Nyk Vandamson — Primordial of Run (Ruin)
Wind swept across the high plateau, clean and cold. Nyk sat near the edge with his legs dangling over the drop, cigarette unlit between his fingers. The world stretched out beneath him—mountains folding into distance, clouds sliding low like they were afraid to rise too high.
He closed his eyes.
Alright, he thought. Let's put it in order.
When he opened them again, the air around him felt thinner—like reality itself was listening.
"I'm Error rank," Nyk muttered, mostly to himself. "Not because I'm broken. Because the system can't decide what to do with me."
He lifted his hand.
Authority: Run (Ruin).
Not destruction for the sake of it. Not erasure out of rage.
Run was motion.
It was the moment something could no longer remain the same.
Nyk focused, and the space in front of him shimmered—not tearing, not vanishing—but redirecting. A possible future collapsed quietly, like a road that simply never got built.
"I don't delete existence," he said. "I delete outcomes."
That was the difference.
He could erase possibilities—paths before they ever became real. If something relied on a future event, Nyk could deny that event ever arriving. Battles ended before they escalated. Catastrophes failed to be born.
Conceptual Destruction (Refined):
No longer aimed at beings.
Aimed at conditions.
Erase the concept of victory in a fight—and no one wins.
Erase the concept of arrival—and reinforcements never show.
It cost him something every time.
Focus. Restraint. Responsibility.
That was the price Azelar had drilled into him.
Secondary Authorities:
Momentum Sovereignty: once something starts moving—physically or conceptually—Nyk can accelerate, stall, or redirect it. Aftermath Domain: damage, consequences, fallout—these favor him. The longer a conflict lasts, the stronger he becomes. FTL Movement: not raw speed, but skipping the need for distance. Primordial Regeneration: as long as consequence exists, so does he.
Nyk exhaled slowly.
"I'm not the end," he said. "I'm the shove that makes the end unavoidable."
The plateau stilled.
His authority settled into place—no longer flaring, no longer restless.
Solid.
Christine — Primordial of Continuation (Judgment–Decision)
Far below, in a quiet grove shaped like a natural amphitheater, Christine stood barefoot on stone warmed by sunlight. Her gun rested on a low table behind her—untouched.
She didn't need it anymore.
She raised her hand, two fingers extended.
Nothing happened.
She smiled softly.
Good.
"My authority isn't force," she said aloud. "It's permission."
Christine closed her eyes, and the world unfolded into branching lines—choices, intentions, outcomes layered atop one another like a living equation.
Authority: Continuation.
She did not decide who deserved to live.
She decided what deserved to continue.
A verdict wasn't punishment.
It was alignment.
If an action contradicted its own justification—if a being acted against the meaning it claimed—Christine could deny its continuation. Not violently. Cleanly.
Reality accepted it.
Judgment–Decision:
A verdict manifests only when Christine fully understands both sides. Emotion alone could not trigger it. Hatred weakened it. Certainty strengthened it.
She lifted her hand again.
A leaf drifting downward froze mid-air—not stopped, but paused at a decision point. Christine let it go.
The leaf continued falling.
Secondary Authorities:
Verdict Manifestation: issued through will, gesture, or gaze. Self-Judgment: she can turn her authority inward—measuring her own actions without immunity. Causal Clarity: lies, false intent, and corrupted motives stand out clearly to her. Resonance Efficiency: no weapon required; minimal energy loss.
Christine opened her eyes.
"I don't end things," she whispered. "I decide if they still make sense."
Her power settled gently, like a judge returning to her seat.
They came back together.
Nyk walked up the stone steps first, hands in his pockets, expression calmer than it had ever been. Christine followed beside him, posture relaxed, presence steady.
They felt different.
Not louder.
Not heavier.
Just… complete.
Nyk reached for Christine's hands and squeezed them, grinning.
"Damn. I guess we made it, babe."
Christine smiled back, eyes warm.
"Yeah. We did."
Then she glanced toward the horizon, thoughtful.
"But we still need to get stronger. I bet Rayon is leagues above us—even now."
Nyk laughed, shaking his head.
"Yeah, no shit, babe."
They stepped into the courtyard.
Azelar was already there, tea steaming gently in his cup. He looked up at them once—and knew.
He didn't ask.
He just smiled.
They bowed—not as equals, not as primordials—but as disciples.
And Azelar accepted it with quiet pride.
They sat.
Tea was poured.
For a brief moment, everything was peaceful.
The Sky Changes
Then the air shifted.
Christine felt it first.
Nyk followed an instant later.
A pressure—not hostile, but immense—descended over Isola Krein.
A shadow passed over the courtyard.
Azelar took a calm sip of tea.
"Hm," he said casually. "A dragon god?"
They looked up.
The sky parted—and Nexus descended.
Her form was radiant and controlled, wings folded with regal ease. Her belly was unmistakably round, power and life intertwined within it.
She landed gently.
Azelar snapped his fingers.
The modest house behind them flowed outward, stone reshaping, halls unfolding—until a mansion stood where it had been.
He stood and inclined his head.
"Welcome," he said warmly. "Family is always welcome here."
Nexus smiled.
Azelar's gaze lingered on her—on the strength she carried, on the presence within her womb. His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued.
"That child," he said softly. "Carries Rayon's essence… but mixed with something unfamiliar even to me."
Interest—not concern.
"Feel free to take anything you need on Isola Krein," Azelar continued. "If you require something significant—ask."
Nexus nodded. "Thank you."
They gathered beneath a shaded umbrella in the courtyard.
Nyk grinned at her.
"Damn, sis. You finally made it?"
Nexus laughed lightly. "Yeah, bro. I'm here."
Christine leaned forward. "Can I… feel?"
"Go ahead, sis."
Christine placed her hand gently against Nexus's belly—and felt a small, undeniable kick.
They laughed, easy and genuine.
Family.
Then Nexus looked at Azelar.
"So," she asked, curious. "When did you meet Rayon?"
Azelar leaned back, tea in hand.
"Hm… how long ago was it?" He thought for a moment. "A year. Maybe a year and a few months."
He smiled faintly.
"I was sitting right here, drinking tea. Isola Krein is held together by my presence, so I was bored. I released twenty times gravity across the entire continent."
Nyk blinked. "Casual."
Azelar chuckled.
"And then… someone walked in under it."
His gaze softened with memory.
"He adapted as we spoke. By the time I finished my tea, he was standing comfortably. He asked to train here. I said yes—under conditions."
"One hundred and fifty times gravity," Christine murmured.
Azelar nodded.
"It increased by ten every time he adapted. And he endured it."
He took another sip.
"I asked him to be my disciple. He refused. Instead, he became my student."
Nexus listened intently.
"He wasn't the Black Primordial then," Azelar continued. "Just a vessel—Erethon's, my old friend. A genius in combat. Even then, he survived thirty percent of my strength."
A pause.
"Then he sensed the thirteenth seal. Broke it. And contained the rest."
Azelar's smile turned knowing.
"That was when he became something else entirely."
He looked at Nexus, then at her belly.
"That's Rayon," he said simply.
Nexus rested a hand over her stomach, smiling softly.
Christine laughed as the baby kicked again.
Under the shade, with tea cooling and sunlight filtering through leaves, the world felt—just for a moment—safe.