There was a figure standing within a space that seemed to exist beyond all boundaries of light and shadow. The form was indistinct — it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. The being possessed no face, no eyes, no mouth, and no trace of emotion that could be read. The absence itself became its identity, a void that reflected everything and nothing all at once, like a mirror of existence showing not an image, but the profound emptiness behind all forms.
Long strands of blue hair flowed from its head, gliding down like streams of light frozen in air. The color of that hair was neither sky blue nor oceanic — it was something in between, like the shifting hue of twilight reflected upon still water. The faint glimmer of distant light touched each strand, creating a cold luminescence, pale as moonlight passing through thin mist. The hair was tied loosely behind with a dark ribbon, yet several strands escaped, fluttering gently in the air that seemed to breathe in slow, deliberate motion.
The being was clothed in a kimono of pure blue. Its texture was delicate, woven so finely that it almost looked fluid, as if every thread had absorbed the silence of the world itself. The garment flowed with the faintest movement of air, each fold and layer shifting like waves beneath the calm of the deep sea. The shades of blue darkened and lightened with every subtle change of light, blending together in a harmony that felt both infinite and motionless — the color of time itself, unending and immeasurable.
In one hand, the figure held a black umbrella. It was not open; it simply rested by its side. Yet the umbrella was far from ordinary — there was something alive within its shadow. The surface of that shadow seemed to stir faintly, bending and rippling as if it possessed a will of its own. The darkness beneath it appeared bottomless, drawing the eye inward, making even the light hesitate to come close. The world around them was quiet — too quiet. The whisper of wind that passed through was thin, frail, carrying with it the echo of something ancient, something that did not belong to the living world.
That figure — The Creator — now stood before a dragon.
The dragon towered like a mountain come alive. Its massive form filled the horizon, its scales glimmering with a golden light so fierce and radiant that it turned the surrounding world into a sea of reflected flame. Each scale was like a polished plate of molten metal, layered with precision, so perfect that they looked as though they had been forged by the sun itself. The air around the dragon shimmered with heat and brilliance, blurring the edges of reality.
When the creature exhaled, its breath came out in waves of gold-tinged smoke. Each puff carried sparks that drifted upward, tiny stars that flared and died in the span of a heartbeat. The ground trembled under its weight; the sound of its movement — the scraping of its golden scales — rang out like deep iron grinding upon stone, heavy and resonant. The air thrummed with its power.
The dragon's eyes blazed with a golden fire. They were vast, endless, filled with a cruel intelligence and an overwhelming pride. That gaze cut through the silence and pierced the faceless figure before it. The intensity of it could have set the air aflame, and yet the one being it was aimed at remained still, unmoved, untouched.
Then, the dragon spoke.
Its voice rolled across the sky like thunder breaking apart the heavens. The air itself seemed to bend beneath the weight of each word. The sound struck the land, echoing across the emptiness, reverberating in waves that made even the ground hum with tension.
"I am the king of dragons. The people call me that, though few of my kind remain in this world."
The words rang with arrogance, with the certainty of a being that had never been denied anything. Its tone was sharp, each syllable carrying the sound of dominion. Even the light seemed to quiver in acknowledgment of its pride.
Then it laughed — not with amusement, but with disdain that bled into the air like poison. Its wings shifted slightly, scattering golden dust that shimmered like burning embers in the half-light.
"And you, the one who calls yourself The Creator — that is something truly laughable to me."
The words cut through the silence and lingered there, long after the sound faded. The echo twisted around the stones, around the stillness, returning again like the faint mockery of a world that had forgotten how to care.
But The Creator did not move.
There was no reaction, no tremor of emotion. The faceless being stood as before — still, silent, its presence deeper than any shadow. The air around it did not stir; even the strands of hair that had been swaying a moment ago seemed to fall into complete stillness, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
When the being finally spoke, the sound was almost nothing — a mere thread of voice, fragile yet undeniable. The tone was soft, devoid of malice or fear, carrying no weight of argument or defiance. And yet, the calm within it was sharper than any blade.
"Believe it or not."
The words fell quietly, so faint that they might have been mistaken for the whisper of wind. But their meaning rippled through the air like the silent pulse of unseen power. For a single, infinite heartbeat, the world grew utterly still.
