The wind was calm. It swept through the endless heights, whispering across the cliffs as if carrying the voices of forgotten gods.
A figure sat upon a flat stone, legs crossed, back straight, unmoving as though carved from the air itself. His hair was long — the color of the deepest ocean — gently swaying with the rhythm of the world. But his face… there was none. No eyes. No mouth. No expression. Merely a smooth surface, pale and formless, like the calm before existence itself.
This was The Creator.
He sat in complete stillness, lost within the layers of his own consciousness. For an unknown length of time, he had been here — in meditation, in thought, or perhaps, in waiting.
The air around him pulsed faintly with light. Blue ripples shimmered outward from where he sat, touching the grass and turning it luminous — radiant blue at first, then slowly fading into green the farther it stretched. The energy that flowed through this world was his own — a reflection of his being.
When he finally stirred, it was not from fear or curiosity, but from a quiet realization.
His faceless head lifted slightly, sensing the change in balance — something had shifted in the threads of reality itself.
The Creator rose to his feet, turning his gaze — or what should have been his gaze — toward the horizon.
The sight before him was unlike any world known to man.
A vast ocean glimmered beside the cliff, its surface crystalline and unnaturally bright, glowing like liquid sapphire. The waves did not crash nor roar; they moved in silence, undisturbed, like glass reflecting infinity. Above it all, the sky shimmered with all seven hues of the rainbow, woven together in slow motion, like the heavens themselves were alive and dreaming.
The Creator breathed slowly. His sigh was soft, but it echoed like thunder across the abyss.
Behind him stood an enormous tree — ancient, ageless, its bark etched with marks of time itself. Its trunk glowed faintly with a hue between silver and blue, and from its roots, faint streams of light seeped into the soil, spreading life across the mountain.
Around it grew several smaller trees, each vibrant and full of color, but they all seemed to bow toward the great one — as if acknowledging its divine origin.
Every leaf, every blade of grass here shimmered with an impossible clarity, as though this world had been freshly born — untainted by time, untouched by corruption.
The Creator stood still for a moment longer. The wind curled around him, whispering secrets of creation, of ruin, of everything between. Then, in a voice calm and distant, he spoke.
"It's time to search for Lensin… and Sentrie."
His words hung in the air, and the world seemed to listen.
When he began to walk, the ground responded.
Each step sent a ripple of blue light across the grass, restoring the earth beneath his feet, mending the faint cracks of time that lingered unseen.
As he passed the ancient tree, he paused briefly, placing his hand — a hand both human and not — upon its surface. The tree responded with a faint hum, its branches trembling as though greeting an old friend.
He could sense it — the essence of something ancient slumbering within the tree.
The echoes of forgotten guardians.
The fragments of creation itself.
He closed his invisible eyes and listened.
For a heartbeat, he could hear it — the pulse of this realm, the rhythm of existence.
It was faint, but constant, like a sleeping heart still beating in the void.
He lowered his hand.
"Still waiting… even after all this time."
His tone carried neither sadness nor warmth — only recognition.
Then, without looking back, he began to descend the mountain path.
The path was long, narrow, and winding, bordered by stones covered in glowing moss. The deeper he went, the darker the light became — blue fading into violet, violet into black. The air grew heavy, filled with the scent of earth and silence.
He felt no fear.
As he walked, strange presences stirred within the forest below — whispers of creatures unseen, ancient beings that once served him perhaps, or remnants of what his hands had made long ago. They watched from behind the trees, unseen yet aware, their forms shifting like shadows in the mist.
But The Creator paid them no heed.
His steps remained steady, unhurried, as though time itself bent to his pace.
The forest thickened, shadows gathering between the luminous trees. In the distance, faintly glowing eyes opened one by one — red, gold, blue — like stars appearing in a dark sky.
And still, he walked.
Every now and then, he would pass a ruin — fragments of something once divine. A half-broken pillar inscribed with runes that hummed softly when he neared. A pool of liquid light that reflected not his image, but countless others — faces of forgotten deities, perhaps, or reflections of his own past selves.
He paused at one such ruin, glancing down at the shimmering water.
For a moment, an image flickered — a face not his, but resembling him in form.
Golden eyes. White hair.
A faint smile that felt distant, familiar.
"Sentrie…"
The name left his lips like a memory surfacing after eternity.
He turned his gaze to the forest beyond the reflection. His senses stretched outward, touching the threads of the world. Somewhere, faintly, he could feel Lensin's essence — the echo of monstrous strength, hidden beneath the layers of reality.
It was enough to stir something within him.
He straightened his posture, letting the power within his being flow once again. The blue aura that surrounded him pulsed stronger, reaching out to the forest, the sea, and even the sky.
The entire realm seemed to breathe in response.
Leaves rustled though there was no wind.
The ocean shimmered brighter.
Even the ancient tree behind him glowed once more, its light resonating with his presence.
For the first time since awakening, The Creator felt something close to emotion — not joy, nor sorrow, but purpose.
He began to move again, the world bending subtly beneath his steps.
The forest opened before him as though it knew who walked its soil.
Ancient beings bowed in silence as he passed — not in worship, but in recognition.
As he reached the end of the path, the landscape widened.
Beyond the forest lay an endless plain, glowing faintly beneath a twilight sky.
There, far in the horizon, something shimmered — a fracture in reality, faint and unstable.
He could sense it pulsing, an opening, a wound between worlds.
The Creator stopped and gazed upon it.
"So that's where the threads lead…"
His faceless head tilted slightly, as though smiling.
And then, quietly, he spoke again —
"I suppose it begins once more."
He raised his right hand. The air trembled, folding around his presence.
From the tip of his fingers, threads of pure energy extended outward, stitching the light of the world into a path before him.
The sky shifted.
The stars dimmed.
The ocean roared in the distance for the first time.
And The Creator — calm, silent, and infinite — stepped forward.
The mountain behind him whispered his name into the wind, though no living being remained to hear it.
The light beneath his feet shimmered, spreading outward with every step, marking his passage like constellations across the surface of the world.
He did not look back.
The wind carried his final words — barely audible, yet echoing through creation:
"Wait for me… both of you."
And then he was gone.
Only the silence of the world remained —
a world that seemed to awaken once more at the return of its Maker.