CHAPTER 384: COSMIC GATHERING (1)

In a place outside of time and space, a platform floated in the void. It was plain—no intricate carvings, no gemstones, no golden trim—yet its very existence radiated such unbearable presence that even gods would be forced to bow in fear and reverence. It was not grand by design, but absolute in authority.

The platform itself was no larger than a common living room, but size meant nothing here. In this place, reality bent to its will, and what was small could dwarf the cosmos.

At its center stood a round table. It was not forged by mortal hands, but woven from cosmic dust, luminous as starlight, and bound together by supernatural vines and roots that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive. Each breath they exhaled filled the air with a strange rhythm, the heartbeat of creation and destruction.

Surrounding the table were seven chairs. They were not adorned with jewels or metals, but each radiated an aura so overwhelming that their mere presence seemed to distort the void. To look upon them was to feel the primal forces of existence pressing against your soul. They did not merely sit there—they reigned.

Each chair was different, sculpted not by design but by concept. One was sharp and angular, like a throne of blades. Another curved as though grown from roots of the World Tree. One glowed faintly, humming with energy that felt both ancient and eternal.

Together, they whispered a single truth: This was no council for mortals.

This was a gathering place of powers who had shaped, and would again reshape, the fabric of existence.

Of the seven chairs, one stood apart. It was larger, taller, heavier—yet at the same time lighter than air. Its form was a paradox, woven from both blinding light and consuming darkness, shifting endlessly between the two as though the universe itself could not decide what it truly was. Around its frame swirled the primal elements: fire flickered across one armrest, water rippled along its base, the winds curled around its crown, and stone formed its foundation, unbreakable and eternal.

This was not just a seat.

This was the Seat of Balance.

The throne of the Primordials.

Where all opposites converged. Where creation and destruction, order and chaos, life and death met as equals. It radiated no malice, no kindness, no judgment—only inevitability. To gaze upon it was to understand that all things, no matter how grand, would one day return to balance.

The other six chairs bent subtly toward it, not by force, but by recognition. Even without an occupant, the Seat of Balance commanded, as though the will of the cosmos itself lingered there.

It was the throne of beginnings. The throne of endings. The throne of those who could stand above both.

The Throne of the Primordials.

He arrived first.

The void ruptured with a deafening explosion, a detonation so vast that galaxies trembled, yet the platform remained untouched, unmoved. Not even a crack formed—for nothing in existence could mar this place.

Space itself seemed to unravel as he stepped through, tearing and disintegrating under the sheer weight of his being. His hair fell in endless waves, a deep and burning crimson streaked with violent bands of violet, as though flames and lightning had chosen to weave themselves into him. His eyes burned brightest—spear-shaped pupils of molten red and violet, piercing through the void with the promise of ruin.

He was Destruction.

Not the destruction of tools or cities, not even the ruin of worlds or stars. He was the final silence after all things, the collapsing of all into nothing. His aura reeked of inevitability, and even the cosmic dust binding the table seemed to shudder under his presence.

Without a word, he moved. The void trembled with each step, stars flickering out in his wake, but when he reached the platform, all became still. He lowered himself into the second chair to the right of the Seat of Balance, the Throne of the Primordials.

And there he sat—Primordial Destruction—the very embodiment of the end, silent and patient, as if waiting for the others.

The void quivered again, not with an explosion, but with a ripple—like reality itself had been tossed into a storm. The stars twisted, their light bending unnaturally, constellations unraveling into spirals. Where one looked, there was no consistency: fire flickered into water, stone dissolved into dust, screams turned into laughter, and silence became a roar.

Then, it stepped forth.

A being of ever-shifting form, cloaked in paradox. At times male, at times female, at times neither, and at times all. Its hair writhed and changed with every breath, hues spilling like oil across water—black, silver, crimson, gold—forever mutating. Its eyes, however, were constant: glowing orbs of swirling entropy, like miniature galaxies devouring themselves.

This was Chaos.

Not randomness, not disorder. But the raw storm before existence took shape. The soup from which all creation had first emerged—and to which it would one day return. It was the laughter of the void and the scream of the unborn.

