In a realm where reality did not dictate rules but learned them, an island floated above the void.
Suspended not by gravitational laws, but by the sheer intention of the consciousness that inhabited it.
A living jewel in the ocean of primordial nothingness.
This island had no fixed contours.
It expanded and contracted, spun and hovered, in tune with the will of its observer.
Its forests fed not on soil or rain, but on thought.
Every leaf was an expression of aether.
Every tree, a song carved into living form.
Canopies intertwined with golden clouds that drifted above and below—for here, high and low were mere symbolic concepts.
Winged beasts, woven from newborn stellar particles, glided across the skies with wings as vibrant as the aurora.
In crystal rivers swam nameless ancestral beings, defined only by purpose.
Everything breathed harmony.
Everything existed to be.
And at the island's heart, beside a lake that reflected not the sky but all possibilities of existence, he sat.
Erebus. The Creator Emperor.
Seated upon a stone shaped by time's own memory, Erebus did not meditate.
He contemplated.
And through contemplation, he shaped.
And through shaping, he understood.
The water before him did not merely mirror his image—it danced with realities.
Men at war. Women giving birth. Worlds emerging. Civilizations collapsing. Galaxies spinning within the dark womb of existence.
He watched them all.
And all watched him in return.
His body, vast and imposing, carried not the arrogance of a god—but the certainty of a foundation.
More than three and a half meters of cosmic architecture.
Shoulders bearing epochs.
Hands that could forge or unravel infinity with a single touch.
His skin resembled metal bathed in starlight, adorned with ever-shifting patterns—constellations, runes of genesis, equations of existence.
His hair—golden, silver, or black as the void—drifted in waves guided by winds unknown to this plane.
But his eyes silenced even deities.
They cycled through liquid silver, cosmic blue, deep violet, and absolute gold.
Galaxies orbited his pupils.
Supernovas died and were reborn in silence.
Those who dared meet his gaze wept—not from pain, but from overwhelming comprehension.
He did not merely see.
He understood.
And through understanding, he became.
With every breath, new worlds could be born.
But he did not create on impulse.
He created by necessity.
Around him hovered a mantle.
Not woven by hands, but by the very fabric of the cosmos.
It transformed endlessly—at times a nebula, at times a boundless night sky, at times a field of flowers that had never existed.
Known as Erebus, the Creator Emperor, his era was Eternal.
His lineage: Infinite Creative Essence.
His cultivation: Supreme Primordial Dao, the Supreme Dao of Creation.
His eyes were the Eternal Eyes of Creation.
His soul, the Soul of Infinite Genesis.
His spiritual root, the Supreme Root of Creation.
---
Before him, the lake breathed in unison.
Within it floated possibilities—realities in embryonic form.
Universes sculpted from light.
Lives awaiting their scripts.
Erebus sighed.
But it was not a sound.
It was a cosmic gesture.
"My sister mentioned that the 'Fatebornless' are blossoming across all worlds…" he spoke more to the lake than to himself.
"Could this signal the birth of the first naturally Transcendent beings of Creation?"
His eyes locked onto a spark within the lake.
A universe among billions.
Within it, a man meditated: Hongjun.
"He is close…" murmured Erebus, his words echoing through branches that hadn't existed moments before.
"But he chose the wrong path."
The Dao of the World—Hongjun's foundation for transcendence—was powerful... but unstable.
A reckless attempt to master the whole without knowing the origin.
"Even if he transcends, it will not be by the paths we built" Erebus said, his voice heavy with eras of disappointment.
He did not judge.
He did not impose.
He merely observed.
Then something stirred within him.
His gaze shifted to a second point—a pulsing nexus above all visions.
The Tree of the Multiverse.
A living masterpiece.
A sacred source.
The heart of harmony.
It floated neither near nor far.
It was and was not part of the island.
It existed in all directions at once.
Its roots pierced the foundations of time.
Its ever-changing trunk pulsed with living energy—neither matter nor pure power.
Each branch represented a plane.
Each leaf, a reality.
Universes bloomed in its flowers.
Galaxies slumbered in its fruit.
When a leaf fell, an era ended.
When a branch grew, a new destiny began.
