Part III - This One Begins with Nothing
The man named Isaiah Tuffin was gone. In his place was not a body, not a name, not a memory, but a consciousness adrift in a white so absolute it had no dimension. There was no up or down, no near or far. There was only the endless, silent, sterile white.
The silence was absolute, until it wasn't.
A new sound cut through the void, not an echo from his past, but a presence in his now. It was a voice, but it was also more than a voice. It was a sound with the weight of gravity, a voice that was not heard, but felt—a resonant, absolute authority that vibrated in the very essence of his being.
"Listen," it commanded. "That is the sound of your worshipers. Yet not one of them knows your heart."
The accusation was a physical force. My work was my heart, Isaiah argued back, his thought a sharp, defiant spear. I gave them meaning. I gave them order. I built worlds.
The Voice was unimpressed.
"You built monuments to your own ego and called it creation. The order you built was a cage. You were a necessary lesson. A lesson that is now complete."
I only wanted to create, Isaiah protested again, the argument now feeling hollow even to him.
"Then create again," The Voice replied, the invitation laced with the iron of a verdict. "But begin with humility."
Before the sentence could be carried out, a second voice intruded, sharp and precise, like shattering crystal.
the new voice chimed, its tone one of pure protocol.
The silence in the void was long enough for a flicker of something to spark within Isaiah. Hope. The familiar thrill of the hunt for a loophole.
But the crystalline entity's arguments dissolved into irrelevance. The Voice of gravity's focus turned, a vast and ancient lens swiveling to fixate solely on him. The judgment that followed was not for a court, but for the condemned.
"He had a lifetime of wishes. His entire existence was the ultimate boon: a life of boundless genius, limitless resources, and unquestioned authority. He squandered it all to build a perfect, sterile tomb. The protocol is for souls who have not already spent an eternity cashing in every asset the universe has to offer."
The voice paused, a silence heavier than a dying star, letting the weight of his squandered life settle over him.
"This one begins with nothing," the voice concluded, the words sealing his fate. "That is the lesson. That is the sentence."
It should have ended there. The verdict was absolute. But as the void began to destabilize, the Voice of gravity held him for one final moment. A new force gathered—not a sound, but a searing, focused heat.
"However," the Voice added, its tone shifting from judgment to a final, binding act. "You sought a flaw. An imperfection to break your sterile world. You will be given one. A permanent reminder of this judgment, a brand of your failure, sealed until it is earned. You will carry the spark of a creator, but it will be a fire that offers no warmth, only a constant, nagging heat to remind you of what you lost."
Then, it posed the question that would define everything that came next. A challenge thrown into the void not as a hope, but as a demand.
"What will you create?"
Before Isaiah could process the terrifying new terms, the heat condensed into a single point and struck him. It was not a physical pain, but a metaphysical searing, an imprint of a jagged flame pressed into the very core of his being. He felt it lock into place—a dormant, smoldering brand upon his soul.
The crystalline voice shattered, its objection now utterly moot. Isaiah was alone with his judge and his new, sealed wound. Nothing? The word was an insult. He was Isaiah Tuffin. He did not begin with nothing. He was everything. He marshaled the last of his will for one final, defiant roar
He never got the chance.
The Voice did not wait. The white void fractured, imploding into a single, searing point of failure. Gravity returned not as a force, but as an impact, seizing him, crushing him, and pulling him down, down, down.
He was dragged, funneled through a screaming symphony of color and sound. The infinite expanse became a constricting, narrow tunnel. The voice of cosmic judgment softened, rounded, its rhythm changing into something more primal, more insistent.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The Voice had become a heartbeat.
And with it, another presence. Not a god, not an echo, but a warmth. A will of iron wrapped around a core of terrified love. He could feel her life surrounding him—her exhaustion, her pain, her fierce, burning determination. She was the first tether to humanity he had felt in a lifetime, an anchor pulling him out of the cold void and into the messy, painful, glorious heat of existence.
The universe of white was gone, replaced by a crushing, warm darkness. All that remained was the heartbeat, the pressure, and a final, all-encompassing command that was not a memory of the Voice, but the first law of this new reality.
The silence shattered.
The final, desperate logic of the seventy-eight-year-old Titan, the entire system of his knowledge, rage, and ambition, detonated into a single, agonizing sound. It was the purest form of protest and terror.
A scream.
Pressure became a vise. Light became a searing, blinding pain. Warmth became a shocking, burning cold. And the heartbeat became a symphony of agony and effort that was not his own, but was now inextricably bound to him.
And with that cry, the god became flesh.