Silence.
Then light.
Not the light of a sun, nor the glow of creation's first dawn. This light came from him.
Erevan stood at the center of absolute nothingness, hands open, aura calm yet infinite. Golden flames danced with black lightning, cosmic energy spun around his shoulders, and the void storms swirled at his feet like obedient shadows.
He was no longer within the story he was the story.
> "No Author. No script. No destiny," he whispered. "Only me."
He raised a hand, and from the emptiness bloomed a universe.
At first, it was a spark then a storm. Stars formed like droplets of memory, galaxies spiraling outward as fragments of his imagination. The cosmos shaped itself from his thoughts, every particle of existence singing his name.
Erevan watched quietly as entire civilizations appeared beings of light, void, flame, and time, born from his will alone.
> "Rise," he commanded.
And they did.
Thousands of divine beings opened their eyes for the first time. Some kneeled in awe; others looked to him with questions that no one dared ask.
> "Who created us?" one dared whisper.
Erevan smiled, the glow of his aura reflecting across eternity.
> "A story that decided to write itself."
The new gods trembled as his presence filled the newborn multiverse. Every breath he took rewrote the structure of physics. Every step expanded the borders of creation.
Then his aura flickered. A ripple. Something unfamiliar.
From beyond his freshly made horizon, a distortion formed a mirror of himself.
It spoke with his voice, but softer, colder.
> "You've become what you destroyed."
Erevan turned, eyes glowing with ancient fire.
> "I've become what I chose."
The mirror smiled.
> "Then prove it. Create without control."
Before Erevan could respond, the reflection shattered breaking into a billion fragments that scattered into his new universe. Each piece became something different: chaos, balance, time, emotion, death.
For the first time since killing the Author, Erevan felt something new.
Challenge.
He laughed quietly, then louder, the sound echoing across every star he had created.
> "So even perfection writes its own limits."
He raised his hand again, and the multiverse expanded once more. But this time, he wasn't just rewriting he was experimenting. Creating stories within stories. Heroes. Villains. Worlds. Concepts.
All under him. All born from him.
And deep in the growing expanse of his new cosmos, one spark began to glow brighter a being with eyes like his own.
> "Maybe," Erevan murmured, "this time, the story won't need to be rewritten."
The camera of existence pulled back galaxies spiraling, light blooming across infinity. Erevan sat upon his throne of starlight, calm and omniscient, watching his creation unfold.
He was no longer the destroyer of gods.
He was the Father of Realities.