From the silence before the first breath, he came—
Not of flesh, nor of soul, but of void and will.
He is the echo that predates time,
The stillness before creation screamed.
Gods trembled at his whisper.
Devils wept beneath his gaze.
He shaped existence with shattered light,
Then crushed it beneath his formless hand.
He is not alive. He is not dead.
He is the breath between both.
A storm of chaos, veiled in calm—
The eye of the end.
No prayer reaches him.
No blade wounds him.
For he is not the end.
He is what comes after.