The fragment of Yggdrasil's root drifted through the newborn cosmos like a shard of molten gold suspended in nothingness. Around it, the void stretched endlessly, a black canvas awaiting the first strokes of divinity. Shojiro, still cradled within the translucent sap of the Cradle, watched as the primordial energies began to stir, pulsing through the root fragment, and seeding the very essence of the universe with possibility.
The Primordials moved around the fragment with careful precision. Poseidara's form shimmered like mercury, her limbs flowing in arcs of water and liquid motion that bent around the root fragment without touching it, yet shaping it subtly. Where her presence lingered, droplets coalesced into oceans, tiny spheres at first, then waves that whispered of tides and currents that would one day lap at the shores of Earth. She traced patterns across the fragment with invisible fingers, coaxing the flow of water into coherence, teasing life from potential, shaping continents that had yet to form.
Hephaestus' arms glowed with molten brilliance, sparks leaping from his fingertips as he pressed against the fragment. Each touch etched geometry into the raw substance of creation, folding matter into spirals, lattices, and foundations that would support mountains, valleys, and cities yet unborn. The air, such as it existed, vibrated with the hum of impossible machines, the faint echo of forges that had not yet fired, the sound of construction before the tools even existed. He shaped not merely stone, but potential itself, instilling resilience into the sinews of what would one day be called Earth.
Voltraeus' presence crackled around the fragment like a storm waiting to awaken. Black-and-gold lightning streaked across the void, illuminating the golden sap and casting shadows that danced like living memories. Where his energy struck, the fragment responded — veins of radiant power threading through the roots, whispering of magnetic fields, electric currents, the pulse of life bound to energy. Sparks ignited across the fragment, dancing across the nascent lands, setting the first rhythm of atmospheric storms and celestial electricity that would one day charge the skies.
Nocturne moved like ink spilling across the edges of the root, shadows coiling and twisting around the forming light. His touch was subtle yet profound, dampening some edges, sharpening others, balancing the excess brilliance with silence and restraint. He taught the void how to rest, how to pause, how to hold darkness alongside radiance. Each shadow he wove ensured that the creation would not blind itself with untempered brilliance, that night could exist alongside day, and that stillness could temper motion.
Thanamira hovered with a gentle grace, her spectral wings reflecting fragments of the root's light in subtle glimmers. She exhaled faint clouds of spectral essence, and within them stirred the first seeds of consciousness — the flicker of spirit that would one day become sentient life. Her hands traced arcs through the void, sprinkling sparks that quivered with hope and fragility. Each pulse carried the echo of compassion, the promise that life could remember beauty even in hardship.
Above them all, Artemis floated, observing with eyes that contained the weight of understanding and the clarity of infinity. She said nothing at first, letting her companions weave existence with the precision of gods. Finally, she spoke, her voice threading into the Cradle like sunlight bending through mist:
"It will be fragile… but in fragility, beauty endures."
Shojiro could not look away. The fragment pulsed beneath him, and within each pulse, he glimpsed the faint outline of seasons, of oceans, of land yet to take shape. The sap that cradled him shimmered with a golden hue, flowing along his forming veins, vibrating with the memories of every Law the Primordials had set. It carried with it the echo of creation itself, and with each pulse, the first hints of life stirred.
Poseidara's oceans began to swell and recede, forming tides that whispered against invisible shores. Currents twisted and folded, intertwining with Hephaestus' lattices of stone, creating the contours of mountains and valleys. The fragment's surface quivered as Voltraeus' lightning traced rivers of energy across it, carving paths for rivers, lakes, and the eventual storms that would bring life to barren lands. Nocturne's shadows filled the valleys and canyons, balancing the brilliance with darkness, etching night into the contours of day, creating the rhythm of time and rest that would allow life to flourish.
Thanamira's sparks, drifting like fireflies, began to cling to the fragment. Each spark pulsed with nascent spirit, quivering with potential. Shojiro felt the weight of each pulse in his chest — a heartbeat of creation yet to be born. It was delicate, a fragile lattice of hope and fragility that could shatter with the slightest imbalance. And yet, it endured.
