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In a realm untouched by time, outside the limitations of creation, reality, and even imagination itself, there existed a place older than the multiverse, beyond the reach of gods, titans, or mortals. A dimension known to only a few as the Plane of Knowledge.
It was not a place that could be reached, seen, or even comprehended. It simply was.
Floating in the center of this infinite plane was a colossal pedestal made of Eternium—the condensed and purified essence of a long-dead multiverse. Shimmering with iridescent hues that defied physical law, the pedestal radiated stability and age, older than existence itself. Upon this sacred platform rested The Book of Knowledge.
The book was no ordinary tome. It was alive. Its pages fluttered with winds that never blew, its spine pulsed with a heartbeat that echoed the rhythm of existence. Bound in material no god could identify, and inscribed with ever-shifting runes, it contained everything. Every thought ever spoken, every secret never shared. Every spell invented and forgotten. Every war, every peace, every betrayal, every love.
It was the script of All That Is and Will Ever Be.
Every god's birth, every mortal's fate, every decision that splintered into another reality—all of it—was recorded within. Timelines danced across its pages like rivers, forming a web so intricate even the stars could not decipher it. Books orbited the central tome, lesser volumes that spun lazily in the void, each representing a narrative of a specific being, realm, or era.
And yet, for all its omniscience, there were exceptions.
There were blank spaces.
There were questions it could not answer.
And it feared them.
A ripple moved across the Plane of Knowledge. Not a tremor of violence or intrusion—but of attention. The Book of Knowledge stirred, sensing a whisper, a thought directed its way.
It opened, pages flipping with soundless intensity, faster than light, faster than time. Searching. Seeking.
And then it halted.
A page opened.
The page was labeled: The Primordials.
It sought to read about them—those who came before the gods. Those who were not born of creation, but whose very breath birthed creation. The siblings who had no names, for names could not bind them. The ones whose essence existed before the concept of existence.
The Book attempted to reveal the true name of the one who now walks creation cloaked in mortality—the Supreme Being, the one who once shaped stars with a thought and danced between realities.
But when it tried to write his name, the ink evaporated.
The page shimmered.
And then—
Blank.
The name could not be written.
Even the Book—the Book—could not contain it.
It was as if the name was an idea so fundamental and vast that the mere attempt to document it would undo the book itself.
The Book tried again.
It searched for his origin, for his end, for his path.
And all it saw was light—a brilliance so vast and overwhelming, it surpassed the birth of stars, the forming of galaxies. A shimmer, infinite and absolute. It blinded even the omniscient eye.
The Book trembled.
For the first time, it hesitated.
Then came the next entry.
It dared to open the page marked: The Outer Beings.
One name stood out among them.
Vorath.
It read the titles:
The Unnamed One.
Defiler of Narratives.
Warden of Chaos.
The Corruption Beyond Understanding.
The One Who Burned Creation to Ash.
Each name was like a curse, each title echoing with madness. The page began to change. It darkened. Not metaphorically, but literally—the letters bled black. The paper twisted and cracked. Reality itself shuddered in that realm.
And then, the unthinkable happened.
The page was torn.
A jagged scar, blackened and pulsing with rot, appeared on the edge of the page. Knowledge—perfect, infinite, absolute—was violated.
The Book screamed. Not a sound. A feeling. A ripple that passed through the Plane of Knowledge and beyond, brushing against the edges of existence. Countless minds across dimensions shattered. Realities collapsed, unable to comprehend the corruption.
The floating books circling the plane trembled and halted in place, pages rustling as though afraid.
The Keepers—beings of pure conceptual energy assigned to maintain and protect the Book—appeared around the tome. Their forms were ever-changing, voices layered and harmonic.
They looked upon the corruption.
And for the first time since their birth, they feared.
This knowledge was never meant to be.
This name—this thing—was a plague, an echo of the dark before even nothing existed.
And so, the Book did something it had not done since the first spark of time ignited.
It closed.
A soundless thud that rippled through creation.
The lesser books froze. The Pedestal dimmed. The Plane of Knowledge—normally an ever-living construct of motion and narrative—went still.
Time itself paused within the realm.
And then...
...a whisper.
A faint echo, not of malice, but of curiosity. From the heart of the Book itself.
"He has returned."
The Keepers turned toward the sound, their forms shifting into something reverent. On a distant path that spiraled infinitely, a glow—warm, immense, and blinding—approached.
The Supreme Being's presence, cloaked in mortality but saturated with ancient divinity, gently touched the realm.
The Book fluttered open ever so slightly.
It remembered.
But it could not record him.
Not yet.
He was still becoming.
Still choosing.
But one day, his story would be told. And when that day came, even the Book of Knowledge would tremble again, not from fear...
...but from reverence.
Far away, in the world of the living, in a realm that the Supreme Being now called his temporary home, the girls trained. They laughed, they fought, they grew stronger. Unaware of the cosmic tremors their beloved's presence had caused. Unaware that their story, too, floated in the Plane of Knowledge, pages still unwritten.
But the Book waited.
The narrative of the Supreme Being and his companions was not over.
In fact, it had only just begun.
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