Beyond the world of mankind lies a place, untouched by ti, not bound by the laws of gravity and gazed upon by the eyes of mortals.
The stars, ever so shining, cast their faint light and glimr as a symbol of hope to the realm below. Cold and distant, yet even they weren’t eternal — glowing in silent defiance of the void surrounding them.
Yet beyond the ethereal light known as stars and the constellation that mankind nad and worshiped lay another place as old as ti morial.
Beyond them lie the heavens.
Not the heavens spoken of in scripture nor those whispered about in bedti stories with winged angels carrying the righteous through the clouds to eternal hapiness.
No golden gates.
The heavens grow ever brighter with age, their brilliance surpassing the comprehension re mortals would never understand. The radiance they emitted wasn’t a byproduct of energy but comprehension itself.
Light was not a re illumination but a recollection of the worship of the masses below.
But there is still more.
A place where colour not known to human eyes bled together like oil being poured on water, shimring, alive. Flowing into a river of shifting light that moved in directions that cannot be described, defying every natural order and law known to creation.
Vast shapes drifted through this realm, forming towers, even skyscrapers of translucent geotry that spiralled upwards in an endless cycle. Then instantly vanishing.
Bridges made of living light stretch from universe to universe, constantly moving. Existing briefly before being swallowed by a nebulous mist. Defying and contradicting laws.
Bizarre constructs erged, all from different eras of ti before collapsing like a boy dreaming them into existence, only to wake up and realise it was a fignt of their imagination.
No laws were obeyed here.
The law of physics. Removed.
The constraints of ti. Gone.
It could not be called a world. A universe. A dinsion or a realm.
It was sothing else entirely.
A whisper between realities. The ticking of the eternal clock as so my call it. Others know it as the Cradle of All or the Loom of Infinity if they glanced at it.
And within the span of this plane — there it was. If it could even be identified as an it.
"You can call a him," the voice spoke.
"Very well."
His form was like a silhouette sculpted of divine light, not ethereal like the stars and not burning like the sun. He was so flawless, that he cast no shadow. He had no distinct features — his form ever-changing.
Yet he remained in a human-like form... for now. His hair remained curiously long, cascading in waves of silvery white. Each strand moved gently as though caught in a breeze though no wind blew.
This aspect of his form recalled a mortal who had once walked the earth, even his hair seed to rember.
He sat upon what could barely be described as throne. It was more like a chair woven from the threads of existence.
It pulsed, breathed, and shifted, moving in harmony with his purpose.
And in his hands were threads. Countless — more than any mortal could count. If a person were asked to count. If asked to count the hairs of a donkey, one would declare it impossible.
They stretched in every direction before vanishing into the swirling landscape of imagination. Each thread shone with a unique hue. So pulsed softly, so flickered ominously and others danced with shadows.
He humd to himself.
The sound was neither music that originated from human kind — nor heavenly. It was otherworldly, a vibration that rattled the reality around him — forcing all that was false to disappear.
His precision was immaculate, his fingers moving with elegance, taking care of each of the countless threads — drawing so inwards, bending others and even weaving so back.
And when the ti ca, he would pluck at them like the strings of a grand cosmic harp.
Each motion of his fingers sent ripples through the shifting tapestry that surrounded him. Entire dinsions blinked in and out of view from the floor beneath him.
Threads glowing with destiny twisted together, forming a string across the unknown, while others unraveled gently, as if undoing the knots of ti itself.
He paused for a mont.
A singer thread in particular, quivered beneath his touch— thin and fragile, yet bright with a small but defiant flicker of light.
For the briefest mont, the colours of the land dimd, as if in awe of this particular strand.
Then he resud, and the harmony continued.
This man—if he could be called that—was not a ruler, nor a deity in the way mortals would understand. He was a puppeteer that made the strings dance to his design.
A whisper drifted through the space—a wordless echo from another ti, another place. Perhaps it was a mory. Perhaps it was a warning. He tilted his head slightly, listening, though his expression never changed.
And still he worked.
Ti had no aning here. Monts stretched and folded, overlapping and separating with each shift of his fingers.
To him, it was all one piece of a picture. One great pattern waiting to be completed.
The air had long since stilled in that space where ti unraveled and color bled into void — and at the center of it all was Weaver.
It was his space, his area, and his domain.
Then... it ca.
A ripple, a distortion in the nonexistent horizon. The reality groaned in protest to the being that approached, slow and deliberate in its tracks.
Its form was broken, jagged and shifting. One mont tall and the next it crawled.
It moved like a phantom echo, impossible to pin or even witness with the eyes of mortals. Its presence warped the very concept of space around it — destroying it as fast as it stitched itself back.
Each step it took was soundless, yet thunderous in weight.
The ground beneath it bent was not crushed, but rewritten, as if the world itself made way for it unwillingly. The colors of the realm peeled back like dead skin beneath its feet. The hues of thought and emotion receded, turning gray and voidlike in its wake.
It did not need permission to walk here. It was not a guest.
It was inevitability itself that all things would co to an end and be reborn anew.
It ca to a halt, just a breath away from the Weaver, and sat with unnatural ease — like a shadow pretending to be a person.
It paused, then wrapped its arms softly around Weaver’s neck.
"Weaver," it rasped. Its voice beca a dissonant murmur that resonated throughout the land. "What have you been up to?"
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ARC 1 END
I’ll be relasing a notice today in auxiliary, you need to check it out but dont worry I will still be posting new Chapters from tommorow
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