The Vance manor stood like a colossus of stone and glass, a silent testament to the family's immense wealth. Richard and Eleanor Vance, the patriarch and matriarch, were respected figures in the business world—but more than that, they were loving parents. Their youngest child, Ethan, born in 1970, was the light of their lives, a curious boy with bright eyes and a contagious laugh. He was the darling of the family, the prodigy child—and that, his two older siblings, Marcus and Jessica, could not bear.
Marcus, the eldest, was a young man of towering ambition, consumed with jealousy over the attention his parents lavished on Ethan. Jessica, his sister, was a natural manipulator whose cruelty hid behind an angelic smile. From Ethan's earliest years, their envy had curdled into a quiet hatred, which soon became daily abuse—subtle, brutal, and hidden from their parents' watchful eyes.
Ethan was seven when things began to truly escalate. What started as small shoves turned into blows, teasing became public humiliation. His parents, blinded by love and the carefully maintained façade of their eldest children, saw nothing. Or perhaps they chose not to see.
One autumn afternoon, as russet leaves danced in the meticulously kept garden, Ethan was in his room, reading a book about constellations. He loved space—the idea of other worlds, other possibilities. The door burst open, revealing the threatening silhouettes of Marcus, twelve, and Jessica, ten.
"Well, well, the little bookworm," Marcus sneered, a mocking grin stretching across his thin lips. "Still hiding in your baby books?"
Jessica stepped forward, her blue eyes gleaming with cold mischief. "Mom and Dad are out. We've got all the time in the world to play, don't we, Marcus?"
Ethan's heart sank. He knew what that meant. Every time their parents were gone, the manor became his prison.
"Leave me alone," Ethan murmured, his voice trembling. He tried to hide behind his desk, but Marcus grabbed him by the collar.
"You think we'll just leave you be?" Marcus growled, throwing him to the floor. "You steal everything from us! Dad's attention, the gifts—everything!"
Jessica knelt beside him, her smile cruel. "We're just giving you a little lesson. So you remember who the real eldest are."
The beating began. Kicks, slaps, pinches. Ethan curled into himself, shielding his head with his arms, tears streaking his cheeks. He didn't scream anymore—he'd learned screaming only made it worse. He simply whimpered, endured, waited for it to end.
But that day was different. Marcus and Jessica's rage had reached a new height. They struck him with terrifying violence, each blow leaving him gasping, pain echoing through his bones. A particularly hard hit to the temple made his vision spin. The world around him blurred and tilted.
"He's faking it," Jessica's voice said faintly.
"No—look," Marcus replied, a hint of worry breaking through. "He's not moving."
The last sound Ethan heard was their panicked footsteps fading into the distance. Then silence. Deep, absolute silence. The coldness of the floor beneath his cheek. The scent of blood and fear. And finally—nothing.
Nothingness. That was the first thing Ethan became aware of. No pain, no cold, no sound. Just an infinite void—a black canvas dotted with distant lights that weren't stars, but shimmering specks like miniature galaxies. He had no body, no form—only a consciousness drifting through this vastness.
"Where am I?" he thought—and the thought echoed, not through the air, but through the very fabric of the void.
He tried to move—and he did. Not with muscles, but with will. He stretched, expanded, and the lights around him began to dance, forming spirals and fleeting constellations.
"I'm… dead?" The thought was more realization than question. He remembered the pain, the blows, the silence. His siblings had left him for dead. The memory brought a wave of sadness—then a chilling anger.
As he focused on that anger, the points of light around him grew brighter, shifting to hues of red and orange, like distant flames. He felt a surge of energy within—a raw, boundless force.
"I'm not dead," he realized, his voice now not just a thought but a whisper that resonated in the emptiness. "I am… something else."
He closed what might have been his eyes, focusing on the energy. He felt it coursing through him, merging with him, becoming him. He was energy. He was the void. He was everything and nothing at once.
When he opened his eyes again, he had a form. A human form—a young man in his twenties, with black hair and eyes so deep and blue they seemed to hold entire galaxies. He wore a simple robe of dark silk, though he knew he could change it, make it vanish, transform it into armor if he wished.
He raised a hand and traced a line in the void. The line glowed, shimmered, then became a thread of pure gold. He pulled it, twisted it—and the thread transformed into a glowing sphere, pulsing with gentle warmth.
"Creation," he whispered, struck by a sudden revelation. He could control creation.
He thought of a flower—a simple red rose. And before him, it bloomed: perfect velvet petals, its fragrance filling the air that didn't yet exist. He touched it. It was real.
He laughed. A pure, joyful laugh—the kind he hadn't dared let escape in years. He was free. Free of pain, of fear, of his tormentors.
He remembered the fairy tales his mother used to read to him—the legends of dragons and phoenixes. He imagined a sky, a sun, clouds. Slowly, the void began to transform. Shades of blue and white appeared, merging into a celestial dome. A golden sun rose on the horizon, bathing it all in a soft light.
"This is my dimension," he declared, his voice ringing with new authority. "My kingdom."
He began to create. Majestic mountains rose from nothingness, their snow-capped peaks piercing the clouds. Rivers of crystal blue wound through lush valleys. Dense forests with ancient trees emerged, their leaves rustling under a breeze he had summoned.
He created life. Fairies with iridescent wings danced through the air, their crystalline laughter echoing around him. Majestic dragons with gleaming scales soared through the sky, breathing fire that did not burn but glowed. Phoenixes were reborn from ashes, spirits of nature watched over the woods. Fantastical creatures, born from the depths of his imagination, filled this new world. Unicorns with rainbow manes, golden-feathered griffins, water nymphs, forest sylvans.
He was the master of all. He could feel every blade of grass grow, every drop of water fall, every flutter of a fairy's wings. He could slow time, speed it up, freeze it. He could bend space, open portals to any point in his dimension. Gravity obeyed his whim. The elements—fire, water, earth, air—were his playthings. Magic, once something he thought fictional, was merely an extension of his will. And the void, the primordial nothingness from which he was born, was his ally—his source of infinite power.
He spent years—decades, perhaps even centuries—building and perfecting his world. Time had no meaning here. He learned to master every facet of his power, creating wonders that even gods could not imagine. He had become an entity of unimaginable power—a cosmic architect, a god within his own domain.
And yet, deep inside, a scar remained. The memory of pain, betrayal, abandonment. The coldness of his siblings. The blindness of his parents. That scar did not consume him—it strengthened him. It was a constant reminder of what he had lost… and what he would one day reclaim.
From his throne of light at the heart of his dimension, he often observed the distant echoes of the universe he came from. He watched galaxies spin, planets live and die. He saw Earth—small and blue—spinning on its axis. He knew that one day, he would return. Not to save it. Not to conquer it.
But to settle the score.
Time passed, and events on Earth accelerated—wars, innovations, upheavals. He felt waves of energy radiating from the planet, new forces awakening. He sensed the birth of heroes, the rise of threats. He waited.
He knew the day would come.
The day when his world and theirs would collide once more.
The day when he would finally confront the ghosts of his past.