Just over a millennium had passed since the Second Rupture tore the stars asunder.
Without warning, a wound split open across the fabric of space—a Void vast enough to eclipse entire suns. From its depths poured the Voidspawn: creatures born of hunger and entropy, driven by a single, mindless instinct—to consume.
Entire planets were scoured clean of life. Colonies vanished before distress signals could even transmit. Civilisations that had endured for millennia collapsed within mere periods, devoured by a hunger that knew no end.
Orcus survived only by the narrowest margin—through chance, tenacity, and the unyielding Will to Live that burned within every native soul. The centuries that followed were not crowned with triumph but scarred by relentless struggle.
Recovery came haltingly. Populations clawed their way back from near-extinction, families taking root once more in soil still tainted by ruin. Societies rose upon fractured foundations, piecing together what little could be salvaged. Economies—shattered beyond recognition—staggered forward in uncertain fits and starts, recalibrating with each cautious step toward stability.
Even the colonies once consumed by the Voidspawn were not surrendered; they were wrested back inch by bitter inch. Never swiftly. Never cleanly. Every advance was bought with blood, every foothold torn from the gaping maws of the abyss itself.
Yet from that crucible of adversity, something remarkable emerged: a golden era of innovation that propelled the galaxy to heights surpassing even its pre-Rupture brilliance.
For nearly five centuries, a fragile equilibrium endured. None mistook it for peace. The wound carved across the cosmos had merely scabbed over; beneath it, the darkness still festered.
Then came the whispers.
At first, they were dismissed—rumours passed between merchant convoys and drifting satellites along the far edge of the Orcus Galaxy. But the stories spread, gathering substance with every retelling: strange anomalies, vanishing outposts, sightings of entities that should not exist. Reports flooded the Inter-Origin Network, and the old fear—buried beneath generations of brittle calm—caught like dry tinder to flame.
The whispers hardened into alarm as scouts and soldiers along the outer rim confirmed the worst: Shadebringers.
These were no longer the crude, instinct-driven Minor-grade spawn of the Void's First Phase. Shadebringers were Tall-grade predators—apex hunters of immense stature and unnerving intelligence. They were not remnants; they were harbingers. Their appearance marked a threshold—the dawn of the Void's Second Phase.
Orcus required no prophecy to know what would follow. It needed only to look upon Nihilim—Ground Zero of the First Rupture.
Once a pinnacle of civilisation, Nihilim was now a blight upon the Origin Universe, a dead galaxy many no longer even called by name. Most simply knew it as the Negative Realm. Its traditions were extinguished, its languages forgotten, and ninety percent of its people were lost. Most survivors drifted among the stars as exiles—some traders, others refugees seeking haven across neighbouring galaxies. Many had settled within Orcus, its nearest sanctuary, though what remained of their heritage eroded with each passing Cycle as they assimilated with the native populace.
Knowing this, the response to the looming Second Phase was immediate and devastating.
Among the common populace, fear became currency. Markets plunged as civilians hoarded resources, bracing for wars that had not yet begun. Outlying colonies nearest the rim emptied as families abandoned ancestral homes, fleeing inward toward the more stable core worlds. Trade convoys were rerouted, leaving border systems starved of goods, while those too poor to flee fortified fragile settlements that would not even withstand a single strike of a Tall-grade predator.
Within the inner domains, prosperity curdled into paranoia. Noble houses sealed their borders and began conscripting private armies under the guise of defensive readiness. The Great Clans convened emergency councils, yet unity proved brittle—each alliance shadowed by suspicion that another clan might exploit the crisis for conquest.
For the others, opportunity bloomed within the chaos. Weapons manufacturers revived long-forbidden research, resurrecting devices once deemed too catastrophic and unethical for use. Even the academies of Orcus—once sanctuaries of pure scholarship—fractured into factions: those who sought to understand the Void, those who sought to seal it and those who sought to weaponise it.
Not even the fortified core worlds were spared. Refugee tides overwhelmed infrastructure; disease followed overcrowding, famine followed disease, and civil unrest swept through the sectors like wildfire.
The Second Phase had not even yet descended—yet already the ripples of its coming had begun to unravel the fragile order that Orcus had bled to rebuild.
The Inter-Galactic Origin Training was no ordinary undertaking. Conceived through collaboration between the greatest minds of the Sapientia Galaxy and the Celestials of Genesis and Time, it was created to prepare the younger generations of Origin-Dwellers for the ever-expanding existential threat of the Void.
The Celestials were beings of incomprehensible magnitude—entities existing upon higher-dimensional planes far beyond mortal perception. Their interference in mortal affairs was exceedingly rare; when they acted, even the smallest gesture could alter the destinies of entire universes.
For eons, they had remained distant arbiters, content to observe the rise and fall of civilisations and, on occasion, to bestow fragments of their power upon mortals who achieved feats worthy of their gaze. Such blessings were legend—rare, capricious, and often perilous.
The First Rupture marked a turning point. For the first time in the Origin's recorded history, a Celestial chose not merely to observe, but to collaborate—to work alongside mortals.
According to public records, the Celestial of Genesis had long held a peculiar fondness for the Origin Universe for reasons never fully understood. The prospect of its annihilation by the encroaching Void stirred genuine concern within them; the thought of its destruction was intolerable.
