Chapter 37.5: The Siege of Lan’in (side story)

The Planet of Elyse'n

Elyse'n was a world bathed in radiance, where silver rivers coursed through lush valleys, and the sky remained a brilliant sapphire untouched by the cruelty of storms. The people lived in harmony, their lives free from famine, war, or the horrors that plagued other realms. Death was an abstract notion, something that happened quietly, peacefully, and only after a long, fulfilling life. It was a land untouched by the true horrors that lurked in the void between worlds.

Yet, not all of Elyse'n was paradise. There were places forgotten, places forsaken.

One such place was Ian'ln, a coastal town that once thrived with sailors and traders, its harbors filled with the laughter of merchants and the rhythmic calls of fishermen. Now, it stood as a ghost of its former self, a desolate ruin where the only sounds were the whispers of the wind and the crash of the relentless waves against the rotting docks. The air was thick with the scent of salt and decay, and shadows moved strangely in the alleys where no light should be cast.

And in this place of silence, madness festered.

A gathering of cloaked figures stood in a circle, their bodies swaying as they chanted in tongues long forgotten by the civilized world. Their voices rose and fell in a sickening harmony, the cadence unnatural, as if their very words were reshaping the reality around them. They stood over the mutilated corpse of a woman—once a sailor, now nothing more than a sacrifice to something beyond comprehension.

Her lifeless eyes stared at the sky, her body laid bare to the elements. Her chest had been split open, her ribs cracked apart as if by monstrous hands. Deep incisions ran along her arms and legs, her hands curled into claws from the pain she had endured in her final moments. Blood pooled beneath her, soaking into the ancient wood of the dock, painting it in dark crimson.

The cloaked figures continued their incantation, their hands raised high, their fingers twitching with reverence. The words they spoke were not meant for mortal ears; they were prayers to something far older, far greater, something that had been waiting beneath the sea for an eternity.

"Suftag! Muthm, Fus'Tag! agl'In! Hush! In'levuka!"

The words carried on the wind, twisting through the empty streets of Ian'ln. Somewhere in the distance, the tide shifted unnaturally, the waves crashing violently against the shore as if answering the call.

The chanting ceased.

Without hesitation, the figures lifted the sailor's body and heaved it onto one of the few remaining ships. The vessel was old, its sails tattered, its wood blackened with age and neglect. Yet, it would serve its purpose.

They set sail, moving northward, toward the endless horizon, leaving behind the ruins of Ian'ln.

The Awakening of Muthm

For hours, they traveled across the open waters, their ship carving through the darkening waves. The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen presence, and the sky above twisted into a sickly green hue. The sun dimmed as if recoiling from the horror that loomed ahead.

Then, the sea changed.

The gentle currents turned violent. Waves crashed against the ship with unnatural force, yet the cloaked ones did not panic. They laughed. They rejoiced.

They had arrived.

The ocean before them swelled, rising like a mountain from the abyss below. The water churned, bubbling as if something beneath was breathing, something impossibly large and ancient.

Then, from the depths, it emerged.

A grotesque mass of flesh and slime, towering higher than the tallest peaks of Elyse'n. The creature's form defied sanity, its bulk shifting and undulating as if it was not bound by mortal constraints. Its skin was the color of rotting earth, a sickly mix of black, green, and brown, glistening with an unnatural sheen. It reeked of decay, of something long dead yet still living, a stench so overwhelming that even the salt-heavy air could not dilute it.

Then there was its face—or what could only be loosely described as one.

A bloated, featureless visage, save for a gaping maw lined with jagged, uneven teeth, dripping with a foul, mucus-like substance. No eyes, no nose, nothing but hunger.

This was Muthm.

The Ancient Priestess of Lan'in.

Or at least, that was the myth.

Muthm did not speak, nor did she move in a way that a living creature should. She simply was, an unfathomable force, an aberration of existence.

The cloaked figures fell to their knees, their hands raised in rapture.

"Muthm! High Priestess of the Depths! Mother of the Forsaken! We offer you this gift!"

