The platform outside of time and space no longer felt like a platform at all—it felt like the axis of existence itself. With every seat claimed, the air vibrated in a resonance no mortal, no god, no star could withstand. The presence of the Seven was not addition—it was multiplication, infinity feeding into infinity until the void itself seemed ready to bow. They were the pillars of all that is. Destruction, red hair ablaze with violet streaks, leaned forward in his throne, his aura gnawing at the void, each breath tearing at creation itself. Chaos, ever-shifting, flickered with laughter and terror, his seat warping as though it might dissolve, yet never quite falling apart. Life, radiant and unyielding, sat with her hands folded, her emerald presence breathing vitality into the emptiness, every inhale birthing light, every exhale silencing entropy. Time, vast and towering, his green hair flowing like rivers of aeons, his third eye pulsing with crimson inevitability, sat unblinking, measuring even eternity. Creation, beautiful and ethereal, her elven grace concealing immeasurable power, fingers resting upon the table as though sketching possibilities into being with every touch. The source of this content ɪs NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt Death, silent, veiled in obsidian calm, sat opposite Life, his presence neither cruel nor merciful—merely the truth all must accept. His stillness pressed upon the gathering like a reminder that endings are as sacred as beginnings. And at the center, upon the Throne of Thrones, sat Balance. Galaxies swirling in his eyes, twilight hair weaving contradictions into harmony, the ouroboros of all that is crowning his form. His serenity was not weakness but the keystone that made the rest possible. Seven chairs, seven forces. Not gods, not kings, but the first truths. And together, their assembly shook the boundless. Across galaxies, mortals looked to the skies in terror and wonder. The oldest stars trembled, black holes shivered, and forgotten planes woke from slumber, for the universe knew instinctively: The Primordials were seated. And their council had begun. But what happened next would leave most shocked. The Primordials... weren’t as primordial as they seemed. "Would you people quit with the acts? We aren’t among those idiots," Balance finally spoke with a long sigh, rubbing a hand down his face in weary exasperation. His voice, though deep and serene, carried a resonance that instantly tethered the volatile powers around him into reluctant harmony. "We are Primordials, hun," Creation chimed in, her tone melodic and amused. Her sharp, elven features softened with a mischievous flicker in her eyes. "Theatrics come with the title. Besides, don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the gravitas sometimes." "It isn’t that bad, right?" Time spoke up, his voice shockingly youthful—nothing like the ancient, inevitable titan most would imagine him to be. He shifted in his towering frame, the light of his eyes dimming with bemusement. "I’m tired of your antics," Death said flatly, his words carrying an edge of quiet annoyance. His gaze slid sideways, sharp and unrelenting, pinning Chaos like a predator sighting prey. "Especially yours. Release some tension already." "I don’t know what you mean," Chaos replied with a perfectly straight face. His aura was turbulent, his very form twitching at the edges as though ready to unravel, yet he sat with mock composure. The expression was so deliberately insincere that every other Primordial twitched in annoyance. "I suddenly feel like beating someone up," Destruction muttered, his reddish-violet eyes beginning to glow dangerously. Yet even in the threat, there was a playful spark—a child about to smash a toy just to see what happens. "Bring it on," Chaos snapped back instantly, his grin splitting into a manic smile, hair flaring like wild flame and eyes glittering with gleeful madness. The table of cosmic dust and divine roots vibrated as the two forces began to flare against each other, not with their true might, but enough to make universes shudder if they wanted Balance groaned audibly.Life giggled under her breath.And Creation smirked like someone enjoying a very old, very familiar joke. "I would love to see your expressions after I inform the girls," Life suddenly chimed in. Her voice rang like a chorus of bells, sweet and melodic, but beneath it was a dangerous edge sharp enough to slice through stars. The effect was immediate—Chaos and Destruction froze mid-motion, their wild auras retreating in silence until their presence faded into the background, as though they no longer existed at all. "Hehe! Works every time," Life added with a playful grin, her golden-green eyes dancing. If Ethan had been here to witness her, he would have been struck speechless—for she bore a strange resemblance to his mother, a similarity that was subtle yet undeniable. "Now," Balance spoke at last, his voice deep and commanding, yet calm as the stillness before dawn. His eyes glowed faintly, galaxies swirling within them as he raised a single hand. In response, projections of countless beings flickered into existence around the platform. They were gods, rulers, sovereigns, paragons—supernatural beings of terrifying strength and vast dominion. Some radiated arrogance like a flame too bright to control. Some exuded oppressive auras so sharp they could crush a mortal by presence alone. Others appeared casual, their faces calm and detached as though nothing could shake them. But what bound them all in commonality was not what they radiated—it was what they did not. None of them sat upon a throne. Chairs, yes. Thrones, no. Some chairs were plain, humble things. Others were exotic, crafted of flame, crystal, shadow, or light. Some were wrought from living vines, others from molten metal or rivers of frozen time itself. Yet not a single one of those beings dared claim a throne. For there were only seven.And the Primordials sat upon them. At the sight of the seven, the beings in the projections shifted. Some bowed with grace, their respect genuine. Others bowed stiffly, unwillingness burning in their eyes, their pride resisting even as their bodies bent. But bow they did. It was not obedience to a command—it was inevitability, the very nature of existence itself demanding submission. For the Primordials were not gods. They were above gods. There could be a thousand gods of Death, but all of them were fragments—reflections—of a single root. A single word from Primordial Death could unravel their existence, stripping them of their domains and dissolving their very concepts into nothingness. There were gods of fire, water, earth, and air. Mighty beings who could raze continents, flood oceans, or shake the firmament. Yet even their flames, their waves, their stones, and their winds bent to one truth. To the still, inevitable hand of Balance. Even the other Primordials were not exempt. For Balance was not merely a concept—it was the law that tethered all existence. He was the scale upon which gods, mortals, and even his fellow Primordials were weighed. Balance was the one above all.The silent sovereign of eternity.The only being second to Existence itself.