Hephaestus lifted his hands and pressed them together, forging the first mountains from the bones of the fragment. He pressed not just with power, but with intention, instilling structure into chaos. Where his energy touched, stones aligned with precision, forming peaks, valleys, plateaus, and the first semblances of continents. Hephaestus' brilliance rippled through the sap of the Cradle, connecting Shojiro to every contour, every fold, every curve, every stone of the forming lands.
Artemis' voice came again, soft but piercing:
"Observe, Shojiro. Watch how fragility and strength coexist. Creation is not dominance, nor control. It is careful tending, and the awareness of its own impermanence."
Shojiro's gaze followed as Poseidara's waters lapped against Hephaestus' mountains, carving the first riverbeds, eroding the edges of stone into shapes that were neither perfect nor symmetrical, yet breathtaking in their balance. Voltraeus' electricity crackled across the rivers and oceans, establishing currents, storms, and the first lightning that would one day breathe energy into the lands. Nocturne's shadows lingered in the valleys, teaching the rivers to pause and flow, the storms to rage and settle, the earth to rest and awaken. Thanamira's sparks hovered above the oceans and mountains, touching the lands and waters with potential, igniting the first whispers of life, the gentle hum of sentience yet to be realized.
Shojiro could feel the Cradle vibrating beneath him, resonating with every movement, every breath, every touch of the Primordials. He felt himself as part of this creation, an observer woven into the very threads of its formation. And as he watched, the fragment began to glow brighter, a living core of potential, the seed from which all would grow.
Artemis' voice wrapped around him one final time in this vision:
"See the fragility, Shojiro. The root carries potential, yes — but it also carries vulnerability. All that is born can be unmade. That is the truth of life, and its beauty. Remember this."
As the words settled, Shojiro's mind expanded with understanding. He saw the balance of creation — the interplay of water and stone, light and shadow, motion and rest, spirit and structure. He felt the fragility of life as a pulse, and the awe of its birth as an echo in his soul.
The fragment pulsed once more, and then the first leaf of Yggdrasil unfurled across the void — delicate, luminous, impossibly intricate. Shojiro's eyes reflected its glow, and for a single instant, the universe felt infinite, eternal, and breathtakingly alive.
And in that instant, Shojiro understood the weight of witnessing — the responsibility of watching the very fabric of life take its first breath.
The glow of Yggdrasil's root had settled into steady luminescence, casting golden veins across the forming lands of Shojiro's vision. Rivers curved, mountains rose, and the first sparks of life stirred within the oceans and forests. Yet even as he watched, a subtle tremor shifted the harmony — a pulse that did not belong, a rhythm alien to creation.
Shojiro could not name it. It was not dark, nor light, nor any shade between. It was jagged, discontinuous, a vibration that scratched against the edges of his mind. The air — such as it existed — shivered. The stars that had begun to ignite seemed to flicker, uncertain of their own brightness.
From the void above the root, a drop fell. It was blacker than shadow, yet it refracted the golden light of Yggdrasil into shards of crimson and violet. Shojiro felt its fall echo inside him, as though the drop carried not only mass but intention. It moved with a will, spinning slowly through the newborn cosmos, twisting the void around it like a worm in soft earth.
The Primordials paused. Poseidara's currents froze mid-flow. Hephaestus' lattices of stone quivered. Voltraeus' lightning bent back upon itself. Nocturne's shadows recoiled. Thanamira's sparks trembled in the air. Artemis' eyes narrowed, scanning, analyzing. All instinctively recognized the anomaly, yet none dared touch it.
Shojiro's mind followed the drop as it reached the fragment of Yggdrasil. It landed on the sap as though it were a predator taking its first step into a nursery. The golden veins recoiled, rippling outward in waves of warning. Shojiro could feel the pulse — a malignancy spreading, a thought not made for nurture, a will designed for hunger.
From the drop, shapes began to form. They were grotesque at first — liquid forms twisting into skeletal patterns, eyes that opened where no eyes should exist, limbs bending impossibly as though multiple dimensions collided in a single silhouette. Each form carried awareness. Each form carried hunger. Each form carried Arae's mark.
Shojiro felt a cold panic seep into him. He could not look away. He could not look away because his soul was tethered to the vision, bound by the sap of the Cradle and by Yggdrasil's own memory of creation. Every pulse of the Primordials' life-giving energy highlighted the darkness, tracing the edges of the abominations in stark relief.
