Before the first name, there was the First Flame.
Before the first law, there was the First Feeling.
Before the gods built order into the world—
There was Elyon.
Not born. Not summoned. Not shaped.
He came just like that.
And that was the problem.
The universe began as a murmur — not a bang, but a soft breath exhaled into the endless hush.
From that breath rose four forces, ancient and absolute:
Spacetime, whose fingers stretched the nothing into lines and moments.
Life & Death, who wove the first heartbeat and the final silence.
Elements, who stirred storms and sculpted suns.
Order & Chaos, twins in eternal balance, binding and breaking in tandem.
They shaped the cosmos with hands made of light and laws.
They named themselves.
And for a time, they were content.
Until the orb pulsed again.
And the Fifth was born.
Elyon.
Where the others forged ahead without concern, he felt.
He brought neither structure nor rule.
He brought forth response, and forged emotions.
The first time a star collapsed into nothingness, the others noted its density, its affects and such,all of it logical.
Yet Elyon mourned for it.
When the first river split from stone, they measured its speed, and uses.
Elyon listened to what it sang.
He saw the world not as just functions, but as feeling.
And in that difference, he became dangerous.
They who were unfeeling couldn't tolerate the black sheep.
He stood among them like a wildfire on polished marble, Uniquely outcasted.
But he remained for what he is and that became,
Glorious. Untamed. And different.
That led to one of the most significant events in the Universe,
It began henceforth:
A gathering of the four excluding the Fifth.
The Four whispered among themselves, their voices mathematical and cold.
"He contaminates balance."
"He stirs where stillness is sacred."
"He breathes too deeply."
"He feels."
He had no throne, only his presence to signify existence.
He asked for no crown, only kinship.
But when he wept at the sight of the first death, they called it betrayal.
Emotion, they said, was imperfect.
Unclean.
Disruptive.
Unnecessary.
So To Reject Him, They chose silence.
That was the final betrayal — not banishment, but refusal to acknowledge.
Four thrones turned away.
And in the center, the Fifth — radiant, real — was struck off from the record of eternity.
Not destroyed.
He was Forgotten.
So he fell...and fell....
Through layers of creation, through the seams of dimension.
Light shredded him. Thoughts got scattered. His name was stolen from the lips of stars, No records left.
Then came a End.
Where he landed, there was no ground.
Only an incomparable compression.
A cage without walls.
A realm between pulses, too deep for light to reach, too tight for an escape.
There was no sounds here.
No sensation.
Only the ache of being too much in a place designed for nothing.
At first, he clawed at memory.
Grasped for the warmth of his siblings' laughter.
He screamed their names—
Only to forget them moments later.
The void didn't devour sound.
It devoured meaning.
But emotion… clung.
Even when words failed, feeling remained.
And that became his tether.
He did not know how long he endured.
Because there was no 'how long.'
Time here wasn't a river. It was a mirror that never reflected.
Days, centuries, eternities—
All the same, all pulsing with silence and sorrow.
And yet.
One day — As if such a thing existed —
A sound.
Thin.
Threadbare.
Cracked like parchment in wind.
Words.
"You'll never be enough."
"Please, don't leave."
"Why did you have to die?"
Not his.
Of Others.
Of Humans.
He gasped.
The first sound he'd made in eons — and it echoed.
He pressed against the barrier of his prison, and the whispers grew louder.
Not one voice.
Millions.
Billions.
All fragile. All flawed.
But all alive.
They were telling stories.
Through books. Films. Paintings. Screams.
They felt.
And through them — he felt again.
He wept, not out of sorrow this time, but recognition.
Mortals, in all their frailty, had preserved what gods had killed.
Emotion.
And from that weeping, he began to rise.
He reached.
Through cracks in reality. Through seams forgotten by time.
And found a soul.
The city below was cold.
Not by weather — but by nature.
Concrete hunched like dying giants. Lights flickered not in welcome, but exhaustion.
The streets stank of rusted hope and stale air.
Rain fell like knives, slow and surgical.
In a back alley, where garbage blurred with shadows, a boy lay dying.
No one screamed.
No one searched.
No one cared.
His body was small, curled like a question without answer.
Blood mixed with rain. Skin against cement.
His name had been Riven.
But not anymore.
Elyon descended.
He did not possess.
He did not force.
He became.
Fire into a lifeless husk.A Light turning into memory. The Crown into the vessel.
And the boy breathed again.
Eyes opened wide, the fire of life burning again,
but it was,
Not Riven's.
Not anymore.
The gaze that came was too ancient, too silent, too knowing.
He sat up, not gasping as he should, but was unusually still.
Breathing normally and appeared full of life.
As if being born again gasping for breath was beneath him.
He looked at his fingers.
Small. Mortal. Breakable.
And then, without any prior indication—
He smiled.
Because pain was back.
That meant feeling was back.
And it was glorious.
He walked.
Bare-footed. Rain-soaked.
Streetlamps began blinking. Surveillance cameras grew blurry.
Pigeons began falling from the wires, and feathers and blood covered the grounds.
Technology stuttered and showed static.
The city refused to see him.
He passed unnoticed through a thousand glances.
But the world itself tensed.
Like a forgotten name whispered in a dream.
In a time like this, The shelter found him.
A squat brick building with flickering signage and sagging gutters.
He didn't knock.
And the door opened before his hand reached for it.
He stepped inside.
A volcano of informations hit him,
Warmth.
Smell.
Life.
A nurse sitting inside looked towards him.
But She didn't see a boy.
She saw or felt the boy to be something ancient cloaked in human flesh.
She trembled at this relevation,
But she smiled anyway.
"Sweetheart… are you lost?"
He stared at the nurse asking questions for some time, then replied.
"No. I've been found."
She didn't raise any brows at his answer, and just asked for his name politely.
He hesitated to answer.
Names were spells.
Curses.
Keys.
But who was he to fear,
He whispered the only name that mattered,and signified power.
"…Elyon."
The world paused.
And something buried deep in its foundation shuddered and cracked.
[EMOTION SYSTEM RECOGNIZED]
[ENTITY: ELYON | CLASS: FORGOTTEN]
[CROWN LEVEL: BROKEN 0/∞]
[Emotion Embodiment Path Initialized…]
[Warning: Vessel unstable. Memory Lock Engaged.]
The cot was hard. The blanket scratchy.
But it was more than what he'd had in millennia.
He lay still.
Children wept in their sleep around him.
And he listened.
Their dreams were loud.
Their hearts louder.
He breathed them in like incense.
Morning.
Gray light dripped through a cracked window.
He rose awake,and as if on instinct.
Looked towards the wall.
A mirror hanged there and it stared back.
It was Old and Fogged. A thin line of rust curled at the corners.
He studied his reflection.
And it broke.
Not shattered.
Not smashed.
Split.
A slow, deliberate crack down the center.
As if the glass could not bear the weight of what it saw.
He touched it.
It was cold to the touch and fragile.
He whispered, voice calm and terrible:
"You forgot me."
The mirror wept silver threads.
But he didn't.
He remembered everything.
And this world would remember him, too.
To be continued…