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There many planes are beyond, where even the concepts of time, reality, and narrative dared not tread, existed a realm not forged by logic nor bound by any divine order.but this place is different this was never meant to exist, yet did—a cancerous void gnawing at the edge of creation. This was the Plane of Absolute Nothingness, a place that could not be named, mapped, or understood, for to attempt so would fracture the mind and soul of even the strongest gods.
Here, in the infinite abyss of entropy and malice, slept Vorath, the Unnamed One, the Warden of Chaos, the Defiler, the One Who Burned Creation to Ash.
He did not slumber in peace but in malevolent anticipation, vast and eternal. His form was incomprehensible—not because it was hidden but because it was too much to witness. An amalgamation of void, shattered meanings, and paradoxes that shouldn't coexist, his very being pulsated with destruction. He was darkness darker than the absence of light, chaos more absolute than unbound anarchy, evil so ancient that morality itself feared to define him.
Scattered across creation were his fragments, pieces of his essence broken and buried long ago by forces now dead or forgotten. Each fragment, even the tiniest sliver, brought madness, despair, and ruin. Some had manifested as cursed relics, others as monstrous avatars of evil rampaging through forgotten realms, their purpose singular: to feed their master.
In the forgotten dimension of Xel'thaar, a realm devoured by war and sorrow, one such avatar screamed the final breath of a world into the void. Another fragment corrupted the heart of a once divine dragon, turning it into a creature of abyssal wrath. And in the deepest corner of a mortal dream, a whisper slipped through—"He is coming."
These fragments, no matter their form or place, all moved according to the same will. They sought one another.
As they converged, the sky cracked in universes yet unborn. In timelines never meant to meet, the narrative bent to accommodate their convergence. Fate twisted, and the threads of destiny frayed.
In the Plane of Absolute Nothingness, Vorath stirred.
A single eye—devoid of color, light, or meaning—opened. That eye did not see, it unmade.
He felt it: the prayers of the damned reaching him from dead stars, the screams of dying multiverses quenching his thirst, and the cruelty committed in his name by his disciples nourishing the void within him.
He was not forgotten. He was awaited.
And his servants knew their mission well.
From beyond the ruined gates of Talthar'Nox, through the bleeding spires of Vorrhal's Spine, in temples carved from the bones of extinct gods, they worked. Beings without shape or sanity, titans of hatred and agony, children born of pain and madness—they sought his completion.
Every piece, every fragment they found, drew him closer to awakening.
Creation would not survive his return.
Even the Book of Knowledge, the artifact of omniscience crafted by the Primordials themselves, had recoiled. Its page dedicated to Vorath had torn itself free, corrupted and blackened, screaming through layers of reality, warning the Keepers of Knowledge that their time was ending.
But Vorath laughed.
A soundless, maddening laughter that bent the laws of thought.
He knew. He remembered. He waited.
Not even the Primordials, for all their luminous grandeur, could erase him. They merely scattered him. But entropy could not be destroyed. It could only be delayed.
"Soon," came a thought. Not a word. Not a whisper. Just a fracture in the fabric of silence. "I shall be whole."
In a land where there was no time, he still counted the moments.
And his hunger grew.
Across creation, tremors were felt.
Not through earthquakes or explosions, but through the breaking of narrative barriers. Heroes lost their fated paths. Prophets saw visions that shattered their minds. Deities of order felt unease they could not name. Something wrong had returned to the current.
And far away, in a hidden dimension controlled by the Supreme Being himself, something cold brushed the edges of existence. A whisper... a chill.
Something was coming.
And even creation feared to speak his name.
Vorath.
The end of all things.
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