In a plane where reality does not dictate rules but learns them, floats an island above the void—suspended not by gravitational laws, but by the pure intention of the consciousness residing within it. A living jewel in the ocean of primordial emptiness.
This island has no fixed contours. It grows and shrinks, spins and hovers, according to the will of its contemplator. Its forests feed not on soil or rain, but on ideas. Each leaf, an expression of ether. Each tree, a song carved into living form. Their canopies intertwine with golden clouds drifting above and below, for here high and low are merely symbolic concepts.
Winged beasts, woven from stellar birth-particles, soar through skies on aurora-fluttering wings. In crystalline rivers swim nameless ancestral creatures, defined only by purpose. Everything breathes harmony. Everything exists to be.
And at the island's heart, beside a lake reflecting not the sky but all possibilities of existence, stands him.
Erebus. The Creator Emperor.
Seated upon a stone shaped by time's own memory, Erebus does not meditate. He contemplates. And in contemplating, he molds. And in molding, he understands. The water before him does not merely reflect his image—it dances with realities.
Men at war. Women giving birth. Worlds emerging. Civilizations collapsing. Galaxies swirling in existence's dark womb.
He observes all. And all observe him back.
His body, vast and imposing, carries not a god's arrogance—but a foundation's certainty. Over three and a half meters of cosmic structure. Shoulders bearing epochs. Hands that could forge or unravel infinity with a touch.
His skin resembles metal bathed in starlight, patterns shifting silently: constellations, genesis runes, equations of existence. His hair—golden, silver, or void-black—floats in waves, guided by winds foreign to this plane.
Yet his eyes silence even deities.
They cycle through liquid silver, cosmic blue, deep violet, and absolute gold. Galaxies orbit his pupils. Supernovae die and rebirth in silence. Those who dare meet his gaze weep—not from pain, but from understanding too much.
He does not merely see. He comprehends. And in comprehending, he exists.
With each breath, new worlds could rise. But he creates not on impulse. He creates from necessity.
Around him hovers a cloak. Not woven by hands, but by the cosmos' own fabric. It shifts endlessly—now a nebula, now an endless night sky, now a field of never-were flowers.
『Character Record』
Name: Erebus
Title: Emperor Creator
Age: Eternal
Lineage: Infinite Creative Essence
Cultivation: Supreme Primordial
Dao: Supreme Dao of Creation
Eyes: Eternal Eyes of Creation
Soul: Soul of Infinite Genesis
Spiritual Root: Supreme Root of Creation
Cosmic Abilities:
Supreme Dao of Creation: universal re-creation
Eternal Eyes: see the structure of existence
Forge of Realities: creation of autonomous planes
Heart of Creation: complete restoration
Creative Explosion: rewriting reality
Touch of Life: conscious creation of living beings
Creative Presence: acceleration of evolution and harmony
Cosmic Genesis: birth of stars and constellations
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
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Before him, the lake breathes in tandem.
Within it float possibilities—realities in embryonic form. Universes shaped as light. Lives awaiting their script.
Erebus sighed. Yet this was no sound. It was a cosmic gesture.
"My sister mentioned the 'Fate-Less' are blooming across worlds…" he spoke more to the lake than himself. "Could this herald the birth of Creation's first natural Transcendents?"
His eyes fixed on a spark within the lake. One universe among billions.
Within it, a man meditated—Hongjun.
"He is close…" Erebus murmured, his words echoing through branches that hadn't existed moments prior. "But he chose the wrong path."
The World Dao, Hongjun's foundation for transcendence, was potent… yet unstable. An attempt to tame the whole without knowing the origin.
"Even if he transcends, it won't be through the paths we crafted" Erebus said, his voice heavy with eons of disappointment.
He did not judge. He did not impose. He only observed.
Then, something within him stirred.
His gaze shifted to a second point—a pulsing nexus above all visions.
The Multiverse Tree.
Living masterpiece. Sacred wellspring. Heart of harmony.
It floated neither near nor far. It was and wasn't part of the island. It existed in all directions at once.
