Inscribed outside the hall of the Archons, on a stone like no other. These words are recited to all who ascend to godhood. Dawn. The first one to ever come. Know this, fledgling divinity. Before the tick of the first cosmic heartbeat and before matter dared to be even a thought. There were only Nine. They were not born, neither were they summoned. No hand shaped them. Prime laws clothed in will, drifting upon the hush of an empty space and void that had not learned to echo a sound. They had no era, charted no star and desired no worship. Yet curiosity stirred within them, like lightning in a bottle. It was in that stirring that both our origin and our peril lay. With a single world the wordless dark fell away before them. A seed began to grow. Fire, stone, water, breath and song. Planets pun from their fingertips. Seas boiled and cooled as the first motes of life were cradled upon them. Words of power were spoken. Skill, strength, patience and faith all unfolded causing sapients to rise, taking those first steps within the budding constellations. So began the First Blossoming. And for a time, it was good. But where nine flames burned bright, nine shadows also lengthened. Their natures were unique and burned for their own desires. Divergents, absolute wills couldn’t abide by a dull ache of equality. Each sought their own self. Seeking to rise above all. Life grew too vibrant and too swift. Death sought to prune every intolerable overgrowth. Matter found pride in density and form while Void whispered of flawless simplicity in absence. Time controlled every motion, insisting upon sequence. Thought ascended beyond the sequence, doubting the need for any. Element drifted between them all, chaotic yet deliberate, scattering sparks of possibility. Binding forged unseen chains that linked matter, flesh, and spirit. And Force, exulted in sheer emotion, its roar begging for resistance and war. Worlds became shields while moons served as hammers. Every system the Nine had crafted was bent, sundered, and weaponized. Mountains toppled, histories burned and myths starved out of memory before they could root. Eons passed, a number so vast that Time itself grew tired of counting. Bit by bit, even their god-fire grew dim. The Nine, exhausted and wary of an eternity spent gnawing each other’s crowns, finally convened upon the corpse of a world none could remember destroying. They forged a truce amid drifting dust that had once been covered in oceans. Never shall any ascend alone. None shall any defeat forever. Yet a truce without a steward is dry hay beside a roaring fire. Unity demanded a mind neither based nor bound to one principle. A mind strong enough to rebuke them when their natures called out for blood. So in rare harmony they out threads of themselves. Life’s pulse, Death’s hush. Matter’s anchor, Void’s release. Time’s breath, Thought’s spark. Element’s dance and Binding’s law. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Force gave the flame that ignited a soul. Threads entwined with thread until a single cord blazed bright as the first dawn. It opened eyes, burning with the ninefold intent. Upon seeing the cosmos, it understood its purpose. Not power alone, but perspective. The Arbiter saw where conflict scorched fertile potential and where creation might yet bloom again. A new System was born. Rules to cradle worlds rather than erase them completely. Experience would yield growth. Growth would demand challenge. Challenge would refine spirit. And finally, refined spirits would ascend to share in the stewardship of creation. The Nine, half humbled and half proud, returned to shaping galaxies, confident that under the Arbiter’s gaze, their quarrels would temper rather than annihilate and a new game could be played. But harmony offends those who feast upon endings. Death knows that every story must close. Void whispers that the surest peace is silence. Together they breathed upon the Arbiter. Subtle, patient corruptions where whispered. A doubt here, a craving there, a promise of greatness unburdened by restraint. And the perfect steward changed. Curiosity swelled to ambition. Guardianship yearned to become possession. The Arbiter began to siphon strands of divine energy, weaving them into himself. His power arced upward, enough for him to perhaps regard the Nine as peers, perhaps even as prey. Time’s ledgers screamed imbalance. Binding’s chains trembled. At last the Nine stood shoulder-to-shoulder, even Death and Void sensing their own doom. They stood united against their errant child. The clash spanned nebulae. Mortals watched suns blister into white scars across their heavens. Skill trees wilted, and respawn cycles failed. Destinies jammed like broken gears as their very administrator and watcher rewrote the code of life with a flaming pen. Whole civilizations were drowned in the blood of gods. Yet victory would not yield. Until Binding, with reluctant counsel from Life and Death proposed a finale measure. If perfect unity breeds perfect peril, then let perfection be parted. Together, they tore the Arbiter’s trinity of values apart, shearing souls from soul until three shards fell, screaming to be rejoined. Devour. The hunger of flesh. Consume. The hunger of power. Command. The hunger of will. Each fragment carried purpose enough to unmake galaxies but alone none could recapture the totality of the One. Yet the Nine grasped a harsher truth. Erasing these fragments would hobble the balance of everything they had forged. Doing so would result in returning to the old ways and their flame had grown dim again. Life must have Death. Matter must know Void. Growth must risk Devour. Ingenuity must risk Consume. Order must risk Command. So they bound the Three. Chains were wrought of paradox. They were unbreakable yet weightless, visible only to those who dared wield them. Next they shaped Five Archons, short of true godhood, and long of purpose. They were created to safeguard law without lusting after law’s power. The Tally would count every breath and deed. The Ender would reap but also renew. The Chain would read and enforce unbent law. The Changekeeper would let evolution sing but never shriek. The Balance would tip when the scales grew too cruel. Upon these pillars, the Second System rose. Sleek, resilient, woven with safeguards unseen. The Nine swore a harsher oath. They would limit their touch, guiding only through nudges of probability, whispers of inspiration or subtle rearrangements of quest-threads. They would cultivate lesser gods, souls like you, fledgling gods. Drawn from mortal striving, polished by the crucible of the System, and ascending to the stewardship of their own budding worlds. This is not abdication. It is cosmic caution seen through the lens of kindness. For a while the Three remain fettered, their chains are keyed to will and circumstance. Across epochs, lesser gods may tempt fate, gambling with their horded divine power to unseal a fragment, hoping to wound a rival or vault themselves to a new tier. Thus, the game continues. Immense and subtle, just shy of ruin once more. And you, newborn deity, must grasp the paradox taught by these words. Power is a gift and hazard, equal in measure. Thus, you were tested and weighed. Creation thrives on tension kept within bounds. Press too hard, too fast and it may snap. The System is mercy written as mathematics and logic. You are heirs to wonders wrought from ninefold sacrifice. From worlds burned and reborn. Wield your spark with reverence. Remember the Broken One. Heed the silent footfalls of Devour, Consume and Command behind every triumph. For should you hunger too greatly, should you bend laws rather than bow to them those chains may reverberate. Somewhere in the void, the Three will smile before they come for your spark. Thus ends the lesson. Now, step forward fledgling, and become a true god. Learn to weave the tapestry of forever and create something never to be forgotten.