The centuries drifted by, weightless against the immensity of the Silent Abyss.
At its center, wrapped in a Cocoon of Authority atop the Black Throne, Veyrath slept —
a slumbering King whose dreams bent existence to his will.
Level 29 (Larger multiverse level)
Primordial Origin.
The First Sovereign.
His two eternal guardians stood watch:
Seraphis — Empress of the Primordial Otsutsuki.
Level 28 (multiverse level)
First of his bloodline.
Caelora — First Knight of the Void.
Level 27 (small multiverse level)
Protector of the Throne.
They endured.
They ruled.
They waited.
And beyond the edges of their perfect dominion,
the lesser multiverse stumbled blindly forward.
Across scattered realms, the primitive Otsutsuki clans —
twisted fragments of Veyrath's sleeping authority — grew.
Six clans rose from the ashes of formless life:
Kozurai Clan — arrogant, hungry for conquest.
Xavora Clan — cold, ambitious rulers.
Myraku Clan — patient, shadow-hunting wanderers.
Zorak Clan — proud, desperate schemers.
Selvane Clan — dreamers lost between visions.
Ravael Clan — warriors of brute discipline.
Each clan carried a broken shard of the Primordial Blood.
Each thought themselves mighty.
None knew the true King that birthed them.
It was the Kozurai and Xavora Clans —
the strongest and most reckless —
that dared to breach the sacred border of the Silent Abyss.
They tore a ragged wound across the boundary,
and six figures stepped into the realm that no mortal blood should touch:
White-robed.
Horns misshapen.
Eyes gleaming with stolen chakra.
Level 19 (Full solar system level)
Dangerous among insects.
Pathetic before the Crown.
Across the endless black plain, two figures awaited them.
Seraphis.
Caelora.
The Empress and the Knight descended from the steps of the Black Throne,
every movement a silent proclamation of power.
Seraphis's silver hair flowed like a river of stars behind her.
Her golden gaze pierced through the primitives before they could even draw breath.
Caelora walked at her side, sword half-drawn,
armor singing the promise of swift judgment.
The primitives stopped.
Their bodies shook violently.
Their chakra — already fragile and crude — collapsed under the weight of the Plane's true rulers.
The six fell to their knees without thought.
Without command.
Their foreheads pressed into the black stone.
Instinct.
Blood memory.
Ancient terror written into the bones of their stolen existence.
They bowed because they had to.
Because even in ignorance, their souls recognized true royalty when faced with it.
At the heart of the Plane,
the Black Throne pulsed once.
The Cocoon surrounding Veyrath shuddered slightly,
his slumber deepening, thickening, preparing.
[Primordial Sovereignty: Stirring.]
[Host: +15% Stabilization Increase.]
[Projected Awakening: Approaching.]
Inside his infinite dream,
Veyrath stirred.
Closer.
Closer than ever before.
Soon.
Seraphis stood before the kneeling primitives —
representatives of the proud but broken Kozurai and Xavora Clans.
She said nothing.
She only watched.
And the Plane itself pressed the weight of memory down upon them.
Caelora stepped forward, silver eyes flashing like blades.
"Pitiful," she said quietly.
"They believe themselves mighty, yet even their bones tremble before his name."
Seraphis smiled faintly, cold and beautiful.
"They are not worthy to speak his name yet," she said.
"But they will serve.
They will carry fear back into the multiverse.
They will spread the prophecy of the sleeping King."
The primitives — Kozurai and Xavora clan heirs — dared not lift their heads.
They felt their very souls branded with the truth:
they were nothing but children wandering in a land ruled by gods.
And the god slept still —
but he would not sleep forever.
Seraphis turned slightly, her voice like a low thunder across the black plain.
"Leave," she commanded,
"and remember this terror.
Spread it among your broken clans.
Tell them that their King has not yet risen."
"Tell them that when he does,
they will kneel — or perish."
The primitives fled, stumbling back through the torn gateway,
their blood already singing with the terror they could never forget.
The Plane returned to stillness.
Above all things,
Veyrath slept.
Closer now.
Closer to rising.
Closer to reclaiming everything that bore his mark.
And when he did —
even the proudest of the primitive clans would kneel in truth,
or be erased.