The garden floated in impossible serenity—a realm suspended between thought and reality. Suns, each the size of worlds, drifted lazily in the void, their light bending like liquid around invisible rivers. These rivers were not of water, nor of air, but of pure cognition—streams of potentiality flowing from the unformed corners of the cosmos.
Sul's voice rose within this space. Not with the grand authority of a god, nor the command of a king—but with the quiet, insistent certainty of life itself. Her song did not shape the universe; it whispered to it, coaxing it awake. Notes wove into colors, harmonics into motion, and the very essence of being trembled in response.
Moac moved, not constrained by gravity or form, but in dialogue with it. Each step, each motion, seemed to bend the laws themselves. He danced with thought and weight alike, pirouetting along invisible axes, creating currents in the void that left trails of latent possibility. Where he moved, new potential sprouted like seeds across an unplanted field.
Cal sat, eyes closed, body still, arrogance folded inward and transmuted into discipline. The silence he commanded was not emptiness, but the concentrated weight of focus, a meditation that drew the chaos of pre-creation into shape. Around him, the raw threads of the cosmos began to shimmer, revealing that the void was not inert—it waited, ready to follow intention, but only if guided with understanding.
And the universe… was blank.
Not merely empty, not merely void, but pure in its absoluteness. No rules, no destinies, no threads pre-spun to dictate the fates of worlds. Only the promise of becoming. Only the potential of everything, yet realized in nothing.
From this blank canvas, from every corner of existence—even those corners that had never existed—beings began to stir. They awakened not under the tutelage of gods, nor under the authority of crowns or commandments. They stirred under the light of choice, guided only by will.
Free.
Boundless.
Unwritten.
And far beyond the newly forming planes, beyond stars, galaxies, and the faintest threads of creation yet to come, Vatae watched. Laughter, soft and resonant, rippled through the void. It was not madness, nor cruelty. It was not the laughter of triumph or derision. It was the laughter of infinite potential recognized—a knowing, patient acknowledgment that the cosmos had been handed back to its rightful heirs.
"A new story begins," Vatae whispered, his voice threading through every forming star, every nascent thought. "And this time… no one writes it but you."
The words fell like the first drops of rain on barren soil. And in their echo, the cosmos itself seemed to exhale.
In that exhale, all things began anew. Time, space, matter, life, and thought were not reborn—they were born for the first time, unshackled from preordained paths. No fates were written. No destinies were given. Every choice, every creation, every failure and triumph would emerge from the will of those who dared to act.
The old order—the fixed patterns, the cycles of inevitability, the silent edicts of power—vanished into nothingness. In their place arose an absolute beginning: a cosmos of unbound potential, a stage set for stories yet untold, for lives yet imagined.
This was the era of the unwritten.
And within it, all things held the seed of everything.
A true reset. An absolute beginning.