In the endless constellation of stars, one fragment of Yggdrasil's root broke free.
It drifted — small, unshaped, unnoticed — until Poseidara's current carried it through the newborn cosmos.
It came to rest in the quiet between suns.
Hephaestus touched it first, hardening its shell into stone and iron.
Poseidara followed, weaving water through its scars.
Voltraeus struck it with light, and Nocturne cooled it with shadow.
Thanamira whispered into its stillness, and the first breath of life stirred within its depths.
Artemis gazed upon the small, trembling world.
"It will be fragile," she murmured. "But in fragility… beauty endures."
And so the Primordials left it to grow.
Seasons began.
Oceans learned to speak.
Life took shape — not divine, not perfect, but alive.
This world would one day be called Earth.
The stage upon which gods, demons, and mortals would repeat the same dance — creation, rebellion, and rebirth.
Shojiro's consciousness drifted above the newborn Earth. Light and motion, life forming, stars spinning into alignment — the universe was a symphony of order and possibility. His mind filled with the harmony of creation, a sense of wonder that pulsed through every fiber of his new body.
But then… something shifted.
A shadow bled into the edges of his vision. A dark pulse, irregular and jagged, unlike anything born of natural law. It coiled through the void, twisting reality itself as it slithered. Shojiro felt it before he saw it — an instinctual chill that screamed of predation, corruption, and pain.
The light of the forming world dimmed, colors dulling, as if some invisible hand pressed against the vibrancy of existence. The awe that had filled him moments ago curdled into unease.
And then he saw it: a black, viscous drop falling from a bound figure. A wound upon divinity, bleeding into emptiness. From the drop, something moved. Something alive, something wrong.
Shapes writhed and twisted, forming and unforming, grotesque and unnatural. Bones, blood, shadow, and liquid fused together. Each motion felt deliberate, sentient. Each hiss and whisper promised hunger, malice, and freedom.
Shojiro's new mind recoiled. He wanted to turn away, to retreat into the safety of memory and light — but he could not. He was tethered to this vision, forced to witness the birth of Arae's abominations.
A presence emerged from the writhing mass, intelligent, aware — the first spawn, born from anguish, curse, and malice. Its movements rippled outward, shaking the void. And even though it did not look directly at him, Shojiro felt the intent behind its gaze: discovery, hunger, calculation.
The beauty of creation, the light and promise of all that was forming, hung on a knife's edge. The first horrors of Arae had awakened — and Shojiro's mind felt the weight of inevitability pressing down.
Chains groaned. Roots dug into Arae's skin, twisting deep into his flesh and bone. Every movement felt as if molten knives had been driven into him. Every breath was fire and ice combined. Yet still, he struggled, defiance burning brighter than pain.
For eons, he writhed against the Chains of Logic and the roots of Yggdrasil, each lash of the divine wood draining him of essence, yet he refused submission. Every pull, every strain, was a statement: he was alive. He would not be bound entirely.
A single drop of blood escaped from his shoulder. Then another. A rivulet trickled from the corner of his mouth. Then his palm split open, crimson flowing like ink in water.
When the blood touched the fractured, blackened floor of Purgatory, reality itself seemed to shiver. The tar-like puddle spread, whispering with life. From its viscous depths, a shape emerged. Not flesh. Not shadow. Not entirely void. Something in between — cursed ichor given form, bound by broken laws and a fragment of Arae's defiance.
It shuddered. It hissed. It pulled itself free, rising like smoke made solid. A malformed child of blood, curse, and will.
Arae's lips curved.
"Ah… a child."
Then, without hesitation, he dug his nails into his own wrists, tearing open veins, spilling the thick, black-red blood onto the floor. Every slash of his chest, every gash along his arms, every drip from his neck birthed another of the writhing, flickering abominations. Soon the void itself crawled with them, grotesque, inconsistent — bone and liquid, shadow and smoke, flickering with the imperfection of suffering made manifest.
Static voices filled the air, a chorus of endless curses repeating without pause. The floor trembled beneath the weight of their formation. Purgatory itself bent, twisted, and warped under their presence, leaking corruption that threatened to seep outward.
And yet, Arae remained bound. Broken. Covered in gaping wounds. But his grin never faltered. His crimson pupils burned like coals.
"If I cannot leave this prison… then my children shall."
The abominations surged forward, gnawing at cracks and fractures in Purgatory, probing reality for weak points. They were extensions of his pain, of his blood, of his rage — instruments of vengeance crafted from suffering itself.
"Go, little ones. Spread my hate. Spread my hunger. Let the universe know I still breathe."
Unseen by Arae, far above the voided plane, the Primordials watched. They observed the spilling of blood, the spawning of creatures, the slow, inevitable spread of corruption. Every detail was burned into their perception.
Poseidara's grip on her trident tightened.
"This… this will taint worlds before life has even truly begun."
Voltraeus's storming eyes flickered with disquiet.
"The sheer scale of hatred… it will not stop with him. The first mortals will inherit a nightmare."
Moara remained calm, layered hexes forming as she whispered to herself.
"We cannot intervene. The rules we forged bind us. Direct meddling… forbidden."
Artemis, ever vigilant, spoke softly, her gaze narrowing.
"We can watch. We can catalog. But action… action is no longer ours. The Curse and the Seal… they are absolute."
Nocturne, lurking in the periphery, swirled shadows nervously.
"And yet, to remain silent… to allow these creatures to wander unchecked… is a risk I cannot measure."
Thanamira shivered at the sight, a ghost of despair passing through her spirit.
"What innocence will survive this? What life can thrive if Arae's children crawl into it first?"
The Primordials understood the grim truth. They had sealed him. They had bound him. And yet his malice — made flesh from his own blood — was active, spreading through Purgatory toward the realms of existence. They could not touch it. They could not guide it. They could only bear witness.
And so, the abominations multiplied, spilling into the voided expanse. Arae, bound and broken, watched with unyielding intent. Every pulse of his blood, every flicker of his crimson eyes, sent shivers through the Primordials' hearts.
He was alive. And worse than anger — he was inevitable.