According to the ancient scholar Elorphraim Iotaziah—sage, heretic, and general nuisance to the gods—the Laws of Creation and Destruction are not things mortals should touch. Not with a ten-foot divine pole.
Before the world ever existed, there was nothing.
Well—almost nothing.
Chaos reigned. Time ticked without consequence. Space sprawled without purpose. And fate? Fate did what fate does: existed ominously in the background like an unpaid debt. These three—Time, Space, and Fate—were the first laws, the untouchables. From them, 2,998 other laws were birthed, all tiered and ranked like a bureaucratic nightmare made of metaphysics.
Among them stirred the Primordial Void Law—a principle of pure, unforgiving destruction. It had one goal: to devour all things. It thrived in the nothingness, tearing apart concepts before they even had the dignity of form. It didn't just destroy—it unmade.
But the laws were not without counter.
In an effort to suppress the rampaging chaos, the Supreme Laws fused with lower-tiered laws to forge the Principles of Creation. They bound chaos in radiant chains and planted the seeds of order, shaping what would become the World Realm.
And so, creation and destruction became inseparable. One born from the other. One forever chasing the other's tail.
Then came the first living being: the Void Dragon. Born of chaos and stabilized by the marriage of creation and destruction, it was a mythical beast of staggering power. It was also, apparently, bored. Its existence gave birth to the intent of the World Realm—desire, conflict, purpose.
From its lineage came a mortal. Not just any mortal. A descendant imbued with the Grey Bloodline of Destruction.
That mortal did not bring peace.
They shattered the world.
The World Realm, once unified, was split into three planes: the God Plane, the Mortal Plane, and the Inferno Plane. Countless fragments drifted in between like broken teeth. A war had carved the cosmos.
The gods, birthed during the upheaval, rose as champions of Creation. They obtained golden bloodlines, passed through the baptism of the orthodox laws, and were tasked with maintaining cosmic stability. How noble. How exhausting.
Mortals clung to the Mortal Plane, building civilizations in ignorance. The Inferno Plane bred demons—creatures of heat, hunger, and often very poor impulse control. They clashed, mingled, and sometimes got along just long enough to do something regrettable.
As for the descendant of the Void Dragon? He grew discontent.
The more he destroyed, the less meaning it had. The more power he gained, the less it thrilled him. So he did what all overpowered ancient beings eventually do—he got creative.
He recruited demons who saw him as the Father of Destruction and sent them to sow chaos in the God Plane. Not out of hatred. Out of boredom. Meanwhile, he divided his soul into lesser fragments, creating clones. Each one was sent to master a different law. His goal was nothing short of godhood: the comprehension of all laws, and ultimately, the mastery of Creation itself.
He chose to reincarnate his main soul—to experience life, struggle, and meaning the long way.
And then—
"RESKER!"
The sound of a panicked voice shattered divine thought.
"My water just broke!"
Suddenly, the tapestry of myth was replaced by a different kind of chaos.
A tall man in his early thirties burst into motion. Resker—handsome, broad-shouldered, and currently very flustered—leapt to his feet and ran like the world was on fire.
"Hold on, dear Anna! I'll get the midwives!"
He sprinted across the courtyard, muttering something unintelligible about towels, fate, and something he may or may not have forgotten to pack. Upon reaching the midwives' quarters, he didn't knock.
He screamed.
"You fools! My wife is in labor!"
Inside, elderly women shot to their feet like someone had activated a long-forgotten ritual.
"Did Lord Resker just say Missus is in labor?"
"We didn't hear wrong this time, did we?"
"Stop confirming with each other! Move your bones!"
"WHAT ARE YOU OLD WITCHES STILL DOING HERE?!" Resker barked, grabbing a broom like a weapon of divine wrath.
That got them moving.
⸻
Two Hours Later
The screams had faded.
The curses had stopped.
Silence finally fell.
The midwives, pale and sweaty, huddled around the newborn—who, notably, was not crying.
"He's not crying," one muttered. "Is he… dumb?"
"Alive but not crying? Maybe smack him a little?"
One midwife gently tapped the baby's backside.
The baby opened his eyes.
He did not cry.
He glared.
"Oh," the midwife said, clearly regretting her career choice.
She slapped him harder.
A pause. A breath.
Then the baby cried—a short, controlled burst. Not wailing. Not helpless. Just enough.
And then silence.
He stared at them all with shriveled eyes like a tax auditor reincarnated as an infant. Judging. Waiting.
And thus, he entered the world.
The boy with no name.
The child who would one day devour laws.