The first creature raised a jagged limb toward Shojiro's perspective, its form flickering like a broken reflection. Its eye — or what could be called an eye — stared into the fabric of the Cradle itself. Hunger radiated from it, pure and unfiltered. Shojiro felt his stomach twist. He felt the weight of inevitability pressing in.
Another fell from the drop, then another, then dozens more, each birthed from the same crimson seed. Blood from Arae's imprisoned body spilled into the void like ink in water, and with every drop, life warped into corruption. Bones formed, twisted, and shattered. Shadows gained substance. Liquid coalesced into forms that wavered between solidity and thought. Shojiro could see the essence of malice etched into each abomination — the same hunger, the same curiosity, the same intelligence that had once driven Arae to madness.
The floor of Purgatory, though distant and intangible, shivered in response. Waves of corruption rippled across the fragment, reaching out toward the newborn lands. Shojiro felt the first tremors of dread that would one day define mortality. Life and death were not yet balanced; this was the intrusion of ruin before the first dawn, the whisper of a storm before it reached the sea.
The Primordials' reactions were subtle but immediate. Poseidara swirled her currents defensively, attempting to push back against the encroaching darkness, but the abominations flowed around her waves like water around rocks. Hephaestus' lattices shivered under the strain of these new, chaotic forms, cracks appearing in what he had intended to be eternal. Voltraeus' lightning struck at them, yet it danced across their shapes without impact, illuminating their forms but failing to disperse them. Nocturne's shadows tried to engulf them, but the darkness warped against itself, giving the abominations substance rather than erasure. Thanamira's spectral sparks hovered closer, trembling as if uncertain whether to touch these malformed spirits. Artemis' hands moved invisibly across the Cradle, cataloging, marking, noting every aberration, but she did not intervene.
Shojiro could feel their fear. Not the fear of weakness, but the fear of inevitability. This pulse, this drop, this first act of Arae's malice, had broken the fragile pattern of harmony. He watched as the abominations began to move, their jagged forms exploring the cracks of the fragment, testing the void between stars, slipping along the edges of reality itself.
And then Arae's intent became clearer. From the crimson drop, a thought emerged — sharp, precise, alien. If I cannot leave this prison, then my children shall.
Shojiro saw them surge forward. They multiplied faster than the mind could track. For every one abomination destroyed or dispersed, two more emerged from the blood, crawling, stretching, folding space in ways that defied the laws just written. The void, once still and ordered by Yggdrasil's root, bent under their will.
The Primordials could only watch. Poseidara's waves ebbed and flowed, failing to contain the surge. Voltraeus' fury burned brightly, illuminating the chaos, but not quelling it. Nocturne's shadows trembled in opposition, the light and dark out of balance. Moara's restraint held her back — she knew the cost of interference, and Artemis' wisdom forbade action that might disrupt the natural weaving of what was yet to come. Thanamira felt despair coil around her chest as she glimpsed what this hunger might do to the first sparks of life.
Shojiro, from the Cradle, felt the inevitability press into him. Every abomination carried the seed of ruin, and every seed of ruin carried the weight of the Primordials' failure to act. He understood then that Arae's blood was more than life — it was entropy incarnate, intelligence made malice, a force designed to spread beyond the bounds of containment.
And yet, even as the abominations swarmed and multiplied, there was a strange beauty to their forms. They twisted and bent reality, but in their movements, Shojiro could glimpse the echo of his mentors' actions — the Primordials' will mirrored in these shadows, inverted into chaos. Every spark of creativity, every gesture of care, had left an imprint in Arae's offspring. They were horrific, yes, but they were also proof that creation and destruction were bound together.
The pulse of the drop slowed slightly as Arae's children began to explore the void beyond Yggdrasil's fragment. Shojiro watched, knowing that the first step of this corruption would not be the last. He could see the spread of darkness toward the newborn universe, a creeping shadow that would eventually touch oceans, skies, and minds yet unborn.
Artemis' voice filled the Cradle, calm yet imbued with warning:
"Observe, Shojiro. Witness what happens when creation is challenged from within. Understand that ruin does not always come from outside. Sometimes, it begins in the heart of what we believe is perfect."
