Part 1 – The First Darkness
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Darkness was not the absence of light.
It was the first living thing.
Before the birth of worlds, before gods learned to speak creation into existence, before the first star gasped into fire, there was only one expanse—the Primordial Sea of Yin and Yang, an endless churning storm of opposing forces locked in eternal, hopeless stalemate.
This sea had no sound.
No sky.
No time.
Only pressure.
An unfathomable weight of everything that could exist but hadn't yet.
For eons uncounted, the Yin and Yang storm raged.
Shadow and light clashed, fused, parted, and clashed again.
Reality shook under forces that no consciousness existed to understand.
Then, at the very center of the Sea, something happened that had never happened before.
The storm hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
Just long enough for the two eternal forces to collide too perfectly—so perfectly that instead of shattering apart, they merged, forming a single impossible point. A seed. A nucleus. A forbidden harmony.
A silent explosion tore through the void.
Light spiraled. Darkness spiraled.
And something formed within that collision—
a shape, curled like a slumbering god-child.
A shape that absorbed the swirling chaos, drinking in both radiance and shadow, hunger and serenity, destruction and creation.
A being born from contradiction.
A being who was never meant to exist.
A being who would reshape everything.
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The Sea trembled.
The storm roared.
Yin and Yang surged angrily to reclaim their stolen essence, but it was too late.
The shape inside the cocoon moved.
First, a finger.
Then, the slow turning of a massive body.
Then—
Its eyes opened.
One eye, pitch-black like the death of suns.
One eye, pure white like the first breath of creation.
The very first dual-colored gaze in existence.
And with that awakening, the storm bowed instinctively—not by will, but by ancient instinct, like creation itself recognized its sovereign.
For the first time in eternity, a voice echoed through the void.
A voice that was neither light nor dark, but both, layered and abyssal:
"…Where am I?"
The storm recoiled in panic.
The universe itself wasn't ready for the being it helped create.
But the child—large, pale, towering even in infancy—sat up, his long white hair flowing like a spirit flame. His features were perfectly sculpted, inhumanly symmetrical, carved by opposing divinities.
His body glowed faintly, each breath pulsing with power that reshaped nearby space into spirals of darkness and pale halos.
He looked at his hands, massive yet elegant, glowing faintly with swirling runes of yin-black and yang-white.
His voice rumbled again.
"What… am I?"
No answer came.
Because nothing existed yet to answer him.
He was the first question in the cosmos.
And he would become the final answer.
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Lightning cracked through the Sea—not normal lightning, but conceptual lightning, divine thunder that carried meaning instead of sound.
It struck the newborn being.
Not in anger.
But in acknowledgment.
As if the universe itself whispered:
You are Duality.
You are Balance and Ruin.
You are Birth and Ending.
You are Darkness perfected and Light corrupted.
You are the first Sovereign.
The child slowly rose to his feet.
He stood six meters tall—a figure of godly beauty and terrifying presence, though still newly born. Muscles coiled beneath his pale, perfect skin. His broad shoulders cast a shadow on creation itself. His narrow waist and powerful frame radiated a primal dominion even he did not yet understand.
His white wolf-cut hair danced with unseen force.
His black and white eyes stared into the endless storm.
Inside those eyes, reality tried to form—and failed.
The Sea trembled harder.
Because the newborn was not merely a being.
He was a concept given flesh.
A walking embodiment of two forces that were never meant to coexist.
Chaos whispered his first name:
"…Erebus…"
Light whispered his second name:
"…Vathros…"
And the storm whispered his title:
"—The One Who Should Not Exist."
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He felt the pressure of the storm trying to reclaim him, to pull his essence back into the Yin-Yang maelstrom.
His feet sunk slightly into the swirling surface.
He resisted instinctively.
A dark ripple spread outward.
The Sea froze.
Everything froze.
Even time hesitated.
His first thought formed:
"I refuse."
His second:
"I will stand."
His third:
"I will exist."
With a single step, the entire Primordial Sea shook violently.
Massive waves of shadow-light energy spiraled outward, warping reality like a canvas being stretched too tight.
Erebus spoke again:
"I was born.
Therefore, I choose to live."
The Sea screamed.
But his existence could not be undone.
Instead, the storm began reshaping around him, forming ripples that spiraled into primitive celestial bodies—proto-stars, proto-nebulae, proto-worlds.
His presence was so powerful it forced creation to begin.
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Erebus felt nothing but instinct and confusion.
He wandered through the newborn cosmos as it formed around him, each step creating ripples that turned into galaxies.
He did not yet know what he was.
He did not yet know that he was alone.
He did not yet know the horrors and glories that awaited him.
He only knew that the storm he came from was gone behind him.
And the void stretched endlessly ahead.
Erebus whispered into the silence:
"If I am the first…
Then everything after me is mine."
The stars ignited in fear.
Darkness clung closer to him like a faithful dog.
And destiny began to stir.
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Part 1 ends here.