In the West, creation begins with division. Light against darkness, heaven above earth—order carved from the corpse of chaos.
But in the East, before the first dawn, there was no division at all.There was only Hun Dun.
He had no face, no voice, no boundary. He drifted through the endless dark like a heartbeat that had not yet learned to sound. Where he moved, time thickened; where he paused, the stars forgot to shine. To those who later called themselves gods, he was neither friend nor foe—merely presence itself, the dream before waking.
Two spirits came to him one day: the Lords of the South and North. They saw Hun Dun and pitied his stillness. "He is lonely," they said. "He cannot see the beauty of what will be."So they sought to help him. On the first day, they opened holes for eyes, that he might see. On the second, ears, that he might hear. And so they continued—nose, mouth, and seven orifices to make him whole.
But when the seventh was opened, Hun Dun trembled. The void within him began to unravel. Light spilled out from the wound, followed by shadow, wind, and sound. The two spirits stepped back, awestruck, as Hun Dun's formless body broke apart.
He was dying—and being born. His last breath became the heavens. His silence hardened into earth. His pulse scattered into stars.
And when all was done, the gods looked upon the world and wept. They had given chaos a face—and in doing so, had destroyed the only being that needed none.
So they say: before creation came compassion, and from compassion came ruin. And somewhere, beneath the patterns of order, Hun Dun still sleeps—faceless, waiting for the day when the world grows tired of names.