Without hesitation, they grabbed the lifeless woman and cast her into the sea.

The moment her body hit the water, the waves pulled her under, as if something below had claimed her. The sea turned a darker shade, ripples of unnatural energy distorting its surface.

The cloaked ones cheered, their voices rising in maddened exultation.

Then, Muthm moved.

Her massive limb, if it could even be called that, lunged forward, wrapping around the entire ship with ease. The vessel groaned under the pressure, the wood splintering as the cloaked ones continued to laugh, to praise, to worship.

And then—

CRACK.

Muthm's jaws unhinged, revealing a throat lined with spiraling, gnashing teeth, a cavern of writhing flesh and tendrils that pulsed with glistening, parasitic life.

With one motion, she devoured the ship whole.

The wood snapped like twigs, the bodies of the cultists ripped apart before they could even scream. The ship and its passengers vanished into her maw, sucked into an abyss of endless consumption.

Inside, there was no escape.

Muthm's throat was not a mere passageway but a grinding machine, lined with flesh-ripping barbs that shredded anything that entered. The cloaked ones, once so full of zeal and reverence, were reduced to nothing more than pulp, their bodies broken apart as they were pulled further and further into the abyss.

And just like that, they were gone.

Not a single trace remained.

The sea settled once more, and Muthm descended, her form sinking back into the endless dark, as if she had never been there at all.

But she had.

And she would wait.

The Siege of Lan'in

The waters of Lan'in churned, the once-pristine ocean now a deep, sickly red, as if the very sea had become a wound festering beneath the sky. An eerie symphony of screams echoed through the wind, a sound that came from every direction yet from no visible source. It was not the wail of the dying nor the battle cries of warriors—it was something else, something unnatural. The very air trembled with the weight of an unseen force, a presence that did not belong in the world of mortals.

And at the heart of it all, Muthm sat.

She had traveled from the depths with impossible speed, her grotesque form now looming over the great coastal city of Lan'in. The town, a bustling metropolis of merchants, sailors, and traders, had once been the pride of the southern seas. Its great stone walls stretched along the coastline, protecting its people from the ever-changing tides, while its golden spires reflected the sun's warmth upon the docks below. Grand temples dedicated to the sea gods stood firm, their statues staring out to the horizon, as if watching for dangers that would come from the deep.

But nothing could have prepared Lan'in for this.

Muthm dwarfed the entire city.

Her monstrous bulk sprawled across the landscape, her foul, slime-covered flesh pressing into the coastline, her massive back hunched against the towering mountain that stood behind the city. She did not move. She simply sat, her featureless face turned toward the sea, as if waiting for something.

For hours, the people of Lan'in did nothing but watch.

Fear gripped them. Some fled inland, abandoning their homes in terror. Others stood frozen in place, staring up at the towering horror that had taken root in their city. The priests and scholars whispered to one another, searching their tomes, their myths, their knowledge for an answer—for a way to kill a thing that had never died.

Then, as the sun rose, so did the planet itself.

A tremor rolled across the land—not from the earth, but from something deeper, something beneath the sea. It was a pulse, a shift, a breath.

And then—they came.

A great armada of ships, hundreds, perhaps thousands, stretched across the horizon like a vast steel serpent, each vessel bristling with cannons, ballistae, and fire-laced arrows. Warriors stood upon their decks, their sabers and bows gleaming in the morning light. Some bore red-painted armor, their faces hardened with the resolve of those who had seen countless battles. Others wore robes of deep blue, the markings of those who wielded magic drawn from the elements themselves.

At the very front of the mighty fleet, aboard the largest ship, stood a giant of a man—broad-shouldered, his golden war cloak billowing behind him, his hand gripping the hilt of a sword taller than most men.

This was Alimen Gounder.

A warrior of legend.

A man whose name was etched into history through war, conquest, and an unyielding belief that no creature—god, beast, or nightmare—should ever threaten his land.