The catalyst for their intervention began in the Sapientia Galaxy, where researchers—brilliant, desperate, and disillusioned—had begun to contemplate abandoning the Origin entirely in search of refuge beyond its bounds. Witnessing this despair, the Celestial of Genesis intervened. Their influence rekindled purpose among mortals, and from that act of interference, the Inter-Galactic Origin Training was born: a programme to empower Origin-dwellers to strengthen themselves, confront the Void, and, perhaps, one day, overcome it.
The cooperation of the Celestial of Time was wholly unexpected. Even the Celestial of Genesis could not fathom what compelled them to intervene. The Celestial of Time was a recluse, rarely interacting even among their own kind. Yet their contribution proved indispensable. By their power, the time flow between dimensions was altered to ensure that for the duration of the IGOT, time within the Origin would slow almost to stillness.
Not a heartbeat, not a sunrise, would pass while the Trainees ventured beyond the Origin. No loved one would age; no event would unfold in their absence. The universe would hold its breath until they returned upon the Training's conclusion.
And while the Origin remained unchanged, those who departed would return transformed—tempered by entire lifetimes of experience that, to the rest, had passed in a single Instance.
Officially, the Training was presented as a pragmatic initiative—a means for Origin-Dwellers to journey beyond their universe, to explore foreign realms, refine their abilities, and return tempered. But the Celestial of Genesis envisioned far more.
Within the Celestial dimension, the Training would serve as a spectacle—a broadcast across the higher planes showcasing mortal resilience, ingenuity, and will. It was entertainment, experiment, and revelation all at once: an appeal to other Celestials to recognise the potential of the Origin's inhabitants and grant them greater opportunities to earn Celestial favour and power.
To ensure such an outcome, a link between mortals and Celestials was established through the Celestial Receiver. Originally conceived as a communication interface to maintain contact between the Researchers and the Celestials, it became the cornerstone of the program's design. Through the combined power of the Celestials of Genesis and Time, the Receivers were woven into the fabric of mortal birth itself—every Origin-Dweller were henceforth born with one embedded in their non-dominant wrist.
She had always known this day would come—as did every Origin-Dweller.
But not like this.
Not before her Naming Ceremony.
Not before she had even begun to acclimatise to her clan, to society, to life beyond confinement.
The timing felt almost cruel.
Valeryon drew a slow, measured breath. A faint verdant glow unfurled from her fingertips as she combed her hands through the long, black cascade of her hair, detangling each strand with deliberate precision. Had she had the time, she would have run it through with a brush, but this would have to do for now. Light rippled down its length, coaxing away the droplets clinging to her skin and hair until they hovered—perfect spheres suspended in the air—before she directed them into the marble basin with a flick of her fingers.
She extended her power outward, brushing it across every surface. Under her scrutiny, metal, marble, and glass dulled into a muted sheen as she stripped them clean of all organic traces.
The thought of anyone—or anything—coming into contact with her biological residue was intolerable. Since childhood, she had been taught that negligence of one's remnants was a cardinal sin. Blood, flesh, even a single strand of hair could be weaponised. After all, in the wrong hands, there were many ways to twist such fragments into conduits of harm—capable of harming not only their source but any who shared their bloodline.
Only when the chamber gleamed sterile and inert, purged of even the faintest trace of her essence, did she allow the magic to recede and withdraw her hand.
The doors parted with a muted hiss as she stepped into her quarters.
The room was as austere as it was immaculate: a low bed dressed in plain linen stood against the far wall; beside it, a narrow table and a single high-backed chair. In the corner, a compact storage unit held the few possessions she had chosen to bring from the Trial Grounds. Everything else—what little she had once owned—had long since been discarded.
Across the bed lay her ceremonial attire, meticulously arranged for her long-awaited Naming Ceremony. That moment, however, was now to be postponed indefinitely—at least for her.
Within the Origin, time would remain suspended during her absence. Temporal dilation would ensure that when she finally returned, nothing would have changed. Everything would continue exactly as planned, untouched by the fact that she had ever been gone.
She was unsure whether the summons required her immediate presence, but since there was no guidance, she decided to be careful as she dressed. Her gown was made of iridescent black silk, with a high collar and long sleeves perfectly fitted to her form. Every thread had been conjured by her own hand—created from condensed magic and woven with skill developed over a decade. Along the hem, roses bloomed in soft pastel shades, their gentle colours the only contrast to the gown's deep, monochrome darkness.
She slipped on her gloves, the supple material moulding seamlessly to her hands, and then pulled on her worn black leather boots. Cobbling was not among her strengths, and Nanny Bot never requisitioned replacements until the old pair had deteriorated beyond repair or fit. She could only be grateful that the gown's length concealed the worst of their wear.
To complete the ensemble, she lifted an iridescent black silk veil—shoulder-length and opaque to any observer, yet transparent from within—over her head. She fastened it in place with a simple circlet composed of two interlocking bands of dark gold metal.
When her preparations were complete, she paused. A long breath escaped her as she worked to steady the unease tightening in her chest. Then, she raised her hand and pressed her fingertips against the Celestial Receiver embedded in her wrist. The device responded instantly, releasing a soft blue radiance that expanded outward in concentric waves until the entire chamber glowed.
The air shuddered. Space itself began to distort—folding, rippling, and unfolding again—as a colossal portal unfurled before her, testing the very fabric of reality. It stretched almost to the ceiling, wide enough for ten of her to walk through abreast. Its surface shimmered like disturbed water, liquid and luminous.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
This was it.
Drawing a deep breath, Valeryon closed her eyes, centred herself, and stepped forward into the light.