Shojiro felt her words as a pulse in his chest, echoing the rhythm of the forming cosmos. The golden sap around him shimmered with tension, and the abominations spread farther, ever closer to the edge of the root fragment.
The Primordials' vigil continued, silent but resolute. They had given birth to a universe, yet now, even as life flickered into being, they realized the cost of their fragility. Arae's presence — even bound and restrained — was inevitable. Shojiro's heart thudded against the sap, a tiny witness to cosmic horror.
And as he watched, he understood the truth of fragility once more: beauty and horror are never separate. They coexist, entwined, shaping the universe as inexorably as life shapes death.
The first shadow had fallen.
And Shojiro knew it would not be the last.
The crimson drop had settled into the void for only a moment, yet already it pulsed with life. Shojiro could see it writhe, coil, and split — a seed of malevolence feeding on the fractures left by the Primordials' creation. Every pulse sent ripples through the nascent cosmos, distorting Yggdrasil's golden roots, whispering chaos into the veins of the forming universe.
And then it rose.
A form, grotesque and aware, crawled from the drop. Limbs bent in ways that should have been impossible, each joint stretching and twisting across dimensions. Eyes — if they could be called eyes — glimmered with hunger, reflecting the fractured light of Yggdrasil. Its mouth, or the place where a mouth should have been, opened and closed, a soft whisper of thought spilling into the void.
Shojiro felt it first as dread, then as understanding: these were no mere monsters. These were extensions of Arae himself, born of his blood, carrying his will.
And as the first abomination moved, more followed. From the single drop, dozens emerged, then hundreds, then countless, each one different yet undeniably related. They bent the void to their movements, testing it, stretching it, exploring the edges of reality with silent, unfeeling intelligence.
The Primordials watched.
Poseidara's tides froze mid-flow, unable to touch the creeping darkness. Hephaestus' constructs shivered in the air, metal bending against nothing, unable to strike. Voltraeus' lightning crackled impotently, illuminating the forms but leaving them untouched. Nocturne's shadows recoiled, warped by the unnatural essence of Arae's spawn. Thanamira's sparks wavered in terror, threatening to act, yet restrained by invisible chains.
And Artemis… Artemis simply observed, cataloging, noting, analyzing, her mind a map of both horror and inevitability.
Because they could not intervene.
The laws of Yggdrasil, the seals forged in the wake of Arae's curse, bound them. Any direct action against these creations would unravel their own threads, taint the root, and violate the one truth that had been imposed upon them: nothing born of Arae's blood could be touched, contained, or destroyed by divine hands.
Shojiro felt the weight of that realization settle over him like a suffocating tide. Not even the gods could stop this. Not even the Primordials. Their power, vast beyond comprehension, was useless here. Their hands could mold stone, water, life, and light, but they could not touch what Arae had made.
The abominations explored without pause. They tested the cracks in the void, prodded the edges of Yggdrasil's root fragment, and spread through the embryonic lands. Bone fused with shadow, flesh fused with energy, and thought fused with hunger. Every movement was precise, deliberate, and yet alien.
Shojiro's stomach twisted as he realized the scale. Each abomination was aware. Each had intelligence. Each carried a fragment of Arae's will, and therefore a fragment of his malice. And they would multiply. Always multiply.
One creature stepped toward Yggdrasil itself. Its form shimmered like a mirage, flickering between solid and conceptual. Shojiro could feel the pulse of the root react — the golden sap recoiling, rippling outward, fighting, warning. But the abomination moved unimpeded. The Primordials could not step in. They could not bend their currents, forge, or light to halt it. Even a whisper of divine interference would break the rules.
Arae's voice, distant yet piercing, echoed through Shojiro's mind. Not words, exactly, but intent made audible: "If I cannot leave this prison… then my children shall."
Shojiro watched the abominations surge. One fractured a nascent mountain, another tore a river from its banks before flowing back into nothing. They did not kill life — not yet — but they reshaped it, tested it, and understood it in ways that the Primordials could not.