His eyes locked onto the colossal being before him, this monstrosity that sat upon his homeland as if it were a mere rock beneath the sea.

His grip tightened. His voice thundered across the waves.

"CHARGE!!!!!!"

The Battle Begins

The command rang out like a drumbeat of war, and the entire fleet surged forward.

Thousands of arrows sliced through the air, their tips coated in silver flame, enchanted to burn even in the deepest of waters. They rained down upon Muthm's slime-covered flesh, sinking into her form like needles piercing rotted leather.

But she did not flinch.

Then came the cannons—hundreds of them, their barrels glowing as they roared in unison. Explosions ripped through the sky, sending fireballs and shrapnel crashing against her mountainous body. Smoke billowed, and the scent of sulfur mixed with the unbearable stench of her decaying form.

But she did not move.

Alimen's forces pressed on, undeterred. Warships surrounded the coastline, launching harpoons tipped with enchanted metal, each one designed to pierce the hides of sea serpents and krakens. Dozens of the harpoons found their mark, embedding deep within Muthm's titanic form.

And yet—

She remained indifferent.

A creature of her size, of her nature, could not feel pain in the way mortals understood it. She did not fear their fire, nor their weapons, nor their magic. To her, their attacks were nothing more than wind upon stone, an annoyance, an inconvenience.

But there was something new.

A sensation—not pain, but recognition.

For the first time in centuries, something had challenged her.

And so, Muthm stirred.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from within her massive chest, a noise that was neither roar nor scream, but something far worse. It was a whisper that rattled bones, that curdled blood, a sound that seemed to echo from inside one's own mind rather than from her.

The warriors, seasoned as they were, felt an unnatural cold creep down their spines.

And then—

Muthm moved.

It was not an attack.

Not yet.

Instead, she shifted, her massive bulk rising ever so slightly from the earth. The mountain that she had pressed against for hours now crumbled beneath her as if it were made of mere sand.

A city that had once thrived for centuries, a place of history, of culture, of power, now lay in the shadow of a being that had no concern for its existence.

For the first time, Muthm acknowledged them.

Not as threats, but as witnesses.

The siege had begun in earnest.

A stillness fell over the battlefield, a silence so absolute that even the crash of waves and the creaking of ships seemed to vanish. The warriors—thousands of them, hardened by years of war, trained to face any enemy—felt something they had never encountered before.

An overwhelming sense of insignificance.

Muthm slowly turned her featureless head, her vast form looming over the armada like a storm given shape. Her milky, gelatinous eyes, sunken and deep, stared blankly at the mortals who had dared to strike her first.

Then, she breathed.

A soundless exhalation swept across the sea, sending ripples through the water—not of air, but of something else. Something older. Something wrong. The ocean itself seemed to tremble as the once brilliant blue waves turned into a thick, black sludge, stretching out for miles in every direction.

The warriors aboard the ships panicked as their vessels sank inches lower, weighed down by the liquid thickening beneath them. Oars became useless. The water turned to tar, clutching at wood, metal, and flesh alike, dragging the ships downward ever so slowly.

And then—she moved.

It was a slow movement, yet in an instant, the very air shifted as her colossal arm, slick with unholy slime, rose from the sea. Droplets of the black water cascaded from her massive fingers like miniature tidal waves, each one the size of entire buildings.

She reached down.

A single warship, one of the larger ones, found itself in the shadow of her descending hand. The warriors onboard screamed orders, some drawing their bows, others casting spells of protection, but it was all for nothing.

Muthm's fingers curled around the ship, her massive digits wrapping around the vessel like a child grabbing a toy. The men aboard barely had time to register their fate before she squeezed.

The warship—a grand vessel that had survived a hundred battles—collapsed like wet parchment in her grip.

Wood splintered. Metal bent. Bodies ruptured under the pressure, their screams cut short as their bones shattered. Blood dripped between Muthm's fingers like a slow, lazy rainfall before she tossed the broken remains into the sea, as if discarding something utterly insignificant.

The other warships hesitated.

