Chapter 1: The Absent Creator
The celestial hall of Ivernia shimmered with divine energy. Towering columns of crystal light reached toward a sky of swirling galaxies, and the floor beneath the gods reflected their forms like a pool of polished starlight.
They had gathered—Omnipotent Gods draped in robes of constellations, Forgotten Gods lurking in the corners like faded shadows, and even a rare few Eccentric Gods who bothered to attend, shimmering with chaotic energy. The air pulsed with tension.
At the center stood the Throne of Ascent, a massive structure carved from the bones of a dying star. Today, a new god was to rise—a lesser deity who had survived the Trials of Dominion, besting hundreds in the arena dimension.
A horn made of lightning rang out, silencing the murmurs.
"Let the Ascension begin," boomed the voice of Ishmael, God of Law, his staff radiating with pure order. "By ancient decree, the god Kaelion, son of Ember, shall be granted the mantle of Omnipotence."
Applause thundered through the hall, but it quickly faded as Ishmael raised his hand again.
"However... there is one obstacle that remains."
Whispers erupted. Everyone already knew.
"Kaelion must be assigned a world. A domain to rule and nurture. And for that, we require Atticus."
A pause.
Heads turned toward the empty seat—more like a floating chunk of void—where Atticus, the God of Worlds, should have sat. The void blinked. Then fizzled.
Still empty.
"Where is that fool?" muttered Zoraya, Goddess of Flames, her golden hair crackling with irritation. "He knows how vital this meeting is."
"He knows, but he doesn't care," grunted Thanos, God of Lightning. "That's the nature of an Eccentric."
Ishmael sighed. "He is the only one who can create a new world. Without him, Kaelion's ascension is incomplete."
Suddenly, a flicker of reality warped in the air above them. For a moment, a pair of mismatched eyes—one glowing blue, the other pitch-black—appeared in the rift. Then came a voice:
"I'm busy making stars out of boredom. Give your new godling a rock to play with until I'm in the mood."
Gasps echoed through the hall.
And just like that, the vision vanished.
Ishmael's face tightened. "He dares to mock us. Again."
But somewhere far beyond Ivernia, drifting across a nebula where even light forgot its name, Atticus reclined on a crescent moon, humming to himself. Around him floated half-made worlds—some serene, others collapsing on themselves.
He raised a hand lazily, swirling a small glowing orb into existence.
"Let's see how long they last without me."
He smirked.
The god who creates worlds had, once again, abandoned his own.
Atticus, the God of Worlds, reclined on a crescent moon that floated through the void. Dozens of half-made worlds hovered around him, some glowing with life, others decaying.
He stared at one in particular. It pulsed weakly, its colors dim.
He leaned forward, frowning slightly.
"That one's... dying."
He willed the orb closer. Populations were vanishing. Nature was out of balance. The divine code flickered like a heartbeat about to fail.
"Curious..."
With a flick of his wrist, space warped—and he descended into the world.
Smoke filled the air as Atticus arrived silently, invisible to all mortal eyes. The world he created—once vibrant with green mountains and golden rivers—was now cracked and bruised. A ruined village smoldered below.
He saw them: two men clashing in the center of the ruins. One, cloaked in black flames, moved with feral rage. The other, bloodied and bruised, still stood tall with a broken sword clutched in trembling hands.
Atticus's gaze narrowed.
"This human is interesting, even though he's badly wounded he still fight..."
The man in black flame screamed and lunged forward. The righteous warrior barely blocked the blow—then was kicked to the ground. He coughed blood.
Atticus tilted his head.
The dark figure struck. The righteous warrior collapsed.
"Just before the killing blow lands, time freezes."
Atticus raised his hand, his god-flesh shimmering with divine energy.
"Let's rewind the board, shall we?"
With a pulse of will, he gripped the thread of time and twisted it backward.