Hephaestus' molten lattices strained, but he could not reach the abominations. Poseidara's currents crashed against them only to flow harmlessly around their forms. Voltraeus struck with all his fury; his lightning illuminated their shapes but passed through them like light through glass. Nocturne's shadows tried to suppress them but instead warped, giving the creatures substance. Thanamira's spectral sparks hovered close, trembling, but dared not touch. Artemis' hands remained still, weaving nothing but observation.
The horror was in the restraint. The Primordials could see the threat. They understood the malice. They knew the destruction that could follow. But every attempt to intervene would unravel the delicate lattice of laws and creation they had just set in motion.
Shojiro felt the inevitability pressing into him. Every abomination was a test of the Primordials' restraint, a reminder that power had limits, that even gods could be powerless. He could see it in their eyes: Poseidara's fury restrained by cosmic law, Hephaestus' frustration, Voltraeus' unspent wrath, Thanamira's silent despair, Nocturne's controlled tension, Artemis' unwavering documentation. Even Moara, whose heart often walked the border between curse and compassion, refrained from action.
The abominations multiplied faster than thought. The blood of Arae spread like ink, each drop a seed, each seed birthing horrors anew. Shadows melded with flesh, sinew entwined with energy, bones folding into impossible shapes. Purgatory itself trembled under the weight of their emergence.
Shojiro's perspective shifted as the swarm of creatures explored the newborn universe. They were drawn to life, to movement, to light and shadow, testing, probing. The ripple of malice stretched toward the lands that Yggdrasil's roots were beginning to cradle, and Shojiro understood the depth of the danger. He could see the inevitability: the darkness would spread, and no god could stop it.
And still, there was a strange order within the chaos. Shojiro could see Arae's thought etched into every movement, his intelligence reflected in the pattern of growth, even as his intent remained malevolent. These were creations of ruin, yet they carried echoes of creation itself. Every flicker of movement was a twisted mirror of the Primordials' acts — only inverted, corrupted, and deadly.
Artemis' voice echoed again, soft, infinite, and unyielding:
"Shojiro. Witness this. These are the first children of Arae, and yet they are bound to him as we are bound to Yggdrasil. We cannot intervene. To touch them would unravel the laws we have set. To act would endanger all that has just begun. Observe. Learn. Understand. One day, you may see the consequences fully."
Shojiro's chest tightened. He felt the weight of all creation pressing against him. Even the Primordials' immense power — the same power that had shaped mountains, oceans, light, and life — could not prevent the spread of ruin. It was absolute. It was unavoidable.
The abominations continued to multiply. Their hunger, their curiosity, their malice — everything a reflection of Arae — was now free to explore the newborn universe. Shojiro could only watch.
And in the endless void of observation, one truth became clear: Arae's corruption would always be beyond touch. Nothing born of him could ever be contained by divine hands.
Shojiro shivered. The first shadow had emerged.
And the Primordials, even at the height of their power, could do nothing.
Shojiro's chest tightened as the first abominations moved across the void, but then the pulse changed.
It was no longer random exploration. No longer the erratic curiosity of fledgling horrors.
A will had taken hold.
Arae stirred. Not his body — that remained bound, dragged into the depths of Purgatory — but his mind. His essence reached outward, threading into each of his children. Shojiro could feel it, a cold tendril curling into the marrow of his own awareness, brushing the edges of his thoughts with distant malice.
The abominations responded instantly. They shifted, aligning in patterns far beyond instinct. Their grotesque forms bent toward purpose. They moved with intent. They hunted in unison, probing every fragment of the newborn universe as if cataloging it for destruction.
One by one, Shojiro saw how they obeyed Arae's silent command:
A hulking, sinewed monstrosity tore a mountain into jagged shards, flinging them into the void. A smaller, serpentine abomination slithered through the forming rivers, tasting the waters, learning their flow. Others clustered around Yggdrasil's roots, whispering and testing the sap, nudging and probing like corrupted children with endless patience.
And through it all, Shojiro felt his own heartbeat betray him. Despite the horror, despite the creeping dread, he could not stop thinking of Artemis. Her calm presence, her infinite patience, her brilliance… even here, even now, he felt the ache of longing. His love-struck gaze followed her shimmering form as she hovered at the edge of the chaos, cataloging each movement, analyzing every shift, yet never intervening.
