THE LIGHTBRINGER

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"I have always existed and no one came before me. I was the one who truly brought the birth of existence and non-existence. My power is unlimited as no one can truly comprehend my power. I know what everyone knows more than that. beyond. I am the one that is above all. I am the all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-present.

I am... God."

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-- Yesh's words to the three Demiurgic archangels at the dawn of the creation of the multiverse..

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Imagine nothingness. Not the quiet darkness of a night sky, nor the still silence of a deep cavern, but a void that exists outside of all comprehension.

The Overvoid, a canvas so impossibly vast, so utterly infinite, that it defied even the concept of infinity itself. It is not black, nor white; but a blankness that transcended the very concept of color. In its expanse, there was no light, no dark, no contrast—just a vast absence, an expanse untainted by creation or time.

Perfectly smooth, devoid of any texture or substance, it was not empty in the way a void is empty—rather, it was pure absence, beyond the reach of physical laws, untouched by gravity, motion, or decay.

No wind moved across its vastness, no light pierced its fabric. It was not dead, for it was never alive. It simply was—a place before all places, a space before all things, so far removed from existence that the very notion of "being" collapses upon itself.

And yet, in its infinite silence, there was a sense of expectation. As if, within its formless expanse, the potential for creation lay dormant—unexpressed, unformed, but waiting. The raw potential of everything that could ever be, a stage before the actors, a canvas before the paint, universe without stars, a sea without waves, a mind before thought.

In this place, time floweth not, and space stretched not, the concept of distance lost its meaning. One could stand at the edge of it for a thousand lifetimes and still not have moved an inch.

It was limitless, both in scale and in the absence of any scale to measure it by.

Here, in this featureless expanse, that the Multiverse was born—a fragile lattice of worlds and realities, no more significant than a faint dusting of pigment on the edge of a sprawling, untouchable canvas. It served as both the womb of creation and its most uncaring observer, indifferent to what it holds, unaware of the stories that might one day play out upon its surface.

In the beginning, there was nothing. No light, no dark, not even a whisper of time to measure the vast emptiness. It was a void so complete that even silence was absent, for there was no ear to hear it. But from this nothingness stirred something primal, an infinitesimal ripple of existence..

For eons untold, the Overvoid remained thus—dormant, without thought or need. Yet, in that eternity, something began to stir. Deep within the nothingness, there arose a yearning, subtle at first but growing in intensity.

This was not a voice or a desire in the way sentient beings would understand, but rather an ache, an unshaped longing for awareness, for meaning. The Overvoid, for the first time, sensed its own vast emptiness, and within that emptiness, a single truth bloomed: potential alone was not enough.

In this endless vacuum, something more was needed—something to know, to perceive, to experience. There was a hunger for sentience, for something that could witness and give purpose to the boundless possibilities trapped within the Overvoid. Without eyes to see or minds to comprehend, the vastness of existence meant nothing.

And so, the Overvoid called out in a way it did not understand, birthing the first stirrings of consciousness from its own endless depths.

This call was answered in the form of the Creators, beings who emerged from the Overvoid itself, born of its need to be seen, known, and shaped. They were not born like flesh and blood creatures, but as embodiments of concepts—each Creator representing a fundamental force required to give the void purpose. They did not merely arise from nothing; they were the manifestation of the Overvoid's deepest, most ancient desires.

The first was Yesh, the embodiment of awareness itself. Yesh's purpose was to understand, to define and give shape to what had no form. It was the first breath of creation, the first light in the darkness, the mind that would conceive of what was and what could be.

But Yesh was not alone, for in the Overvoid's need for balance came others.

Khaos followed, a being of pure potential and change, for nothing could remain static. Khaos was the force of entropy and creativity in one—unpredictable, uncontrollable. It challenged Yesh's order, ensuring that existence was never too stable, too certain, too static. Where Yesh defined, Khaos disrupted, and through that tension, creation flourished.

But the Overvoid was not content with only understanding and change. It required an anchor, a limit, to temper these forces. And so, Azathoth emerged, the blind god of the void's most primal truth: the inevitability of return.

Azathoth was not sentient in the way the others were; it was an embodiment of oblivion, a reminder that all things, no matter how vast or brilliant, must eventually dissolve back into the Overvoid from which they came.

Together, these Creators formed a triad—mind, chaos, and oblivion—the architects of everything that would ever be.

They brought form to the formless, awareness to the void, and yet their purpose was more than simply creation. Sentience was needed not just to bring existence into being, but to give it meaning, to experience the beauty and terror of life, the rise and fall of civilizations, and the slow, inevitable return to nothingness.

Thus, sentient beings were more than mere creations; they were the vessels through which the Overvoid could finally know itself, through which existence could experience itself.

From the Creators' hands, countless worlds would be born, each teeming with life and thought, each a small reflection of the Overvoid's ultimate longing: to witness its own vastness, to feel the pulse of being and the inevitable silence that followed.

Yesh, radiant and resolute, breathed life into the emptiness, shaping worlds from the dust of dreams and filling them with vibrant beings, each pulsating with purpose. A symphony of color and sound danced at their fingertips, a melody of creation that echoed through the silent void.

But as the cosmos began to flourish under Yesh's watchful gaze, a shadow loomed on the horizon.

Khaos, the relentless storm, twisted and churned within the void, embodying the inevitable decay that follows all things born of light. With a flick of its formless tendrils, it unraveled the very essence of Yesh's creations, sowing discord and despair.

The vibrant worlds flickered and dimmed under Khaos's influence, their once harmonious melodies now replaced by the cacophony of chaos and ruin.

In the depths of the abyss, Azathoth stirred, a swirling mass of nothingness and madness. Unlike Yesh, whose fervent heart beat with the pulse of creation, Azathoth existed beyond comprehension, an eternal witness to the unfolding drama of existence. Its indifference was both a curse and a blessing; for while it watched, it also yearned for the order that Yesh so desperately fought to preserve. Yet, in its vastness, it craved the embrace of Khaos, the thrill of disarray that disrupted the monotony of silence.

The stage was set, the players drawn into a cosmic dance of creation and destruction. Yesh, determined to defend the beauty of life, sought to forge alliances among the myriad beings he had created.

Khaos, a tempest of fury and malice, reveled in the destruction, determined to reshape the universe in its own chaotic image. And Azathoth, at the nexus of their conflict, became an unwitting arbiter, its dreams swirling with the possibility of both order and entropy.

As the cosmic struggle escalated, the boundaries of reality began to blur. The clash of Yesh's radiant light against Khaos's consuming darkness reverberated through the realms, sending shockwaves that threatened to tear the very fabric of existence apart. The fate of creation hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of oblivion, as the three primordial forces grappled for supremacy.

In the vastness of the universe, legends would speak of this conflict—of how creation and chaos collided, how the echoes of their struggle shaped the destinies of countless worlds, and how the whispers of Azathoth reverberated through time, hinting at the dark truth that underpinned all existence. The prologue to a saga of conflict, where the struggle between the creators would determine the fate of the cosmos itself.

A/N: I hate writing in this Shakespearish manner 🤦. It's exhausting honestly.