Beyond the edges of maps, in an intangible space where destinies were woven and unraveled, the specters of power convened. It was not a hall, nor a sky, nor an abyss. It was the confluence of primordial wills, a void humming with the murmur of eons. There, entities of unthinkable antiquity rested upon thrones wrought from pure concepts: War, Time, Wisdom, Ruin. The atmosphere was dense, heavy with the weight of a thousand worlds observed and a thousand cycles concluded.
The medium—if it could be called air—vibrated with a deep laugh that emanated from a being whose form resembled a constellation in perpetual collision. "The Grand Tournament of Munkai approaches," its voice resonated, a distant and cheerful thunder. "The pieces are beginning to move on the mortal board. My champions, forged in the furnaces of supernovae, are ready." A gesture of its hand, and the void was painted with brief flashes of colossal battles, planets wielded as thrown weapons.
Another being, a serpentine silhouette of liquid shadow, whispered, and its sound was that of a forest being strangled: "I have already made my choice. The creature from the oceanic abyss, one that will swallow continents. Its hunger is my will." Its words left a salty, desperate aftertaste in the consciousness of those present.
It was a feast. They toasted with nectar distilled from fallen legends, celebrating the coming conflicts as a grand drama of which they were both the authors and the only worthy spectators. The fame, renown, and might of their chosen champions were their currency, their pride.
Among them, observing with a calmness bordering on non-existence, was another.
He emitted neither the brilliance of stars nor the stench of battle. He lacked the oppressive presence of the void or the lethal elegance of decay. He was, for all intents and purposes, a newborn. His essence was faint, like the first breath of life upon a cold pane of glass. He held no rank, no history, not a single champion to his name. The others barely noted his presence; he was a footnote in the grand council of the ancient gods.
But he watched. His eyes—if they were eyes—did not rest upon the obvious titans, the heroes destined to blaze with fury. He scoured the worlds with infinite patience, probing forgotten corners, the cracks where light never reached.
And then, he saw him.
In a low-ranked world, gray and exhausted, a young man struggled to survive another day. There was no sparkle in his eyes, no promise of greatness in his bones. He was gaunt, marked by weariness and a deafening hopelessness. The newborn god watched him be defeated in a street brawl over a few coins, watched him drag himself away, and then, hours later, saw him rise—not with rage, but with a cold, stubborn determination. He saw him seek the tiniest advantage, a sharpened scrap of metal, learning from his mistake not for revenge, but to not lose next time. He saw him fail, and try again. Fail once more, and persist.
He was not a lion. Not an eagle. Not a wolf.
He was something that crawled in the darkness, something trampled and despised, yet something that always returned.
An analogy formed in the mind of the nameless young god. A creature scorned by all superior beings, considered the lowest, the most vile. A cockroach.
Not the brute force of an elephant, nor the lethal speed of a hawk. It was an indomitable resilience. The capacity to withstand poison, famine, cataclysm. To hide in the world's cracks, to wait, to adapt, to survive when everything around it perished.
A whisper, so soft it was swallowed immediately by the cosmic celebration's din, escaped him. It was not a triumphant voice, but a clear, quiet affirmation, like the first heartbeat in a corpse.
"You," murmured the god without rank. "You will not shine first. You may never shine in their eyes. But when their stars gutter out, when their heroes crumble to dust and their legends are forgotten... you will still be there. Trampled, perhaps. Wounded, without doubt. But alive. And where there is life, there is possibility.