The dragon froze, its golden eyes narrowing. Then fury rose within them like a storm breaking through restraint. Its breath deepened, quickened — the heat from its nostrils shimmered like molten metal. The air itself burned.
Its eyes flared brighter, the golden hue deepening into the color of forged fire, molten and wild. The muscles beneath its gleaming scales tightened; its massive body tensed as rage overtook pride. With each breath, the heat intensified until the ground beneath it cracked, and small arcs of golden energy traced across the earth like lightning trapped beneath glass.
A low growl escaped its throat — not just sound, but a tremor that rolled through space like a heartbeat of thunder. The dragon spread its wings, vast and terrible. Each wing was a wall of shimmering gold, the scales catching light like mirrors, scattering it into blinding patterns that danced across the darkened ground. As those wings unfurled, they cast an enormous shadow that blotted out half the sky.
The wind roared. Dust and stones lifted into the air, swirling in violent circles around the creature. The sky seemed to fracture under the collision of golden light and encroaching darkness, as if two worlds — one of creation and one of destruction — had collided.
Then the dragon lunged forward.
Its colossal form surged through the air with a speed that defied its size, cutting through the space between them like a golden comet. The air screamed as it moved, the sound of its charge tearing through the silence like lightning splitting the world. Its mouth opened wide — rows of teeth like sharpened blades glinting with deadly brilliance, each one capable of slicing through mountains. Its intent was clear: to tear the being before it into pieces, to obliterate the audacity of calm that dared stand against wrath.
But even as that golden storm bore down upon it, The Creator remained still.
The black umbrella in its hand did not move, did not open. It stood quietly in contrast to the storm — a void that absorbed all light, a darkness that neither yielded nor fought. No fear, no resistance, no preparation. Only stillness. A stillness so profound that it transcended the idea of motion itself.
The air between them trembled. The light from the dragon's golden form struck the surface of the umbrella and vanished, swallowed into an abyss that reflected nothing. The wind howled, the earth groaned, but the faceless figure did not waver.
And in that single suspended moment, everything seemed to freeze — light, shadow, breath, and time.
There was only the trembling of air, the heat of the dragon's fury, and the unshakable calm that stood before it.
The silence that followed was not empty — it was vast, filled with the weight of everything that could not be said. It was the sound of existence holding its breath. The entire world, it seemed, waited to see what would follow — the collision of arrogance and stillness, of flame and void, of the king who ruled over life and the one who claimed to be the source of all creation.
And beneath that silence, the echo of inevitability stirred, deep and endless — the quiet before the breaking of the world.
While the dragon was about to lunge forward and devour The Creator,
his body remained perfectly still in that same spot.
Not a single tremor of fear passed through him,
nor the faintest twitch of anxiety or hesitation.
An immense stillness wrapped around everything—
so thick, so absolute,
that it felt as though the entire world itself had stopped breathing in that single, suspended second.
The massive dragon moved forward with terrifying speed.
Every motion of its colossal form made the ground beneath tremble violently.
The wind howled and whipped through the cavernous space as it moved,
carrying with it waves of dust and shards of stone that swirled into the air like a storm of ash.
A deep, thunderous growl rumbled in its throat—
a sound like thunder about to strike right above one's head.
Golden flames rippled from its gaping maw,
and its hot breath poured out in heavy, scorching gusts.
Its shadow engulfed the land,
its vast form stretching out like a living mountain on the move,
bearing down upon the still, small figure before it.
Yet even as that feral power rushed toward him,
The Creator's form did not waver.
He stood there, calm and unmoved,
like the surface of a still river untouched by storm winds.
His hand remained at his side,
holding a closed black umbrella—
not raised in defense,
not poised to strike,
not even trembling the slightest bit.
No gesture of resistance, no motion of fear,
only complete and tranquil stillness,
a silence that mirrored itself like a reflection in unbroken glass.
The golden blaze of the dragon's fire reflected faintly across the soft blue of his kimono.
The light rippled across the fabric like the shimmering of water under morning sun.
It revealed the fine texture of the cloth—
threads of deep blue and pale hues intertwined
like the shifting shades of dawn sky before sunrise.
