The blue flame burned in the center of the Tribunal chamber, a fire older than stars, unlit by hand, unextinguished by time. The twelve bowed low. From the far shadow, the Old One stepped forward towering, skin etched with constellations that shifted like living maps, his eyes burning with the weight of galaxies. His voice was not heard, but felt — in the spine, in the blood, in the silence between heartbeats. He placed his hand into the flame. The fire shifted. And the truth returned.
Before beginnings. Before matter. Before the thought of time… he existed. There was no image, only a pulse, a vibration, a heartbeat felt across nonexistence. He was not born. He did not arrive. He simply was. No name. No face. Because there was nothing yet to name or reflect him. But within him, everything slept. And from that silence… came sound. Not thunder. Not music. A single vibration so divine it cracked the void. From that crack, existence spilled.
Galaxies spiraled into being. Worlds bloomed like frozen fire. And from the shaping of reality came the first gods — thousands, each given dominion over the pillars of all things: Time, Life, Death, Emotion, Dreams. But they bowed to one. Not a ruler, but their source. Their father. The one they called The Breath Before Breath.
Yet even light casts shadow. The more he created, the more reflections of him formed — unstable, hungry, twisted. Born not of design but of reaction. They would not serve. They would rule. And so began a war no scripture survived. Planets were turned into weapons. Time was ripped apart and stitched backward. The voices of gods screamed across burning dimensions.
He fought alone. Not to defend a throne, but to stop the extinction of everything. He did not wield rage. He wielded truth. He whispered his name and stars collapsed beneath the weight of it. He blinked, and time begged to reset. He lifted his hand, and gods fell without wound — only understanding. To stand against him was to realize you were only a flicker, and he was the fire.
But when the last echo of battle faded, he did not stand in triumph. He stood in grief. Not for those who sought to destroy him, but for the innocents erased in the storm. He saw what power, even in the name of balance, had done. And for the first time, he wished. Let me leave.
He found a place untouched by war — a blue pearl drifting in the dark. He shaped it. Seas. Skies. Winds. Whispers. And then he spoke again: Here, I will return — not as god, but as man. Erase me. Erase my memory. Let me be born as nothing, so I may learn what love truly means. But if the darkness rises again… let the spark within me wake. And with that, he vanished.
The chamber returned. The flames died. Only the Old One's voice remained. "You call him MRD. You watched him rise. You watched him fall. You watched him rise again. But hear me — he is not myth, not savior, not even your god. He is the architect of all that you fear and all that you pray to. He chose silence. You woke the storm."
He turned, gaze burning through the souls of the Tribunal. "You should not fear his anger. You should fear his memory. Because if he remembers… everything ends."