There is a place far beyond the reach of any living thing or entity—a realm long forgotten by anything capable of remembering. It is a place so dark that the stars themselves dare not shine upon it, where time does not flow as it does elsewhere, and silence reigns like a tyrant. Forgotten civilizations are whispered into nonexistence here, and reality itself begins to fray at the edges. This domain is so deep in the abyss of the universe that even God Himself chooses to ignore it. Yet, in the absence of God's gaze, a faint movement stirs among the stars—a shuffle in the leaves of the void. An ancient wound had been reopened, and from within a foul puss leaked out. Galaxies flickered and dimmed, their light choking under the invisible weight.
It has awoken.
A being so profane in Its essence that God had no hand in Its creation. Its existence itself is a mockery of life. Its skin, cracked and shifting like the surface of a dying star, radiates a cold that even Death itself would fear. Its sickly pale body a grotesque parody of a long-dead race made in God's image. As It stirs from Its slumber, It stretches Its long, malformed arms, Its bones creaking and groaning. It reaches out, grasping planets long abandoned by their suns and feeding on the hollow remnants. Each morsel is nothing but dust in Its maw.
It did not awaken merely to consume the scattered remains of dead worlds. No, Its purpose is grander. It seeks an energy woven into the very fabric of reality—a being that powers all creation. The divine essence that binds the cosmos together. As It stirs, Its face contorts into a jagged, malevolent grin. It senses the weakening pulse of the universe, once a powerful roar now reduced to a mere whimper. It knows that He has grown weak.
Its crooked form begins to claw its way through the outer reaches of the universe. Each movement is deliberate, each advance a calculated step toward Its goal. It weaves through galaxies, distorting space as it progresses, leaving a trail of cosmic upheaval. Undeterred by distance or obstacle, It knows that neither Death nor Time would dare challenge It.
a sudden stillness echoed even in the long-dead space It inhabits—an awareness, He knows
It remembers the last time they met, when the stars were young and the light of creation had blinded It. He had been strong then, a force too great to defy. It could still recall the burning pain as He cast It to the very edges of existence, his power overwhelming, his light unbearable. He had left It broken, forgotten in the void.
But Time had favored Him. Time had let Him grow old, while It remained as It always was. Time had been merciful to Him, but cruel to It.
Now, as It drifts through the dead void, It can feel his presence flicker. No longer the radiant force of eons past, but a dim light, waning. Creation's pulse was weakening, and with it, his strength. It savored the knowledge that soon, the balance would shift. He had grown old, and It remained eternal.
Yet, even weakened, He still held onto his divinity. It knew that to confront Him too soon would mean failure. Not yet. No. It would bide Its time, moving closer, until the cosmos itself crumbled under his frailty. Time would soon finally benefit It.
He gazed across the Infinite void, knowing It was on the other side. He was no fool, but his age had become too great for Him to be as formidable as He once was. There was only Time separating Him from It. Despite this He was not afraid, not for his life at least. He was more afraid of what would happen to his creation in his absence. It had already destroyed his children long ago. even taking their form to taunt Him. Now It was coming for Him.
"Y o u r l ig h t f ade s, ol d m an"
Its voice sickened Him, permeating space as maggots would a decaying corpse. Each word a slow creaking groan cracking through the silence like breaking glass. He knew better than to answer, as that was what It wanted. Even though He could no longer fight It, He would not give into Its sick games. He would die with dignity.
Time waits for no man, Not even God.