Long before cities bore names, long before the world had agreed upon its Gods, there was one who fed upon belief itself. People walked like how they do now, talked like how they do now, and believed in whatever they wanted to, under no stipulations that cruelty could shower upon them. All but this one.
They say he walked like a man but spoke like a scripture. Entire civilizations rewrote their doctrines after a single whisper from him. He didn't bring destruction to where he walked, rather he brought in change of hellish proportions. To some, that may seem the same, but to him, it was righteous work of the highest order. He did not conquer nations — he erased them from memory. Whole bloodlines crumbled into dust because one child dared to believe they could defy him.
No one knows when or where he was born. Some say he was not born at all — but written, like a parable. Others claim he emerged from a dying myth, the last echo of a forgotten apocalypse. There are stories where he is a teacher. Others, a tyrant.
Most have been banned.
The oldest surviving account refers to him only as "The Silence After Faith."
A void.
A verdict.
A God who devours Gods.
The Order of Mantriks once tried to seal his legend. They struck his name from every surviving scroll, burned temples dedicated to his image, and locked away artifacts that bore his shadow. Despite everything, he remains. In the nightmares of every child in a village. In the static between forgotten sermons. In the moment a man realizes no deity is coming to save him.
They say he once wielded a blade that cut not flesh, but destiny. A weapon forged not by metal — but judgment.
He does not need to kill. He simply decides that you were never meant to exist.
And so, the myth persists:
"One day, the Sovereign of Ends will walk again.
Not to conquer. Not to cleanse.
But to erase the very concept of belief."