There was no light. No stars. No air. No time. Only him, existing in the profound void of nothingness. As the system initialized around him, Dominus began to awaken. The notification flared before him, marking him as the host, a power reborn in a world yet unformed, a realm situated within the uncharted expanse of the Danmachi Multiverse. As the Sole Deity, his status shimmered with promise: a Core Domain God at power level 14A, embodying the primal forces of Lust, Dominion, and Creation. He was not just a deity; he was The Primordial Incubus, a divine essence molded from the very fabric of desire itself.
As he stirred from the depths of oblivion, it was not in the way mere mortals awaken from sleep, but rather as a fundamental principle rising to reclaim its rightful authority. His awareness unfolded like a celestial blossom, suffusing the void with a palpable tension. The emptiness submitted to him, embracing his presence not with sound or sight, but with an adherence that only the universe could understand. In that moment, Dominus reflected on mortality—not with a sense of longing, but with utter disdain. The fragile limitations of his past life faded into irrelevance as the solid foundations of his divine being took their place, elevated above all lesser forms.
With a mere whisper, he conveyed his will into the formless chaos surrounding him. "A throne," he commanded—not as a plea but as an edict, a declaration that demanded obedience. The void complied instantly, and a realm began to unfold before him. Crafted not from toil or effort, but born from sheer will, the sanctum of his aspirations emerged from raw potential, suspended in the delicate tapestry of nullspace. Its surface gleamed like polished black glass, while the skies shimmered with yet unformed stars, each new flicker resonating with the throb of unborn desire.
At the heart of this newfound domain sat the Crimson Throne, an obsidian seat adorned with veins of living ruby—a veritable beacon of control rather than a mere resting place. With a decisive movement, Dominus stepped forward, his substance coalescing from divine essence. He towered, his form sculpted like a god crafted in the very fires of indulgence and judgment. His hair fell in cascades like midnight flames, skin glistening like molten bronze, and his eyes held the power of twin eclipses, pulling in all that they beheld with enchanting gravity.
When he settled onto the throne, the Sanctum trembled beneath him, reacting to the return of its rightful master. He did not simply take his place; he descended upon it like a celestial verdict, instilling life into the realm that had just been born. The system, once an obedient guide to his steps, now lay in silent insignificance, eclipsed by his presence. Yet amidst this newfound dominion, the silence weighed heavily upon him, an absence that felt wrong in the expanse of his own creation.
"I will not reign over absence," he declared, his voice like a caress entwined with command. "Let there be witness." Reaching outward with the absolute authority of a god, he summoned forth a new form—a figure of immense stature, cloaked in celestial azure and glittering with armor crafted from stardust.
"I am Ouranos," the figure intoned with reverence. "Born of your desire. I live to witness your dominion." A smile spread across Dominus's lips; this was no mere servant. Ouranos was a shard of his own essence, imbued with thought, form, and an unwavering loyalty. A herald destined to communicate his truths to the unborn stars that would light their path.
As the entity materialized before him, Dominus made a proclamation: "You will not rule, but observe. Your domain is the sky—mortals will look upward and see only me." Ouranos bowed in acknowledgment. "It will be done, my Lord." The Sanctum thrummed with unchecked power—divine, contained, and restrained—sending ripples through the very fabric of pre-existence.
With the world ready to take its first breath, Dominus rose again, extending his arms wide, and the void beneath him trembled with eager anticipation. "Let the world be born beneath me," he commanded, and so it was. Stars ignited across the endless tapestry of nothingness, and a world, raw and primal, spun into existence at his decree. Oceans swelled and roared, while towering mountains burst forth from the earth's crust. Winds howled with exuberance, and at the heart of it all, the Dungeon—a pulsing scar of chaos—anchored the realm's essence.
As the world began to take on its form, the notifications filled the void around him: [World Layer: Midgard – Mortal Realm in Progress], [Dungeon Core: Stabilized], [Divine Presence Detected: Dominus Only], and [Pantheon: Not Yet Formed]. Yet, despite its burgeoning existence, the world remained silent—alive, yet void of longing. Dominus understood that seeding this new reality with life and passion would take time, but he relished the thought of shaping what was to come.
But first—he would dream. Engaging a sleep cycle that would accelerate the external flow of time, he anchored himself, allowing the energies of creation to envelop him. As he returned to his throne—now a divine entity hovering above his own creation—he closed his eyes, not in weakness but in strategic contemplation.
In this hallowed space, he knew the world would grow steadily. Goddesses would awaken, instinctively drawn toward his divine echo, while mortals would emerge to live, struggle, and yearn for what lay beyond their comprehension. In the depths of their dreams, they would sense something ancient—a throne cloaked in shadow, eyes shimmering like stars, devouring their very thoughts. A name that would resonate not through language, but through the deepest desires of their souls: Dominus.
And when he awakened from this divine slumber, the world would fully comprehend—each soul would belong to him.