In the beginning, there was light.
Not the light of stars or suns, not the flicker of flames or the warmth of fire. It was a light born of Will itself — raw, unshaped, infinite. A whisper in the void that shattered the silence. From that single utterance — "Let there be light" — the universe stirred, as if awoken by a divine heartbeat.
From that sacred pulse emerged the Creator, a being not bound by time or form. Its silhouette shimmered with contradictions — radiant yet shadowed, massive yet intimate, faceless yet overflowing with presence. A divine enigma cloaked in swirling veils of luminous mist, whose eyes shone like collapsing stars and whose voice echoed across eternity without sound. It had no need for flesh, no hunger for worship, no beginning and no end. It simply was.
To this vast, empty cosmos, the Creator gave balance.
With thought alone, it separated the dual forces at the root of all existence: Yin and Yang.
Yin — cold, soft, tranquil, reflective — flowed like night-touched rivers through silence.
Yang — hot, sharp, wild, radiant — blazed like a newborn sun across the heavens.
Alone, each force was incomplete. But when they brushed, when they swirled in sacred dance, a warmth was born — not physical warmth, but the warmth of harmony, of unity.
From this union, the world was born.
Lands rose from the void. Seas whispered into being. Skies unfolded with breath. And upon the surface of this new world, the Creator molded life from stardust and breath: mortals.
These beings were tall and noble, their skin reflecting the balance of the world — some pale as snow kissed by moonlight, others golden as sunlit meadows, with eyes that glowed faintly blue, silver, or amber, each color echoing the Pulse that beat within them. Their hair flowed like woven elements — fire, mist, stone, and storm. These mortals were not gods, yet they were gifted a fragment of divinity: the Pulse — a rhythm that connected their souls to Yin or Yang.
To some, the Creator gave Yang Pulse, forging warriors of light, archers whose arrows sparked with brilliance, and monks whose chants could calm storms. To others, Yin Pulse, birthing assassins who stepped between shadows, healers who wept life into the dying, and warriors whose blades fed on silence and pain.
With balance came peace — for a time.
But peace never lingers in the hands of mortals.
They warred. Not over resources or hunger, but over power — whose Pulse was stronger, which path was truer. Harmony shattered. Light clashed with shadow, and for the first time, the Creator wept.
From one of its silent tears, something sacred bloomed.
In the heart of the world, from the Creator's sorrow, rose a new lineage — a clan born not of division, but of unity. They were neither Yin nor Yang, but both. The Creator named them Shirogami — Shiro for "white," the color of balance; kami for "gods." The White Gods.
They were beautiful. Terrifying.
Children with hair like falling snow and eyes like divine flame — crimson red, reflecting not bloodlust but pure, boundless energy. Their bodies housed twin Pulses, perfectly balanced, and their mere presence restored equilibrium to corrupted lands. The Shirogami stood as guardians, mediators of Yin and Yang, sent to preserve the world from itself.
They were revered. Then feared.
And as mortals always do with what they cannot control, they turned against them.
The clans allied, and in one night, the heavens burned.
The Shirogami were hunted. Slaughtered. Betrayed.
The Creator watched in silence. It could not intervene — its time had ended. But before its essence faded, it looked upon the last Shirogami heir, a child not yet born.
And in that moment, it made a final choice.
It poured all its remaining divine Pulse into a single unborn infant — one not yet touched by war, not yet corrupted by fate.
Ethan.
Far across the battlefield, amidst carnage and crumbling stars, a woman staggered through ash-stained winds. She was the wife of the Shirogami clan's heir — now slain — her blood trailing behind her, her breath sharp and shallow. But within her arms, she carried hope.
The child had been born.
His eyes — bright crimson — opened to the sky, not crying, only watching.
Her hands trembled as she placed him gently into a basket — black and gold, the sacred colors of the Shirogami — woven by her own hands beneath sacred moonlight weeks before the fall. She wrapped him in soft cloth, embroidered with golden thread — his name stitched across the fabric by her hand:
Ethan.
With her fading strength, she traced a seal upon his chest — a divine ward to suppress the Pulse within him, to keep him hidden. Her voice cracked as she whispered ancient runes, the old magic of the gods. The basket shimmered, then vanished — swallowed by a rift in time itself, carrying the child far, far into the future.
A final gift.
A final goodbye.
Tears blurred her vision. Blood soaked her robes. She collapsed to her knees, the battlefield quiet now, save for the wind and the dying heartbeat of a forgotten race.
She whispered his name one last time:
"Ethan…"
Then silence.
And the world moved on, forgetting what it had lost.
Until now.