Some continued to fire—arrows, cannonballs, bolts of arcane lightning—all of them striking her, all of them doing nothing. Some weapons sank into her flesh but were swallowed whole by the slime, dissolving like sugar in water.

Muthm did not notice.

She reached again.

Another ship. Another crunch. Another eruption of blood and splinters.

Then another.

And another.

The fleet was beginning to realize the truth.

This was not a battle.

This was a massacre.

Alimen's Gambit

From his flagship, Alimen Gounder watched.

His eyes, trained and cold, did not widen. He did not flinch. He did not allow himself to be afraid.

Instead, his mind raced.

The plan had been simple—to overwhelm Muthm with sheer force, to strike before she could fully awaken, to kill a legend before it could become a reality. They had launched the first strike, they had brought the greatest warriors of the sea, the most powerful mages, the largest fleet in history.

And yet—they were losing.

No.

They had already lost.

Muthm had not even fought back yet. She was simply moving, simply reacting, and in doing so, she had already wiped out dozens of ships.

Alimen tightened his grip on his sword.

"We underestimated her," he muttered. "We attacked as if she were a beast."

A warrior beside him, a high-ranking captain, swallowed hard. "Sir, what do we do?"

Alimen exhaled.

Muthm was no beast.

She was something older. Something divine.

And if brute force would not kill her—then he would have to rethink his strategy.

He would have to do what no warrior wished to do.

He would have to negotiate.

The Turning Tide

Muthm's arm rose again, her fingers reaching toward his ship.

Alimen had only seconds to decide.

He stepped forward.

And then—

He raised his arms.

Not to attack.

But in surrender.

The warriors aboard his ship gasped as their commander—the greatest warlord of the sea—lowered his weapon and stood before the monstrous being with his hands open, empty, unarmed.

The silence was deafening.

Muthm's hand stopped.

For the first time, she paused.

And Alimen spoke.

"…Ancient One." His voice was firm, steady. Strong. "I know not if you understand my words."

Muthm did not move.

"But if you do, I offer a different path."

The warriors behind him held their breath.

Alimen took another step forward, his boots sinking slightly into the thickened water.

"I know why you were awakened," he continued. "I know the fools who called your name. I know what they did."

Still, Muthm remained silent.

"Their deaths have paid for their sins," Alimen said. "There is no need for more."

A long pause.

Then, slowly, Muthm tilted her head.

It was the first sign of true recognition.

The battle had changed.

It was no longer about brute force.

It was about words.

The Judgment of Muthm

The sky trembled. The air itself seemed to shudder as Muthm's colossal form moved.

With a single hand, she reached toward Mount'Inlim, the largest peak in Lan'in—a titan among mountains, a structure so vast that its valleys could house entire civilizations. A mountain so old that its name had been carved into the histories of countless empires, its peak lost among the clouds.

And yet—she lifted it as if it were weightless.

A deep, unnatural groan filled the world as the foundation of Mount'Inlim splintered, the very bedrock of Lan'in shaking as the mountain was ripped from the land. Trees, rivers, and entire ecosystems that had thrived for millennia were uprooted in mere seconds, pulled from the earth as though nothing more than loose sand in an open palm.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

And then—

She crushed it.

A sound unlike anything before roared across the skies—not an explosion, not the crash of stone, but something deeper, something primal.

The breaking of something ancient.

Mount'Inlim imploded in her grip, the rock collapsing inward, its form reduced to mere dust. The explosion of debris was enormous, sending shockwaves across the land, blotting out the sun with a cloud of dust so thick it darkened the sky itself.

But there was no destruction beyond the mountain.

Not a single fragment of the mountain fell upon the warriors, upon the cities, upon the land.

Instead, every last particle of Mount'Inlim was devoured by the sea.

Muthm had been precise.

She had deliberately ensured that not a single soul outside her grasp suffered.

And yet—no one knew why.

The Mage's Warning

A frantic cry broke through the silence.

