Long before cities bore names, before the world had agreed upon its Gods, there was one who fed upon belief itself.
People walked as they do now. Spoke as they do now. Prayed to whatever they wished, under no law but hope itself.All but him.
They say he walked like a man but spoke like scripture. Entire civilizations rewrote their doctrines after a single whisper.He did not bring destruction—he brought change of hellish proportions.To some, that may seem the same.But to him, it was righteous work.
He did not conquer nations.He erased them from memory.
Whole bloodlines crumbled into dust because a single child dared to believe they could defy him.
No one knows when he was born—if at all.Some say he was written, like a parable.Others claim he rose from a dying myth, the last echo of a forgotten apocalypse.
In some stories, he is a teacher.In others, a tyrant.Most of these stories 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 scroll.Burned temples etched with his image.Locked away relics that bore his shadow.
Yet he remains.
In the nightmares of every child.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 from metal—but judgment.
He does not need to kill.He simply decides 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."
Yet, somewhere at the edge of that silence, a spark once flickered.A boy who stood against oblivion—not as a hero, not as a god...But as a contradiction that refused to vanish.