Deep within an ancient forest, older than memory itself,
towering trees rose toward the heavens like pillars holding up the sky.
Their trunks were wrapped in moss the color of emeralds,
their roots twisting through the soil like serpents that had slept for centuries.
The scent of earth, damp and alive, mixed with the faint fragrance of wet leaves and blooming flowers.
Beams of sunlight filtered through the canopy,
casting golden rays upon the mist that hovered gently above the ground.
The forest shimmered faintly, as if the air itself was alive —
breathing, watching, waiting.
Among the endless trees, there was a single figure walking in silence.
Each step was light, softer than falling petals.
Even when the soles of their feet brushed against dry leaves or roots,
no sound disturbed the stillness.
It was as though the forest itself allowed their passage,
bending to their will without resistance.
It was difficult to tell whether this being was man or woman.
Their form was slender, their movement graceful yet steady,
radiating a quiet authority that belonged to neither mortal nor beast.
Their skin was pale, pure as untouched snow beneath the first light of dawn,
and their long blue hair flowed behind them like water under moonlight.
Each strand glimmered faintly —
not reflecting the sun, but absorbing it,
turning the light into something ethereal, something divine.
But the most unsettling feature of all was their face.
There was no face.
No eyes, no nose, no mouth — not even the faintest impression of where such things should be.
It was smooth and empty, like a blank canvas before the first stroke of creation.
A mystery given form.
They wore a light-blue yukata, its fabric soft and thin,
fluttering with every faint whisper of the wind.
The hem brushed against the grass, leaving behind no trace,
no footprints, no disturbance —
as if they did not truly belong to this world.
Every movement was slow, deliberate, and elegant,
like a timeless rhythm only they could hear.
There was no hesitation in their steps,
only the stillness of someone who had walked across countless ages.
They seemed to be searching for something — or someone.
Their head occasionally tilted,
as though listening to distant whispers carried by the wind.
And then, without warning,
a sound tore through the forest.
It was not a voice, nor thunder, nor the roar of an animal.
It was something far deeper —
a vibration that seemed to shake the very fabric of existence.
The sound burst forth with a force so immense
that birds fled from their nests in terror,
their wings beating frantically against the wind.
The ground trembled,
the trees quivered,
and leaves cascaded down in golden showers of panic.
It was a sound that could shatter stone,
a sound that could make a human bleed from the ears,
their eardrums ruptured by the sheer power of it.
Yet the blue-haired figure did not flinch.
They merely stopped walking,
lifted their head slowly,
and then continued onward —
unhurried, unafraid, as though the chaos were nothing more than rain upon water.
The sound grew louder,
echoing through the trees like the heartbeat of a god.
And then, as they stepped into a clearing bathed in golden mist,
they saw it.
A dragon.
It was enormous —
its body vast enough to cast shadows over the land itself.
Golden scales covered it from snout to tail,
each scale reflecting the sunlight like polished metal.
The light that danced across its body was blinding,
a living embodiment of the sun.
Its wings were like mountains of gold,
unfolding with a low, thunderous rumble that sent gusts of wind rippling through the forest.
Each flap stirred the air with the weight of a hurricane.
Its claws gleamed like sharpened blades,
capable of rending even mountains apart with ease.
And its eyes —
twin suns of molten gold, vast and ancient,
filled with intelligence and power beyond measure.
They gazed down upon the blue-haired figure, curious rather than hostile.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
When the dragon finally spoke,
its voice was not a sound that passed through the air.
It was a tremor that resonated through the ground,
through the trees, through the hearts of all living things nearby.
Every word carried the weight of creation itself.
"Who are you?"
The forest quaked beneath its question.
The winds stirred. The earth groaned.
Even the sunlight dimmed,
as if the world feared to intrude upon this conversation.
The blue-haired figure did not reply.
They stood perfectly still,
their faceless head tilted ever so slightly upward.
The silence stretched on,
long enough that even the dragon's patience began to waver.
Seconds passed.
But in that silence, each second felt like a century.
Then, at last, the figure sighed softly.
It was a quiet, almost fragile sound,
but it spread through the clearing like a wave.
Even the forest seemed to bow under its weight.
And then — impossibly —
a change began.
From the smooth, empty surface of their face,
a line appeared — faint at first, like a shadow beneath water.
The line deepened, curved,
and became a mouth.
A mouth that did not belong to flesh,
but to the concept of speech itself.
The dragon's golden eyes narrowed slightly,
not in anger, but in reverence,
as though witnessing something ancient,
something that should not exist within the bounds of reality.
And then, from that mouthless face,
came a voice — neither male nor female,
neither young nor old,
but something eternal.
"I am The Creator."
The words were soft —
barely more than a whisper —
yet they carried a power so immense
that the very air seemed to vibrate with it.
The world responded.
The trees trembled.
The ground rippled as if bowing in respect.
The light itself flickered,
as though uncertain whether to shine in the presence of the one who had once called it into being.
It was not magic.
It was not divine energy.
It was existence itself, bending gently to acknowledge its origin.
The figure stood there, motionless,
and the forest seemed to breathe with them.
The wind blew softly now —
no longer wild or violent,
but reverent, calm, filled with a sense of awe.
Every leaf, every blade of grass,
every heartbeat of the living world seemed to murmur the same silent prayer:
The Creator has spoken.
Then, amid that sacred stillness,
another voice broke the silence.
It was not a sound from the dragon's throat,
but from the air itself —
a voice that transcended distance and form.
"And you… who are you?"
The question was simple,
but the power behind it shook the space between worlds.
The words rippled through the air,
traveling beyond sight and sound,
touching the very core of the golden dragon's being.
The dragon's great eyes shimmered —
not with fury, but with something like understanding.
It lifted its head slightly,
its breath a slow gust that rippled the grass in waves.
For a moment,
time itself seemed to stop.
The sun dimmed,
the forest hushed,
and the earth grew still.
There was no wind, no birdsong, no movement —
only the faint hum of existence itself.
The two beings faced each other,
silent and motionless.
The Creator — embodiment of all beginnings.
The Dragon — symbol of destruction and renewal.
Their gazes met,
not as enemies,
nor as allies,
but as equals — two forces that defined the balance of all worlds.
The Creator's blue hair flowed in the gentle air,
glinting faintly like a river of stars.
The dragon's golden scales shimmered under the fading light,
reflecting the image of the faceless being before it.
They stood there,
in that eternal stillness —
between creation and annihilation,
between the first breath and the final silence.
The forest would remember.
The earth would remember.
The wind would whisper this meeting through the ages —
the day when The Creator and the Golden Dragon stood face to face,
and the universe held its breath.