Preface
"The Spark of Boredom"
In the beginning, there was Silence—vast, patient, without witness.
Then came the Spark, a wandering thought in the void.
It named itself Kay, and from curiosity alone, it kindled stars that should never have burned.
Three suns rose where one was too many, and yet the world endured—
not by mercy, but by experiment.
From the dust, mortals stirred.
They counted light and shadow, measured the breath of wind, and called their numbers truth.
They built faith upon equations, shrines from geometry, and gods from wonder misunderstood.
And the Spark watched, amused.
Time twisted.
Days folded over themselves like pages unread.
Threads tangled, and memory began to taste of iron and fire.
New hands reached for the heavens—
some to praise, some to rival, some to unmake.
So came the Puppets, ten faces of chaos,
each reflecting what mortals feared most in themselves.
Faith bloomed like mold on stone, fragrant and terrible.
Even silence began to whisper names.
Then the Gift descended: memory unending.
Minds cracked beneath the weight of all they had been,
and the world burned anew in the light of everything remembered.
From hollow thrones, the Immortals sang,
but their songs turned to static when the Gaze fell—
a gaze colder than the void that birthed it,
wrapped in stars and sleep.
The Ender had stirred.
When the Silence deepened again,
two coils of darkness dreamt beneath the world—
the Serpent that hastens,
and the Snake that waits.
Their hunger would be the clock by which creation counts its final breaths.
Mortals offered lifetimes and knowledge, blood and peace.
For a thousand years, their prayers bought only a heartbeat of delay.
Then the Feast began—
jaws unhinged, swallowing suns, moons, and the memory of laughter itself.
When all was devoured, even hunger turned inward.
The twins consumed themselves,
and from their unraveling rose dust—
the seed of another experiment.
Thus the cycles turn.
Thus the Spark dreams again.
Thus begins The Chaos' World.
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Author's Note*
Fragment of the Scribes of the Last Cycle
> These words were not written by hand.
They appeared in the ash after the final dawn, etched upon cooling stone, unsigned.
None can say whether they are prophecy, confession, or the diary of a god.
We only know this—
When the next world opens its eyes, the Spark will already be watching.