastrophic. Systems that had functioned automatically for millennia began failing. Crops withered in fields that had always produced abundance. Water sources dried up or became toxic. Weather patterns collapsed entirely, creating droughts in regions that had never known them and floods in areas that had been reliably dry.
The humans cursed her. Called her abandonment betrayal. Claimed she had never truly cared for them if she could leave when they needed her most. They didn't understand—couldn't understand—that they had killed her slowly through rejection, that every prayer to the Supreme Gods had been a wound she couldn't heal, that she had stayed as long as she could bear before the pain became too absolute to endure.
The Supreme Gods stepped into the void she left behind. Offered themselves as replacement, as the new divine authority that would maintain order and structure. The humans, desperate and afraid in a world that was suddenly hostile, accepted immediately. Elevated the Supreme Gods from visitors to rulers, from observers to absolute authorities.
This was how the Age of Powers began.
Mother Nature's world—carefully balanced, sustainably maintained, designed for peace—transformed into something else entirely. A world where power determined survival, where Uncos abilities became the defining characteristic of human worth, where the Supreme Gods sat on thrones in a place they called Zenith Thronos and governed through systems of hierarchy and control.
The humans forgot her eventually. Not immediately—for a few generations, there were stories about the time before the Supreme Gods, about a mother who had cared for them. But stories fade. Become myth. Become irrelevant as new generations are born into the world as it is rather than how it was.
Within five hundred years, Mother Nature existed only in the most ancient texts, and even those described her as a primitive concept from before humans understood true divinity. The Supreme Gods had rewritten history as thoroughly as they had rewritten the world itself.
And in the ruins of paradise, humanity learned to survive through power and violence, never knowing they had once lived in a world where neither was necessary.