Once upon a time, there lived a man who only had suffered misfortunes his entire life. Even when he died, he died such a tragic death that no one dared to approach his corpse.
The rain fell in sheets that night, washing the blood from his broken body into the muddy street. Lightning illuminated his face in brief flashes—a face that had never known true peace, even in sleep. Now, in death, his features had settled into an expression of surprised anguish, as if his final realization had been that even his end would offer no dignity.
No one approached the body. Not from respect for the dead, but from superstition. "Bad luck follows bad luck," the villagers whispered from behind shuttered windows. "The misfortune might spread." So the man who had lived alone died alone, and would have remained there until wild dogs came were it not for the old blind woman who shuffled forward with her walking stick tapping on the slick cobblestones.
"Such a pity," she murmured, her clouded eyes somehow finding the dead man's face. "Such a pity that you never knew."
Her gnarled fingers reached out, closing the man's eyelids. "Never knew that your suffering had purpose. That your misery fed a god's amusement."
High above, beyond the storm clouds, beyond the dome of stars that mortals called the heavens, a being of immense power reclined on a throne of polished obsidian. The Primordial God of Fate, eldest of the Celestial Court, lazily traced patterns in the air with one finger, each movement altering the destinies of thousands.
"Another masterpiece concluded," he remarked to no one in particular, his voice like distant thunder. "Did you see how he struggled until the very end? How hope flared in his eyes with each small fortune, only to be extinguished more thoroughly than before?"
The attending lesser immortals nodded appreciatively, careful to mask any emotions that might displease their master. The God of Fate had elevated anguish to an art form over the millennia, and his moods were as capricious as the destinies he manipulated.
"The despair at the end," he continued, satisfaction evident in his ageless voice, "when he realized that his every attempt to rise had been part of my design all along—exquisite."
"Truly masterful, Divine One," an attendant agreed, refilling the god's cup with celestial wine that shimmered like liquid starlight. "Will you select another mortal canvas for your next work?"
The God of Fate sighed, momentarily bored. "Perhaps. Though they break so easily these days. Remember when mortals had real spirit? When they would rage against their fate even as it crushed them? Now they merely whimper and accept."
"The mortal realm has grown dull since the Great Subjugation," another immortal observed carefully. "When they still believed they could challenge heaven."
The God of Fate's eyes narrowed slightly. "A dangerous time, best forgotten. Better that they worship from afar, providing us with their belief and entertaining us with their brief, flickering lives."
Far beyond the celestial palaces, beyond the boundaries of the universe where even the self-proclaimed gods could not enter, a presence stirred. Not a being in any sense comprehensible to mortal or immortal minds, but a fundamental aspect of existence itself—the Supreme Power that had emerged from the Era of Nothingness.
It had no name, for names were limitations, and it existed before and beyond such constraints. It had birthed the universe out of loneliness, creating first the immortals to serve as companions, then mortals to bring diversity and unpredictability to creation.
After the exhaustion of creation, it had rested, withdrawing its direct awareness from the worlds it had made, trusting its children to flourish according to the natural laws it had established.
Now, awakening from its cosmic slumber, it observed what had become of its design. The immortals, drunk on power and worship, had forgotten their origin. They called themselves gods, lords of creation, and treated the mortal realm as their playground.
The Supreme Power felt something analogous to sorrow, though such simple emotions were pale shadows of its cosmic awareness. It had created the immortals to guide and nurture the mortal realm. Instead, they had enslaved it.
The death of the unfortunate man—one of countless souls tormented for divine entertainment—was but a drop in an ocean of suffering. Yet sometimes a single drop could cause ripples that would eventually become waves.
The Supreme Power reached out with its limitless consciousness, touching the fading soul of the dead man. It gathered the essence that would have dispersed back into the cosmic cycle and infused it with purpose.
Something new began to form—not quite an object, not quite a concept, but a potentiality that would find its perfect vessel. A seed of power that would grow into a force capable of challenging heaven itself.
This would be no mere weapon but a system of advancement, a path that would allow a mortal to reach heights forbidden by the self-proclaimed gods. The ultimate equalizer.
The God Slayer was born.
And somewhere in the vast tapestry of existence, a child drew its first breath, unaware of the destiny that awaited it.