At its core hovered the Primordial Fruit—a sphere the size of a planet, pulsing with white vital energy and golden veins in constant mutation.
Each pulse was the heartbeat of the multiverse.
"It still beats strong" Erebus whispered, a hint of relief in his voice.
"Yet… cracks spread among the younger branches..."
"The records foretold this" he said, eyes resting on the layers of time.
"My brothers knew that one day… someone would dare to bend the Dao of the World."
The images on the lake shifted in tone.
A subtle glow rippled across its surface.
Erebus remained still.
"Destiny is not absolute" he murmured.
"But it observes. And now... it waits."
The lake's surface gently rippled.
Erebus watched in silence—a silence woven of thoughts, and thoughts that shaped what was and what wasn't.
The Primordial Fruit glowed above the Tree of the Multiverse.
Strange waves coursed through its golden veins—almost invisible, yet undeniable.
Like a seed trying to sprout amidst a storm.
"Even without consciousness… the Primordial Chaos may have planted these seeds" he whispered, eyes narrowing with clarity.
Chaos.
Before Creation, all was.
Not by will, but by absence.
A sea of infinite shapeless possibilities.
Formless. Dao-less. Structureless.
Erebus had simply awakened within it.
And now, after countless epochs, Chaos whispered once more.
Not in words.
In anomalies.
Scars on the branches of the Tree.
Echoes of eras that never were.
Fractures where destiny should have been solid.
"If someone shatters the foundations of the Dao of the World and survives… if a mortal learns to wield the will of the multiverse…" Erebus gazed at the dark sky above the Tree.
"…then balance ceases to be a concept. It becomes a memory."
Another image surfaced on the lake.
A new plane.
A new cycle.
A newborn star pulsed above a blazing world.
On its surface, a baby cried for the first time—its wail resonating with ancestral Qi.
Petals of unborn flowers rained from the sky, as if the cosmos itself welcomed the child.
Erebus tilted his head slightly.
"Another Fatebornless soul..."
This was the fifth unregistered birth in the Book of Creation in less than a thousand cycles.
An insignificant number to most.
An impossible anomaly to him.
"The Fatebornless are not mistakes" Erebus addressed the Tree itself.
"They are proof that the world is beginning to dream on its own."
The Tree's roots responded.
They pulsed.
A single leaf fell, drifting slowly like a sigh.
As it touched the lake, a wave dissolved all visions.
Now the lake showed only a dark, silent sky.
"Destiny has fallen silent" said Erebus.
"But silence is also an answer."
He rose.
Wings of light unfolded calmly, spanning the heavens.
Each feather fused concepts: time, space, creation.
As he stood, the island reacted.
Trees bowed.
Clouds parted.
The plane acknowledged his movement.
Erebus stepped before the Tree of the Multiverse.
For a moment, nothing stirred.
Then he raised his right hand.
Touched the trunk with open fingers.
The energy flowing there moved differently—a river trapped between epochs.
The Tree murmured…
"Chaos sows. And Creation reacts instinctively" he reflected.
"The Tree bears fruit… out of season."
The Primordial Fruit pulsed once.
A heartbeat.
A response.
Erebus withdrew.
"I could intervene. Pluck defective fruits, prune broken branches. Restore harmony with a single gesture."
But he did not.
"Perhaps imbalance is... the new balance."
Creation was not meant to stagnate.
It was flux. Motion. Controlled uncertainty.
And the Fatebornless… were not flaws.
They were unforeseen possibilities.
"Did I go too far stabilizing everything?"
The doubt surfaced—brief, clear as crystal, but not denied.
Erebus looked up at the sky above the Tree.
No stars.
Only the dark canvas where Chaos slumbered.
"If Chaos moves again with intensity, even without form… then the Children of Creation must choose: to resist… or transcend."
For the first time in eons, Erebus did not know the path.
He returned to the lake.
Sat.
Crossed his legs slowly.
This time, the surface revealed Lyra's face—newly awakened as the Eternal Empress—shining through the layers of time.
Orion's gaze—firm, burning, calculated.
And between them… an empty space.
"A new lineage…" whispered Erebus.
"Perhaps that is where Destiny wishes to breathe again."
He closed his eyes.
Creation was restless.
But the Creator... watched.