Its roots pierced time's foundation. Its ever-shifting 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 slept in its fruit. When a leaf fell, an era ended. When a branch grew, a new fate branched forth.
At its core hovered the Primordial Fruit—a planet-sized sphere throbbing with white life-energy, veined in ever-shifting gold. Each pulse was a heartbeat of the multiverse.
"It still beats strong" Erebus whispered, relief coloring his tone. "Yet cracks spread among the youngest branches…"
"The records foretold this" he said, gaze resting on time's layers. "My siblings knew that someday… someone would dare bend the World Dao."
The lake's images shifted hue. A subtle glow rippled its surface.
Erebus remained still.
"Fate is not absolute" he murmured. "But it watches. And now… it waits."
The lake's surface undulated softly. Erebus observed in silence—a silence woven of thought, and thoughts that shaped what was and what was not.
The Primordial Fruit shimmered above the Multiverse Tree. Strange ripples traveled its golden veins—near-invisible, yet undeniable. Like a seed trying to sprout mid-hurricane.
"Even without consciousness… the Primordial Chaos may have planted these seeds" he whispered, eyes narrowing with lucidity.
The Chaos.
Before Creation, it was all.
Not by choice, but by absence.
A sea of unshaped infinite possibilities.
Formless. Dao-less. Structureless.
Erebus simply awoke within it.
And now, after countless epochs, the Chaos murmured again.
Not with words.
With anomalies.
Scars on the Tree's branches.
Echoes of eras that never were.
Fractures where fate should have been solid.
"If someone shatters the World Dao's foundation and survives… if a mortal learns to bend the multiverse's own will…" Erebus looked toward the dark sky above the Tree. "…then balance ceases to be a concept. It becomes a memory."
Another image surfaced in the lake.
A new plane.
A new cycle.
A newborn star pulsed above an incandescent world. On its surface, a baby cried its first breath—its wail resonating with ancestral Qi. Unborn flower petals rained from the sky as if the cosmos already hailed it.
Erebus tilted his head slightly.
"Another Fate-Less soul…"
This was the fifth birth unrecorded in Creation's Book in under a thousand cycles.
A negligible number to most.
An impossible anomaly to him.
"The Fate-Less are not errors" Erebus now addressed the Tree itself. "They are proof the world is beginning to dream on its own"
The Tree's roots responded.
Pulsed.
A single leaf fell—drifting slow as a sigh.
When it touched the lake, a wave dissolved all visions.
Now the lake showed only dark, silent sky.
"Fate has fallen silent" said Erebus. "But silence too is an answer."
He rose.
His wings of light unfurled 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 halted before the Multiverse Tree.
For an instant, nothing moved.
Then he extended his right hand.
Touched the trunk with splayed fingers.
The energy there flowed differently—a river trapped between epochs.
The Tree murmured…
"The Chaos sows. And Creation instinctively reacts" he reflected. "The Tree bears fruit… out of season."
The Primordial Fruit pulsed once.
A heartbeat.
A reply.
Erebus withdrew.
"I could intervene. Pluck flawed fruit, prune fractured branches. Restore harmony with a gesture"
Yet he did not.
"Perhaps imbalance is… the new balance."
Creation should not stagnate.
It was flow.
Movement.
Controlled uncertainty.
And the Fate-Less… were not flaws.
They were unforeseen possibilities.
"Did I go too far in stabilizing everything?"
Doubt surfaced—brief, sharp as crystal, yet undenied.
Erebus gazed at the sky above the Tree.
No stars.
Only the dark canvas where Chaos rested.
"If Chaos acts with intensity again, even formless… Creation's Children must choose: resist or transcend."
For the first time in epochs, Erebus did not know the path.
He returned to the lake.
Sat.
Crossed his legs slowly.
This time, the surface showed Lyra's face—newly awakened as Eternal Empress—flickering through time's layers.
Orion's gaze—steadfast, burning, calculated.
And between them… an empty space.
"A new lineage…" Erebus whispered. "Perhaps that is where Fate wishes to breathe anew."
He closed his eyes.
Creation was restless.
But the Creator… watched.