As it moved toward the platform, the laws of space faltered. The table groaned, vines shuddering, as though resisting—but balance held, and the Seat of Balance anchored all.

Without hesitation, Chaos sat. Its form shifted as it settled into the third chair opposite the Throne, across from Destruction.

Where Destruction was the silence of endings, Chaos was the madness of beginnings. The two forces pulsed in opposition, yet also in strange harmony, their clash forming a rhythm that the cosmos itself could not ignore.

The council of Primordials was beginning to gather.

...

From the endless void came not a tear, nor an explosion, but a breath. A soft exhale that rolled across the cosmos like a gentle tide. Stars that had dimmed from Destruction’s presence flared anew, their light warm and vibrant. Broken fragments of space where Chaos had passed began to bloom with strange flowers of starlight, pulsing with fleeting beauty before dissolving again.

She stepped forward.

Her presence was radiant, yet not overwhelming. Her hair flowed like a living river of emerald and gold, each strand glowing faintly as though it held within it the spark of a thousand dawns. Her eyes were deep, verdant green, flecked with soft silver, shimmering with compassion and eternity. Her skin glowed faintly, like sunlight through crystal, and every motion of her body left trails of blossoms, vines, and motes of golden pollen that sparkled in the air.

This was Life.

Not merely survival, not simply breath. She was growth, renewal, fertility, and the endless cycle of becoming. In her presence, even the silence of the void seemed to stir, as if yearning to pulse with vitality once more.

The platform responded to her arrival. The cosmic vines woven into the round table stretched slightly, their roots drinking in her aura, strengthening as though nourished by her existence. Chaos leaned back, form shifting erratically in her glow, but she only smiled faintly, as if she had seen such turbulence before and found it endearing.

Gracefully, she moved to the seat beside Chaos—on the Throne’s right side—and lowered herself onto it.

She sat tall, hands resting upon her lap, her glow reaching out like a balm to the wild presence of Chaos, tempering it without erasing it. Together, they formed an impossible harmony of creation: the storm of beginnings and the breath that gave them meaning.

Thus did Primordial Life claim her seat.

The void stilled.

Not even the echo of Life’s gentle radiance nor the churning remnants of Chaos dared to stir as the next presence began to take form.

It was not with thunder, nor flame, nor the tearing of reality that he arrived—but with a resonance, a deep and endless hum that thrummed through existence itself. Past, present, and future shivered, folding inward as though they were threads tugged taut by unseen hands. Stars flickered, whole epochs collapsed into sparks, and for a single moment the cosmos seemed to exhale the weight of infinity.

And then he stepped forth.

Time.

He towered above the others, a behemoth in stature, his very frame dwarfing the platform. His hair cascaded in silken strands of silver and midnight, shifting as though caught in currents only he could feel. His skin bore faint cracks like ancient stone, but within those lines glowed rivers of golden light, flowing endlessly, as though his very body was carved from the ages themselves.

His eyes were clocks and voids all at once—spear-shaped pupils of luminous gold, within which entire lifetimes spiraled and perished in the blink of an eye. His gaze was terrible yet serene, carrying both inevitability and patience, as though he had seen every outcome a million times and still chose to sit among them.

When his foot touched the platform, time itself bent. Every being across reality felt the shift—the slowing of their own heartbeats, the racing of forgotten memories, the haunting flash of futures that might yet come. Yet none could resist. None could escape. For in his presence, all were bound.

He strode to the chair beside Life, his massive form moving with impossible grace. The seat itself seemed almost too small, yet as he lowered himself into it, reality adjusted—the chair reshaping, stretching as though it had always been meant to hold him.

To his right, Life’s glow shimmered, softened by the immense gravity of his being. Across from him, an empty seat awaited the one who would complete his eternal opposition. And beside him, another empty chair—on the Throne’s left hand—remained, patient, as though it alone knew who was still to come.

Thus did Primordial Time, the Keeper of Ages, take his seat at the table of eternity.