These are the records from the Beginning. Not written on parchment, not carved in stone, not even whispered to mortal ears, but set upon the sky, the waters, the bones of the earth itself. Long before men knew how to mark deeds with ink, before the sands of time weighed their first grains, the first age had already been written. I saw it. I heard it. I moved among it. I was there when Eden fell, when the world first learned that the earth could turn against its children.
The Bloodlines of Adam and the Shadow of Cain
After Eden, Adam and Eve wandered east. Cast out, the world of thorns and shadow spread before them. From them came the first bloodlines of men—the mortal children of the Architect, made of dust and breath, carrying in their veins fragments of something greater.
Cain and Abel were born beneath different omens. Abel kept flocks and gave them as offerings, simple and pure, the scent of burning fat and wool pleasing to the heavens. Cain tilled the soil, and his fruits were proud, given from hands that sought their own glory. When the Architect favored Abel, something dark opened in Cain's heart. He heard whispers from the edge of the void, echoes of the Morning Star's defiance. And in one furious instant, he struck his brother down. The soil drank blood. The heavens wept. The earth cried out.
Yet the Architect spared him. Cain became a wanderer, cursed to roam, his descendants building the first cities of iron and stone, learning sorceries and rites that bent both flesh and spirit.
Adam and Eve bore Seth. Through him, the line that would endure, the true line, survived. Generations passed: Enos, Cainan, Mahalaleel, Jared. Each walked some path of the Architect, each touched by the light, yet shadows grew with every age. Cain's defiance was a creeping plague, slow but unrelenting, carried in the hearts of men.
The Rise and Fall of Atlantis
In the years when the blood of the Watchers still lingered, there rose Atlantis. Not made of earth alone, nor of heaven's will alone, but of ambition unbound. Towers of pale blue crystal glittered in the sun, streets hummed with power older than memory. The oceans around it glowed unnaturally, as if the water itself bent in awe. Winds carried songs that no living tongue could name.
The Atlanteans were masters of craft and sorcery, taught by the Watchers who walked among them in forms both terrible and beautiful. They spoke with beasts, bent the tides, commanded the wind. Yet their greatest power lay in three Shards of the Word—fragments of the First Utterance, syllables from the birth of the worlds. Each shard could shape reality, call storms, stifle the oceans, bind fire from the earth's core.
Their kings hungered for more. Adanir the Radiant, first among them, sought to ascend beyond flesh, to become as gods. They tore a wound in creation itself with the Shards. The Watchers cheered. Priests chanted names older than the stars. Even Lucifer's whispers seemed to ripple through the rift they opened.
But the Architect's command came. The seas rose. Mountains shook. Engines of the Nexus collapsed. The Shards vanished. Atlantis, a city of pride and ambition, sank beneath the waves. Survivors fled to hidden islands, caves, cold deep places, but most perished. Still, the earth remained scarred. The bloodlines of corrupted kings ran in men and Nephilim alike. The Watchers lingered, hidden, patient, dangerous.
I saw it all. I heard the screams swallowed by water, the splintering of towers, the last cries of priests who had thought themselves above the laws of the Architect. The city shone one last moment in the storm—then it was gone.
The Days of Enoch and the Encroaching Darkness
Meanwhile, the world grew darker. Enoch was born in those times, a child of mortal flesh but eyes that saw beyond it. He spoke with angels, read the hidden signs on the stars, carved warnings into stone. He saw the Watchers descending, mingling with men, begetting giants and warlords, demigods who would enslave the earth.
He cried out. Rebuked them. Walked so close to the Architect that mortal earth could not hold him. And in mercy, the Architect took him—body and soul—into higher realms.
His absence made the world darker still. His son Methuselah watched corruption grow. Men forgot the Architect, raised temples to alien spirits. Blood of the Nephilim mixed with men. Cities of sin rose: Lemuria, Eridu, and remnants of Atlantis' exiled line. Temples ran red with offerings. Magic tore cracks in the veil.
The Birth of Noah and the Coming Flood
Then, in the twilight of these ages, Lamech, son of Methuselah, fathered a boy. Pale as clouded dawn, eyes reflecting a light no mortal flame could kindle. His name, given by the Architect Himself, was Noah.
From his first breath, the earth seemed to still. Beasts paused. Winds stilled. Even hidden Watchers stirred. Noah bore the line of Seth, unbroken and pure. He was a vessel of the Architect's breath.
The records said:
"When the earth is full of blood and the heavens weep, one of Seth's line shall rise, and the earth be cleansed."
The Architect commanded him to build an Ark. Vast enough for his sons, their wives, and all beasts of the earth. Wood from ancient groves, pitch from the resin of oldest trees. Forty days, forty nights, the rain would fall.
The world mocked him. Kings of Lemuria, high in crystal towers, laughed and called blood magic, opening gates to dark things. Priests chanted names older than the earth itself, trying to hold back the waters. They failed. The Architect's command cannot be broken.
The Deluge and the End of the First Age
And so it began.
The final beasts entered the Ark. Noah's family took their place. The heavens darkened. Rain fell. Forty days, forty nights. The sun vanished. Moon swallowed in storm clouds. Temples toppled. Towers of Atlantis, buried in the deep, crumbled beneath the waves. Lemuria burned and drowned. Watchers bound, cast into the abyss. Only Noah's Ark floated, a lone vessel on an endless, unbroken sea.
I saw the earth wash clean. Cain's line faded. Nephilim blood gone or scattered. Cities of pride no more. And yet, the war between heaven and unseen shadows was not over. The story wasn't finished.
I moved within it, as I always have. The unseen hand beneath the tide, the storm behind the storm, the whisper that carries through time.
The records endure. The next age waited, heavy with sorrow, hope, and the faint stirrings of men yet to come.