A mage—old, weathered, and trembling—pushed through the gathered warriors, his breath ragged, his face drained of color. He stumbled toward Alimen, his staff shaking in his grip.

"G-General—!" His voice cracked, the urgency evident. "I-I just learned—!"

Alimen turned to him, his eyes narrowing. "Speak."

The mage took a deep breath, his body barely able to keep up with the weight of his words.

"…That mountain," he whispered, his voice almost drowned by the wind. "Mount'Inlim…"

A long pause.

"…It held a plague."

The warriors stiffened.

"A plague?" Alimen repeated, his tone unreadable.

The mage swallowed. "Not just any plague. A sickness buried beneath the rock for millions of years, locked away in its frozen caverns. I—I was researching old texts just now, reading the ancient warnings about what lay within. If Mount'Inlim had ever been broken open, if its depths had ever been exposed to the world…"

His face twisted in horror.

"…It would have wiped out all life on this planet."

Silence.

Not even the wind dared to blow.

Alimen's mind raced. If the mage spoke the truth… then Muthm's act had not been one of destruction.

It had been one of prevention.

A plague that could have killed every man, woman, and child. A sickness that no magic, no army, no power could have stopped.

She had known.

She had destroyed the mountain—not to cause ruin, but to save the world.

And then, just as effortlessly as she had come—

Muthm turned.

The Return to the Sea

Her massive form shifted, her body moving with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had no concern for time.

Her great slime-coated hands lowered, pressing against the bloodied waters as she waded away from the shore.

The warriors, the generals, the mages—none of them stopped her.

None of them could.

The realization of her true purpose had stolen any last thoughts of attack, replacing them with something far deeper than fear.

Reverence.

Muthm was not a beast to be slain.

She was a force beyond their understanding.

A guardian, perhaps.

Or perhaps—something else.

Her massive head tilted slightly as she descended into the depths, her massive gelatinous eyes blinking once before her form was swallowed by the darkness of the ocean.

And with that—she was gone.

The sea fell silent.

And the world, for the first time in history, realized that the ancient horror of Lan'in had not been a monster.

She had been their savior.

In the oldest myths, long before time and memory, there were two great and eternal forces that shaped the fabric of existence: Muthm, the Great Good, and Nu-them, the Great Chaos. They were not gods in the way mortals might conceive of divinities, nor were they merely concepts given form. They were primal, absolute, and fundamental, woven into the very essence of the universe itself. Their existence was not bound by creation or destruction, for they had always been and would always be, as long as reality itself endured.

Muthm was the endless ocean, the vast and unfathomable depths that stretched across the stars, flowing through the cosmos like the lifeblood of all things. Its presence was a force of serenity, of harmony, of divine stillness that cradled the universe in its embrace. Where Muthm existed, there was order, stability, and a rhythm that bound existence into an ever-flowing cycle. To many, Muthm was goodness itself, not in the way of human morality, but as the great, endless calm that preserved the balance of all things. It was unshakable, vast beyond comprehension, and, above all, eternal.

Nu-them, by contrast, was the ever-shifting chaos, the ceaseless tumult of land, storm, and void where disorder reigned supreme. It was the jagged mountains that tore at the sky, the barren wastes where nothing could thrive, the twisting labyrinth of existence that had no structure, no pattern, no reason. It was the living force of entropy, of change, upheaval, and destruction, for where Nu-them existed, nothing could remain as it was. It was the untamed storm, the relentless hunger of the abyss, the wild force of nature that knew neither law nor limit. To mortals, it was the embodiment of madness, strife, and ruin, but to the universe, it was simply the unmaking that allowed for new beginnings.

Though opposed in every way, Muthm and Nu-them were eternally bound to one another. One could not exist without the other. Just as an ocean's waves crash upon the shore, so too did Muthm's serenity press against Nu-them's chaos. They were not enemies in the conventional sense, for they were beyond hatred or malice. They did not quarrel for dominance, for neither could ever truly overcome the other. Rather, they were locked in an eternal dance—a balance that neither could break, yet neither could escape.

