The Primordial Void was not silent.
It breathed. It pulsed. Every flicker of nothingness held meaning beyond mortal comprehension, every shimmer of shadow whispering a truth older than existence itself.
And within that endless dark — deeper than time, older than causality — a figure approached.
Each of their steps sent ripples across the fabric of the Void, not waves, but reverberations of reality itself.
Kaelaris Nyr'then, the Firstborn of Aetherys, descended through layers of forgotten dimensions until the stillness itself began to bend, parting like mist before an unseen throne.
He did not need to speak. He did not need to announce himself.
For the one he sought — his Father — already knew.
"...You've come," came the voice.
It was not sound. It was not even language. It was a resonance that hummed inside Kaelaris's essence, like a thousand truths being whispered at once.
The Primordial Creator, Lucien Dreamveil, sat upon nothing — and yet upon everything. His form was the void itself; fragments of galaxies bled through his silhouette, eyes deep with layered universes, his expression calm as eternity.
Kaelaris bowed his head slightly, though he knew Lucien never required reverence.
"Father," Kaelaris said softly, his voice both male and female, divine and neutral — a perfect harmony of balance. "I come not to inform you of what you already know… but to understand why you allow it."
Lucien's gaze didn't shift, but the void around him stirred, swirling like ink in water. "You mean Earth-10," he said. "The fragile world that refuses to die."
Kaelaris nodded. "Its entropy levels are rising faster than predicted. The Black Apocalypse energy—what mortals call dark matter—has thickened around its solar cluster. Life still persists… but it teeters on the edge of consumption."
Lucien smiled faintly. "As it should."
"Should it?" Kaelaris pressed. "Even within the Aetherys Multiverse, other universes thrive in light and order. But in this one—Apocalypse Black—entropy reigns supreme. The density of void energy is suffocating worlds. Civilizations fall before they're even born."
Lucien leaned back, resting his chin against his hand — an oddly human gesture from a being who predated the concept of hands. "Entropy is the truest teacher," he said. "The void feeds creation as much as it devours it. You, of all beings, know that."
Kaelaris looked away for a moment, his ethereal gaze falling upon the billions of galaxies shimmering faintly across Lucien's dark form — each one a story, a tragedy, a rebirth. "I do," he murmured. "But the balance is thinning. The mortals are changing too fast. Even Apostles evolve beyond our sight."
Lucien chuckled quietly. "And that's the point, my child."
Kaelaris frowned, brow creasing. "You mean Kairis Ash."
Lucien's smile deepened — soft, almost fond. "He's adapting. Painfully, beautifully. Every death in that dungeon was a hymn of evolution. Even now, he treads the path I once feared mortals could not."
Kaelaris tilted his head, his tone sharpening. "Then why burden his world with growing entropy? Why let the dark matter grow dense, why allow Apocalypse Black to spiral further into collapse?"
Lucien's gaze turned upon his child — and for a moment, the Void itself stilled. "Because," he said, "collapse births revelation. And revelation births transcendence. The denser the void, the sharper the light that pierces it."
Kaelaris fell silent, gazing into the endless ocean of unformed stars. His mind flickered with visions: countless other planets, some swallowed by their own suns, some ruled by crystalline beings of sound and color. In each, the same energy flowed — the entropy of the Void.
"Then it's true," Kaelaris murmured. "Even within Apocalypse Black, there are other worlds… other life forms struggling against the density of your creation."
Lucien's voice lowered, carrying a strange gentleness. "Apocalypse Black was never meant to be a single planet, Kaelaris. It is an ecosystem of decay and rebirth — a cosmic crucible. Earth-10 is merely one node, one test. But others will soon awaken."
Kaelaris's eyes flickered, a hint of awe—and perhaps fear. "Then this isn't an ending."
Lucien's smile returned, faint, timeless. "No. It's the beginning of the true Age of Aetherys."
A pulse rippled through the void — an echo that made entire galaxies flicker like candle flames.
Kaelaris looked up, finally sensing the shift. A new resonance—foreign yet familiar—was forming in the lower realms. His voice turned cautious. "Then the others… the Apostles of the higher branches—"
"They'll come," Lucien said simply. "Some will aid. Others will destroy. All will reveal their nature."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the Void hummed softly, the heartbeat of an infinite creation watching itself unfold.
Finally, Kaelaris knelt. His tone softened again, reverent but laced with quiet understanding. "Then I will continue to oversee Aetherys as you wish. I will not interfere with your Apostle's trial… though his light burns strangely bright, even for one forged in your shadow."
Lucien's voice deepened, almost like a whisper curling across time itself.
"Let it burn, my child."
Then, softer—almost tender:
"For even the void needs its stars."