Chapter 2 – The Monarch Beyond Time
The cold wind moaned outside the cracked window of John's apartment. The city's neon glow barely reached his room, filtering through broken blinds and casting crooked shadows on stained walls. His mattress sagged under his weight as he lay curled in a fetal position, his back to the world he hated.
The silence was complete, but inside John's mind, storms raged.
He closed his eyes and whispered the same old fantasy to himself:
"Someday… they'll all kneel. I'll have gold. Thrones. An empire. I'll make them crawl."
It was pathetic, sure. But it was all he had. The only place where he was king was in his dreams.
And so, he slept.
---
He awoke in a place that did not exist.
There was no sky, no earth, no direction. John stood barefoot in a void made of moving stars, the cosmos bleeding and swirling like ink dropped in water. It was not warm or cold, not light or dark — it simply was. And it felt aware.
The air trembled.
A throne appeared before him — colossal and alive, carved from burning time and fractured realities. Black, violet, and gold energies pulsed from it in waves that tore into John's soul.
Then he appeared.
From the shadows behind the throne, a figure emerged — impossibly tall, cloaked in robes woven from collapsed stars. He moved without walking, his form distorting the void around him with each step. His face was veiled in a hood, and yet John felt the weight of his gaze. A gaze that had seen the births and deaths of galaxies.
> "So this… is the dreamer."
The voice wasn't sound. It was something older. Ancient. A thought spoken directly into the bones of existence.
John dropped to his knees. He wanted to speak, but his throat locked up. His mind screamed that this was no dream.
> "A worm crawling in filth," the being said, circling him like a predator, "yet you whisper of crowns. How delightful."
John's voice finally cracked through. "W-Where am I?"
The being stopped.
> "You are standing in a fold between moments. A breath between universes. A space only I may shape."
> "You are before me, mortal."
He lifted his hand, and a thousand suns ignited behind his silhouette — only to be extinguished by a curl of his fingers.
> "I am Azrathos. The Monarch Beyond Time. One of the Four who kneel to none… except one."
> "Above me, above us all, dwells only Xeraveth, the Thought That Ends All Realms. The One Who Dreams, and by dreaming, unravels multiverses."
John trembled. The names meant nothing to his brain, but his soul knew them. Knew the truth behind them. Azrathos wasn't a god. He was a concept. An embodiment of dominance, will, and eternity.
And he was staring right at him.
> "I watch many realities," Azrathos said, folding his arms behind his back, "champions chosen by fate, heroes blessed by light, villains forged by vengeance. And yet they all follow the same tired script."
He turned.
> "But you..."
> "You are nothing."
John flinched.
> "Not brilliant. Not powerful. Not courageous. You were abandoned. Hated. Forgotten. Your siblings scorn you. Your parents cast you aside. You are not a man with potential—you are waste."
John clenched his fists, not in anger — but in shame. Every word was true. More than anyone else, he knew it.
Azrathos crouched, lowering himself to John's level. His presence was suffocating, but his voice carried a cruel curiosity.
> "And yet…"
> "Despite everything… you still fantasize about ruling. About power. About making the world bow to you."
> "You hoard your daydreams like treasure. You crown yourself in delusions. You rage at fate in secret. You want everything, and you offer nothing."
John raised his head, eyes glassy.
"...So what?"
Azrathos chuckled. The sound caused ripples through the void — cracks in reality forming and sealing behind him.
> "So... you fascinate me."
John blinked.
> "Greed, in its purest form, is not evil. It is the drive that shapes creation. The fire that builds empires, writes history, and devours the weak."
Azrathos stood again, towering above him.
> "You, John, are greed made flesh."
> "And I wonder…"
He raised a single hand, and in it formed a flickering, formless light — chaotic, shifting, waiting.
> "...What would happen if someone like you was given the power to seize it all?"
John's breath caught.
> "Would you rise above the gods, or fall deeper than demons?"
> "Would you build, or burn?"
Azrathos stared down at him with unreadable amusement.
> "What does a broken insect do when gifted the might of titans?"
John opened his mouth, but Azrathos silenced him with a wave.
> "Not yet."
"You are not ready. You are not decided."
The cosmos around them began to shift, slow spirals dragging reality in circles.
> "I watch a thousand stories at once. But you… you might be my favorite yet."
> "Not because you are destined. But because you are disgusting."
He leaned forward, and the stars went silent.
> "Entertainment, John. That is what you are."
> "A show for a god with eternity to burn."
And then, with a voice that echoed beyond existence, he whispered:
> "Let us see… what happens when rot is given a throne."