"Do not be afraid," Artemis said, her voice threading into his mind as both warning and comfort. "What you see is the inevitability of consequence. Arae's will reaches outward, touching all his children, bending them to his thought. They are not mere beasts. They are extensions of him. They are inevitability made flesh, blood, and shadow."
Shojiro swallowed hard. The shadows writhed, forming grotesque mimicries of life and thought. Even from afar, he could feel the hunger in them — the echo of Arae's own desire to unravel, to consume, to remake the universe in his image. And yet, no god could touch them. The Primordials' power, immense beyond comprehension, stopped at an invisible barrier. They could watch. They could catalog. They could mourn. But they could not act.
Hephaestus' molten constructs hovered impotently in the void, Poseidara's currents twisted and fell apart against invisible constraints, Voltraeus' lightning sizzled harmlessly into nothing, Nocturne's shadows warped and refracted, Thanamira's sparks of life faltered — all in silent frustration. Only Artemis and Moara maintained composure, observing without interference.
Shojiro felt the helplessness of the gods as if it were his own. And then he saw it: the abominations were multiplying faster than thought. Each one was smarter than the last, learning, adapting, probing, and crawling into the cracks of reality. Purgatory trembled under their weight, and yet Arae's essence remained chained, distant, imprisoned… but not powerless.
The abominations surged like tides, and with every step, Shojiro's pulse quickened — both from fear and the ache in his chest for Artemis. Even amid chaos, he could not stop thinking of her, imagining her eyes, her voice, her touch. He wanted to run to her, to plead for guidance, for reassurance, but he knew better. She would not intervene, and even if she could, he could not let her see him falter.
Artemis' voice brushed his mind again, soft yet commanding:
"Watch closely, Shojiro. The children of Arae will test every corner of creation. Their spread is inexorable. You cannot stop it. No god can. And this… this is only the beginning."
Shojiro's gaze followed the movements of the first of Arae's spawn as they began to coordinate with uncanny intelligence. Some began to reshape landscapes — jagged mountains collapsing into valleys, rivers bending to impossible directions. Others crept toward Yggdrasil's roots, whispering into the golden sap, probing, testing. Their intent was clear: if Arae cannot escape, his children will ensure his will spreads regardless.
He felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The beauty of creation he had witnessed before — the forming rivers, the first breaths of life, the golden veins of Yggdrasil — now seemed fragile in the face of this relentless tide of malice. The contrast between creation and corruption had never been sharper.
And yet… he could not stop thinking of Artemis. Even as the universe trembled, his heart raced with longing, desire, and admiration. Every pulse of his new form, every flicker of consciousness within the Cradle, echoed her name silently. His love, as helpless as the Primordials themselves, intertwined with awe and terror, leaving him both breathless and terrified at once.
Artemis observed him with quiet awareness, her voice threading again into his mind:
"You have seen the inevitability of ruin. You have seen creation's fragility. And you have felt… your heart."
Shojiro felt heat rise to his face. Even amid visions of cosmic abominations, the thought of Artemis made him shiver.
"Now," she said, "you will witness the next phase."
The shadows moved faster, the abominations spreading across nascent lands, exploring, learning, shaping, corrupting. Shojiro could feel the momentum building, an unstoppable tide of Arae's will stretching outward.
Artemis' voice softened, carrying both warning and anticipation:
"This is where the cycles begin, Shojiro. Watch carefully… for what you see now will echo through time and be repeated, over and over. The rise and fall of hope and ruin, creation and corruption, the eternal turning of beginnings into endings… you are about to witness the Cycles."
Shojiro's heart thudded painfully in his chest. He could barely focus on the words as his gaze lingered on her radiant, calm form. His love, reckless and burning, made the fear of Arae's children feel distant, secondary. And yet Artemis' warning pierced through the haze of longing: the Cycles were coming, and nothing — not even desire, not even love — could shield him from what was to come.
He nodded silently, though she could not see him.
The abominations surged, the void shifted, and the Cradle trembled. Shojiro was suspended between awe, terror, and his unyielding, aching love for Artemis — the last warmth in a universe just beginning to remember itself.
And there, at the precipice of inevitability, Artemis' voice lingered:
"Observe, Shojiro. The Cycles are about to begin. And soon… you will understand why even the gods must sometimes stand powerless."