And that black umbrella he held seemed like a void unto itself,
a space that devoured every glimmer of light around it,
absorbing rather than reflecting—
a darkness that existed not in color,
but in the absence of all.
Time passed in what felt like a single heartbeat,
yet it stretched endlessly,
a moment drawn out until it seemed eternal.
The roar of breaking air followed every movement of the dragon,
a scream of the atmosphere itself tearing apart.
And amid that fierce noise,
a quiet voice emerged—
clear, soft, yet echoing deep.
"Then why do you wish to harm me?"
The voice came from The Creator.
It was steady, neither loud nor soft,
but carried a weight that seemed to reverberate directly through the air,
resonating not only with sound but with meaning.
It was not a voice that merely reached the ear—
it reached inward,
speaking directly to the mind,
to the quietest core of thought within the listener.
The words were simple,
yet they carried a depth that could not be measured instantly.
It was not merely a question of motive,
but a reflection—
a mirror turned toward the one who heard it.
A question that silently asked:
Why choose violence in the face of what you do not understand?
The dragon froze midair.
Its golden eyes, once blazing with fury,
now flickered with confusion.
The fire that had built up within its throat halted,
hovering at the edge of release,
then faded into faint sparks.
The roar that had threatened to split the air fell silent.
Only the heavy rhythm of its breathing remained—
slow, deep, weighted with hesitation.
It stared at the faceless figure before it—
a being with no eyes to meet,
no features to read,
and yet…
there was a presence,
a force of quiet comprehension that needed no face.
The dragon could feel it—
an understanding,
a power that did not rely on fear or might,
but on something far older,
far steadier,
something beyond the realm of its long life's knowing.
The dragon took a cautious step backward.
The soft clinking of its golden scales rang through the air—
a sound like chains uncoiling,
a metallic whisper of thought and restraint.
It narrowed its eyes,
staring in silence,
its expression wary and contemplative.
In that still moment,
the creature of flame and strength began to reconsider what stood before it.
It was not a mindless beast.
It had lived through ages uncountable,
long enough to know that rage and wisdom were never the same.
Experience, layered over centuries,
taught it the one truth that survived every war and fire:
what you do not understand—
you must not strike without thought.
The dragon drew a long breath,
and its inhale rumbled like distant thunder.
The golden smoke that had once poured from its nostrils
slowly faded,
dissolving into the dim air.
The tension in its body loosened little by little.
Its talons pressed lightly into the ground,
its vast wings lowered slightly at its sides,
and its fiery heart quieted to a mere glow beneath its chest.
It looked once more at The Creator.
That faceless being stood silently still.
The air around him felt neither warm nor cold—
just timeless.
The dragon could sense no hostility,
no defense,
no emotion that it could grasp.
It was as if the figure stood outside of reality itself,
where anger could not reach and violence had no meaning.
There was no sound.
Only the soft meeting of two forms of existence,
each aware of the other's depth,
yet neither needing to prove or declare anything.
The faint wind that passed between them stirred the dust lightly,
lifting a few grains that spun slowly in circles before descending again.
Then The Creator began to move.
No rush, no hesitation.
Only a quiet, deliberate step forward.
His footfall was so light that it barely touched the sound of the earth,
but to the dragon, it echoed like a bell within silence.
The gentle rustle of the kimono followed,
each fold of fabric shifting like waves in a tranquil sea.
The soft blue of his robe caught the golden reflections from the dragon's scales,
transforming into shifting tones of liquid light—
the colors of twilight meeting the horizon.
With each step he took,
the air itself seemed to calm,
as though the world bent slightly out of reverence,
granting him passage without resistance.
He passed by—
simply, silently,
without turning,
without looking back.
No more words followed.
Only silence expanded,
filling the emptiness where sound used to live.
His shadow stretched along the earth,
then gradually faded as he walked away into the mist and the cool, pale light beyond.
The sound of his steps diminished,
dissolving into nothingness.
And the dragon—
remained.
It did not pursue.
It did not roar.
It did not strike again.
It simply watched.
Its gaze lingered on the vanishing figure,
on the soft sway of the blue robe
until the final trace of movement disappeared completely,
swallowed by the stillness of the world.