VibeGlitch

Thirteen beings awaken, falling from the sky with no memories, no past, and no sense of self. They are the Archons, the Incubators of the Next Coming, beings created to shape the arrival of a Primordial—a force beyond comprehension, meant to rewrite existence itself.  

Their sole directive echoes within their minds:  
Incubate the next coming.”

They do not age, yet they do. They cannot die, yet they do not live. They cannot feel, yet they still want. Stranded on Earth, they are driven by instinct to eradicate the Remnants, creatures that threaten the incubation. The Archons believe their mission is absolute.  

In a war between those who follow blind purpose and those who seek to forge their own path, the fate of existence rests on a single question:  

Does this world deserve to continue?

Archon of Primordials

Date: Beyond Comprehension

"Incubate the next coming."

These words repeat, unbidden, within the hollow void where thoughts should be. They are neither command nor suggestion—they are certainty. A truth beyond reason.

And yet, something lingers—something that should not be.

The others do not question. We are to eliminate the Remnants. They are distortions, errors that should not persist. The Forbearers speak of them with disgust. The Inhibitors with disdain. But I see them. I hear them.

They are echoes of a world I do not know, and yet… I recognize them.

They cry out for a past I have never lived.

They call me something other than "Archon."

But I am Judgment. There is no hesitation in Judgment. Only absolution.

Serapha leads, unwavering. She speaks with the certainty of one who has never been wrong. We are the incubators of the new world, the heralds of its arrival.

Yet when I close my eyes, I see shadows that should not be.

When I strike a Remnant down, I feel a sorrow I should not possess.

When I touch the fragments of a forgotten civilization, I wonder if I was once part of it.

One of the Eidolons spoke to me today.

They should not be able to. They should not exist at all. Yet it whispered a name. Not "Icaris." Something else. Something that scraped against the walls of my hollow mind, threatening to break it apart.

The Eidolon did not fight me. It did not flee. It only looked at me as if I was the one who did not belong.

"You were not always like this."

"You were meant to protect us."

And yet, when I speak these words aloud, they no longer feel like certainty.

Journal Entry of Primordial Judgment