The cosmos fractured under the weight of divine fury.
Titanic beings, older than time itself and larger than worlds, collided in a cataclysm of unimaginable power. Galaxies trembled. Flames erupted like newborn suns. Stars were swallowed, twisted into darkness, then reborn in torrents of light. Space and time themselves groaned under the force of their blows, as if reality were nothing more than fragile glass under their hands.
At the center of this chaos stood a figure cloaked in silver lightning. Arcs of raw energy danced across his body, weaving patterns that shimmered like storms given form. His eyes blazed like twin hurricanes, fierce and endless, and his voice rolled across the void, carrying the resonance of collapsing universes. Wherever he moved, oceans recoiled from their shores, shadows disintegrated into nothingness, and fire itself bowed before him. He was the Ancient Wielder of Primordial Lightning.
"Enough!" His roar split the fabric of the cosmos, drowning the clashing of elements, the screaming of collapsing planets, and the grinding of time itself.
Yet the Primordials did not falter. Flames surged like rivers of molten metal to meet him. Swords of darkness twisted through the void, seeking to pierce him. Even space and time contorted, folding over themselves in a desperate attempt to restrain him. They were his kin—his brothers and sisters—but now fear and envy had turned them against him. Could they truly defeat the one whose power now rivaled creation itself?
"You cannot control that power," said the Primordial of Flame, her molten form flickering with determination and fear. Sparks flew as her words cut through the roaring chaos.
"It would consume you," whispered the Primordial of Darkness, voice icy and precise, each syllable carrying weight even across the vacuum.
The Wielder of Lightning laughed, a sound that rolled across galaxies, shaking the foundations of stars still forming light-years away.
"Why are you laughing, Primordial?" demanded the Primordial of Ice, her crystalline form gleaming, the chill of her fury biting through the void.
"Lightning is not meant to be controlled," the Wielder of Lightning answered, arcs of silver energy dancing wildly around him. "It is meant to become. To destroy… and then create again. That is the power of lightning—the first dawn of the universe. Do you think even time itself can cage it?"
The battle escalated beyond comprehension. Comets exploded like fireworks, nebulae were scorched into new colors, and black holes twisted violently as the shockwaves of their powers rippled through reality. The Primordials hurled their might with precision and desperation: flaming meteor storms, blades of darkness slicing across dimensions, waves of ice that could freeze stars in their tracks. Yet the Wielder of Lightning absorbed and deflected every attack, his silver energy weaving and cracking the very rules of physics.
"We cannot defeat him," said the Primordial of Time, her voice heavy with sorrow. She watched centuries collapse into mere moments, universes forming and unforming at a pace her mind could barely comprehend.
"Then we bind him," whispered the Primordial of Light, her eyes glowing with the anguish of impossible choice. "Let there never be the sound of thunder again." Shockwaves of disbelief ran through the others. They knew the weight of this act: to bind him would cost them their divine forms—the very essence of their existence.
Trembling, the Primordials sacrificed themselves. Their bodies faded into streams of light, fire, shadow, and frozen essence, woven into sacred sigils that wrapped around the Wielder of Lightning. Their divine blood became chains of unyielding power, forged from millennia of creation and destruction.
"No! We are brothers! I would never harm the universe!" the Wielder of Lightning cried, arcs of silver lightning flaring violently. He struck the sigils, sending shockwaves of energy that shattered nearby galaxies. But it was too late.
Lightning scattered. His core was lost in the flow of time. His thunder silenced. The universe trembled in the sudden, eerie stillness.
From the ashes of this cosmic battle, a prophecy was born. It whispered itself across the void, carried on the winds of dying stars and the tremors of fledgling worlds:
> When storm clouds darken the sky, and the sound of thunder rises louder than the cries of all the races combined, know that he has returned—the one who will either destroy or protect the universe: THE WIELDER OF THE PRIMORDIAL LIGHTNING OF THE ANCIENTS.
And somewhere, beyond the reaches of known reality, the stars themselves paused, holding their breath, waiting for the storm to return.