It is said that Muthm rests in the ocean, its essence woven into every sea and tide that stretches across the cosmos. As long as there are oceans—no matter how small, no matter how distant—Muthm cannot perish. The great waters are its body, and through them, it watches, it endures, and it preserves the stillness of existence.

Nu-them, meanwhile, rests upon the land, its essence found in every storm, every tremor, every instance of disorder that takes root in the universe. As long as there is chaos—no matter how minor, no matter how fleeting—Nu-them will never fade. The untamed land is its domain, and through it, it stirs, it shatters, and it ensures that nothing remains unchanged.

And yet, for all their eternity, there exists a single, dire truth: if Muthm and Nu-them were to ever meet in battle, their clash would destroy the universe itself.

The mere idea of such a battle is beyond comprehension. It is not simply a war of gods or the struggle of titanic beings, but rather a cosmic catastrophe that would unravel the very foundation of existence. Their confrontation would not be a clash of swords or words, nor would it be a conflict of willpower or desire. It would be the collision of absolutes, the meeting of two forces that were never meant to fully embrace or fully separate. Their battle would not merely shake the cosmos—it would unmake it.

But therein lies the paradox. Muthm cannot die as long as the oceans exist. Nu-them cannot die as long as chaos exists. And neither can perish as long as the other remains.

They are both eternal and unbreakable, yet they are also the only forces capable of truly ending one another. If ever one were to triumph, if one were to somehow find a way to erase the other from existence, then the consequence would not be victory, but total annihilation. A universe where only Muthm existed would become a still and stagnant eternity, where nothing ever changed, and existence would freeze in place, a lifeless monument to order. A universe where only Nu-them existed would be a never-ending spiral of chaos, a reality that devoured itself over and over again, never forming, never becoming, only unraveling into madness.

And so, the balance remains.

Some myths tell of ancient times when Muthm and Nu-them spoke, not as rivals, but as two aspects of the same unshakable truth. It is said that in the beginning, before time itself, they reached an accord, a silent understanding that neither could truly destroy the other without sacrificing all things. They do not seek each other's end, for they know that in the act of destruction, they would ensure their own doom as well.

Others, however, whisper darker truths. There are those who believe that the universe is but a fragile veil, that one day, a force—be it mortal, divine, or something beyond—may disrupt the delicate balance that keeps Muthm and Nu-them apart. On that day, when the Great Good and the Great Chaos collide, existence itself will tremble, and all of creation will stand upon the precipice of the final, irreversible end.

Until that time, the two remain in their eternal state—one in the depths of the ocean, the other upon the restless land. Watching. Waiting. Unchanging, yet always changing. Locked in a cosmic balance that none can break, lest all be lost to oblivion.

Though Muthm and Nu-them were eternal forces beyond mortal comprehension, their vast conceptual power was confined to a singular universe—a self-contained cosmos that, while seemingly infinite to those within, was but a single thread in the boundless multiverse. Their presence shaped and governed all that lay within their domain, but beyond the boundaries of their universe, they were nothing.

The multiverse was a great and incomprehensible expanse, an infinite sea of realities, each with its own laws, its own cosmic forces, its own gods and primordials. In some realms, there existed other beings who embodied order and chaos, yet none were truly Muthm or Nu-them, for each universe had its own balance, its own struggles, its own unknowable absolutes. Though they were titanic and all-encompassing within their own reality, they were but whispers in the grand expanse of the infinite.

It was a paradox, for within their universe, they were eternal and unbreakable, shaping the very foundation of existence itself. Yet beyond their cosmic veil, beyond the fragile walls that separated one reality from another, they were not even a flicker of influence. They could not stretch their will beyond their universe's edge, nor could they ever hope to shape what lay beyond. Their reality was a prison as much as it was a throne, a domain where their power was absolute—but only so long as they remained within its bounds.

