Once there was a marvelous white city, built from anthracite, so pure that even its floors mirrored the golden warmth of the sun. Laughter drifted through its radiant streets.
Prosperity ruled as both nature and economy flourished. Nobody feared hunger or poverty. And from afar rose a sky-blue castle that shimmered like heaven itself and the dwelling of the city's ruler, his beloved, and their children.
The king was a man of justice and righteousness. He swore an oath to never abandon them, never to place himself above their needs.
But vows are as fragile as breath—beautiful while spoken and gone in the moment silence falls.
"Let's see," whispered a voice unseen, "if such a righteous, selfless man can truly hold to his principles."
The man, just awoken from his slumber, heard nothing or perhaps chose not to hear. Nor did the other 1,296,213 souls of this blissful city.
That was the beginning of their nightmare.
The being wandered through countless minds, searching for a spark of despair, one soul tired of perfection. It searched for many years until at last it found a hollow yet beautiful heart: a person who smiled with the crowd but longed, deep inside, for change. Whether small or great, it did not matter. Only that it was different.
The being fed upon the emptiness. Slowly, it consumed its host from within.
On the first day of 2.b.S, the day after the king's birthday, he woke to find his bed cold and his beloved gone. Fear took him. He searched everywhere until the guards found her body drifting in the palace pond. It was all meaningless. He found her body. The pond was quiet.
For the first time, the king did not smile. Even if he did not know what expression his shattered soul wore, he knew only that it was no longer his own.
The people, uncertain and afraid, turned away from grief. They praised their king for his strength and for his justice and prayed he might find peace. But peace eluded him. He ordered an investigation, a hunt for the murderer who had stolen his light.
The next two years would be remembered as the King's fury, also named as the darkest era of this city's history.
Grief turned to rage. Isolation consumed him. He trusted no one; love and reason withered in him, replaced by the desperate need of vengeance. Yet, despite his torment, he clung to his principle that he would not condemn an innocent.
Still, the rage beneath his calm grew every day. He interrogated every servant of that fateful night and traced every whisper and every contact of his late queen. He needed only one name, one truth, so that he could breathe again.
But truth never came.
Assassinations followed. Then public executions. The king himself took the blade, his fury unveiled. And as he raised his sword over the last trembling man, the prisoner cried out.
"I am not the culprit… but I know who is."
The king halted. A bargain was struck. A name for a mercy.
"Your son," the man whispered, "was seen with your wife by the pond at night. They argued fiercely."
Rage blinded the king. He cut the man down where he stood.
He would not believe it. Yet the seed of doubt was sown. When he confronted him, the boy's trembling words and averted eyes betrayed him, or seemed to.
The king could not bear it. He could not slay his own blood, yet could not rest without truth.
So he did what no man should ever do.
He offered his soul to the void and summoned one of the twelve eons, beings older than the world itself, living concepts forged from nature's own will.
The air trembled. Every torch in the hall died at once. Then the voice came, and it spoke with a voice like wind through stone:
"What is your deepest wish, nameless king?"
"I desire the death of my sin."
"And what are you willing to pay for that?"
"Myself"
The eon laughed like the void mocking its own silence.
"Your soul alone is not enough. But I am fond of wagers, for every bet is a seed of ruin, and I enjoy watching it grow. I shall give you one piece of truth. A detail of your murderer, but not his name. Names hold a power even I cannot twist. If you find the right one and deliver judgement, I shall vanish and peace will return. But if you strike the wrong soul… you shall pay for your greed."
"How can I be sure your clue will lead me to him?"
"A wise king should know the truth when he sees it," the eon echoed. "That's my promise."
A promise from an eon is no blessing, only a warning unheeded.
"I accept."
"And what of your vow, O king?" The eon mocked. "Never to place yourself above your people?.If you lose, they perish with you, for they are bound to your soul. They cannot exist without you, nor you without them. A perfect symbiosis. Disgusting, isn't it?"
"Your words will not sway me. I must find my old self, or I cannot rule this eternal city."
"Eternal?" the eon mused. "You know nothing of eternity."
"Perhaps, but I know everything of humanity."
The eon laughed once more, and the sound lingered, hollow and eternal, like the echo of joy in a world of nothingness.
"Listen well, o tragic one. Your murderer is…"
And in that instant at 0.b.S., the city and all within it vanished. As though they had never been.
Only the eon's voice lingered in the void, whispering through the silence of this barren desert:
"Humanity is just a fleeting whim, destined to fade away. What endures in eternum… is silence."