This limitation, however, was a blessing in disguise. Had their power transcended into the infinite multiverse, the balance of all things across existence itself would be at risk. The battle between Muthm and Nu-them was a cataclysmic event that could unravel a single universe, but if their reach extended further, their conflict would become something far greater, far more horrifying—an unmaking that stretched across countless realms, turning the infinite into nothingness.

It is said that this limitation was not a flaw, but an ancient design, a truth older than even Muthm and Nu-them themselves. Some myths speak of greater forces, incomprehensible beings beyond even the vastness of their universe, entities that crafted the multiverse in layers, ensuring that no single power—no matter how absolute—could stretch beyond its own reality. Whether these beings were architects, primordial weavers, or something beyond even those descriptions, no one could say. What was known, however, was that Muthm and Nu-them would never breach the veil of their universe, for they were bound to it as surely as the stars were bound to the sky.

And so, for all their might, for all their eternity, Muthm and Nu-them were but echoes in the grander existence of the infinite. Their war, should it ever come, would be a tragedy of unimaginable proportions, a final calamity that would consume all within their universe. Yet, even if they were to fall, if their reality were to be swallowed in the clash of their absolutes, the multiverse would not tremble. No other reality would take notice, no higher force would intervene, for their war was but a single moment in an eternity that stretched beyond all comprehension.

Perhaps that is why they have never fought.

Perhaps, in some distant corner of their boundless minds, they know that in the face of the infinite, their struggle is as small as a single ripple in an endless sea.

In the endless expanse of the infinite multiverses, each universe was a cosmos unto itself—an infinite domain with its own shape, its own laws, and its own divine rulers. No two universes were ever truly the same, for each was sculpted by forces beyond mortal comprehension, formed from the raw fabric of existence itself. Some were realms of order, where logic and structure reigned supreme, their very foundations built upon rigid laws that allowed no deviation. Others were worlds of chaos, shifting and wild, where reality bent and shattered with the whims of unknowable entities. There were universes where time was meaningless, where past, present, and future existed all at once, and there were those where time moved in reverse, an eternal cycle of unmaking and rebirth.

Each universe was a kingdom of its own, presided over by its own pantheon of gods, primordials, or eldritch beings who ruled as sovereigns over the infinite within. Some were benevolent, shaping worlds with care, guiding civilizations toward enlightenment. Others were cruel, lording over their realms like tyrants, bending the will of existence itself to their whims. There were even those who cared nothing for their creations, distant and silent, watching from the void as their universes unfolded according to the immutable principles they had set in place.

And yet, despite their vastness, despite their incomprehensible power, each of these universes remained separate. The infinite multiverses stretched beyond even the grasp of the mightiest gods, their walls impenetrable, their foundations unshakable. A deity who held dominion over all within their universe could not extend their hand beyond its boundaries; their power, no matter how boundless within, could never cross the veil that divided one reality from another.

Some legends tell of beings who tried.

There were gods who sought to breach the walls of their reality, to extend their rule beyond their own infinite cosmos and into another. But none succeeded. Some were torn apart by the very fabric of existence, unable to survive in a reality not their own. Others were cast into the liminal spaces between universes, trapped in a void where neither time nor space existed, doomed to drift forever as echoes in the nothingness.

Yet, the most terrifying of all were the gods who succeeded—those who managed, through means unknown, to slip into another universe. These beings, however, found that they were no longer gods. Their power, absolute in their own realm, was meaningless in another. The laws of the new universe were foreign, and they found themselves bound by rules they could not understand. Some were stripped of their divinity entirely, reduced to mere mortals in an unfamiliar world. Others became horrors, their very existence incompatible with the reality they had entered, transforming into broken, twisted things that neither lived nor died.

Thus, the multiverse remained infinite yet divided, an endless web of realities, each governed by its own logic, its own truths, and its own fate. No being, no matter how absolute within their own domain, could ever hope to claim dominion over more than one.

And so, each universe continued its own story, its own wars, its own struggles between order and chaos, good and evil, creation and destruction—each playing out their eternal conflicts, unaware of the infinite others beyond their reach.