THE CREATORS AND THE FIRST CREATION

"Long, long ago," Arcane began, his voice almost too soft for the wind to carry. His gaze was locked on the heavens above—on stars so distant they no longer burned, but still dared to shine.

"Before time had rhythm… before space had form… There was only Mana."

Lucius listened, quiet and unmoving. Arcane's tone was not just reverent—it was sacred, as if repeating a truth too old to question.

Mana is not just energy. It is the essence. The first breath. The seed of all creation. The architect and the architect's dream. Our lives, our world, this universe—are all mere echoes of its will."

He swept his hand across the sky.

"Those stars you admire? Children of Mana. The void between them? Formed by its pause. Even the sentient beings … especially the first sentient beings… were not above it."

Lucius's brows furrowed. He leaned in as Arcane continued, his voice growing steadier, like a priest reciting a divine epic.

"At first, there was only raw Mana. Chaotic. Boundless. But over time, it began to converge—merging, folding, fusing. Collapsing into itself until the very act of being sparked awareness. From that moment, the first sentient beings arose: the gods."

Arcane closed his eyes, as though picturing them.

"They were beings of incomprehensible might. Not born in wombs or sculpted by hands—they formed, as if Mana chose to gaze upon itself and discovered consciousness. Their connection to the essence was flawless. They did not channel mana; they were mana, moulded into thought."

"With their will, they shaped the primal architecture of existence—bending laws, singing stars into being, carving the skeleton of reality. Some say they created light itself. Others claim that light was merely a byproduct of their joy."

Lucius spoke for the first time. "And what of us? Of mortals?"

Arcane smiled faintly. "We were far, far away from entering the story."

"The gods eventually created a sanctuary—a realm forged to be their home, their throne, their sanctified plane. They called it Heaven: a world untouched by mortality, where mana flowed like rivers of gold, and clouds bore the weight of palaces."

"But gods-no, no matter how divine, craved service, praise, adoration. So from their own essence, they crafted a second species: the angels."

Lucius's heart stirred at the word.

"Angels were not mere servants. They were divine extensions of their creators' will—immortal, radiant, fierce. Some were built for beauty, others for battle. But all were born for one reason: to obey."

For a time, Arcane said, there was harmony. Angels built and tended the heavens. Gods ruled and pondered. It was a golden age, unmarred by hunger or decay.

"But as in all stories, peace breeds stagnation. And stagnation breeds ambition."

"Within the divine hierarchy, three main castes emerged," Arcane said, his voice hardening.

The Supreme Gods – The architects of balance. Old as time. Rarely intervened.

The Outer Gods – Solitary wanderers of other realms. Reclusive, strange.

The Inner Gods – Proud, ambitious, dwelling at the heart of Heaven itself.

"It was the Inner Gods who began to clash."

They vied for influence, for dominion over creation itself. At first, it was political—a rivalry of power, philosophies, visions of reality. Then came deception. Then threats. Then… war.

"The Supreme Gods remained silent. Perhaps indifferent. Perhaps waiting. Or perhaps they wanted war—to see which ideology deserved to ascend."

And so, the Divine Wars began.

"But gods do not dirty their hands," Arcane said bitterly.

"They sent their angels."

Legions upon legions of divine warriors were thrown into battle—not against demons or chaos—but against their own kin. Brother against sister. Wing against wing.

"They didn't fight monsters—they fought themselves. For pride. For masters. For gods who watched from crystal towers."

Lucius's fists clenched. "Why didn't they refuse?"

Arcane answered calmly. "Because they were made to obey."

The war lasted centuries—perhaps aeons. And it would have lasted longer, had one voice not risen above the rest.

"He had no name in most records. Some called him the Primarch. Others, the Dawn-Wing. He was the first of his kind—the prototype from which all angels were shaped."

He was not only powerful—he was respected. Revered by both allies and enemies. His battalion, forged in loyalty, followed him not out of fear—but faith.

"He fought not to conquer… but to end it. His dream was not dominion—it was peace. A future where angels could raise children instead of swords. Where wings were for flight, not war."

After years of bloodshed, he approached his Father, the god who created him. The one he revered beyond all.

"He begged for strength. One final gift. One last blessing to end the war forever."

Lucius held his breath.

"And do you know what his creator said?"

Arcane turned to him, eyes sharp and sad.

"He denied his son the future he dreamed of for all these years..."

And so, the angel made his choice—to walk a path of peace, even if it meant turning his back on his creators. He vowed to end the endless bloodshed, not through divine decree, but by severing himself from the very gods who birthed him.

A silence followed the revelation, broken only by the soft breeze brushing past the grass where they sat. The stars above shimmered gently, like ancient witnesses to long-forgotten truths. Arcane finally turned his head toward Lucius, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

"Tell me, Lucius," he asked, slowly, "why do you think the gods-those divine, eternal beings—refused to end the countless wars that tore their heavens apart?"

Lucius blinked, not expecting a question that large, that heavy. He waited, listening.

"What could they possibly gain from it all?" Arcane continued. "Understand this: the armies of heaven were almost equally matched. The differences between them were marginal. Barely noticeable. Except for one... the army of the First Angel. The one army that had a real chance—the chance—to conquer all the heavens and deliver them to his father's feet like a gift."

Arcane leaned forward, eyes darkening with something that felt like sorrow.

"But he was denied that honour. That peace. Even after centuries of fighting, of blood spilt across divine lands, his plea was rejected. And so I ask you again, Lucius—why would a god refuse such a rare, perfect opportunity to bring unity under one banner? Especially when his own son offered it in loyalty?"

Lucius lowered his gaze, his mind spiralling into thought. Theories came like flickering stars—scattered and infinite. Some sparkled with logic, others with emotion. In the end, he spoke not from intellect, but instinct.

"Maybe… winning was never their goal," he said softly.

Arcane jerked back, suddenly. The motion startled Lucius.

"Correct!" Arcane exclaimed, eyes gleaming with unexpected delight. "By the stars, you got it right."

A brief silence. Then Arcane smirked.

"God help you if you had said 'entertainment.' I would've killed you myself, right here. Right now."

Lucius gave him a deadpan side-eye, but didn't interrupt. Arcane's tone had shifted again—more serious now, more grounded in grief than rage.

"Victory was never the goal," he said slowly. "Entertainment? Sure, maybe, at first. But even gods grow bored. Watching the same war play out with new masks? Over and over? It's no different than reading the same story with the same ending, every damn time. A little twist here, a new character there—but always the same tragedy."

Arcane looked away, into the sky.

"No. These wars... they weren't just divine theatre. They were experiments. Carefully monitored fields of evolution. You see, angels, much like the gods, share a deep resonance with mana. Each war—each brutal, horrifying battle—was a laboratory. A chance to study new forms of mana manipulation, invention, and amplification. Innovation is born from desperation. That's all we were to them—test subjects bleeding on divine soil."

Lucius's fists clenched quietly.

"And if one angelic army ever broke through to another god's domain?" Arcane continued. "That's when the gods stepped in. Not out of fear. But out of ego. Only a god may challenge another. That was the unspoken rule. Angels were their proxies, their chess pieces. The real war—war-the true war—never began."

Lucius sat still, no longer relaxed. The idea that divine wars were never about ideals but about progress—about control—made his skin crawl.

"But one angel saw through the lie," Arcane said, voice low now. "The First Angel. A being of immense power and even greater clarity. When his father, the god who birthed him, denied peace despite a clear path to it, something in him broke. Or maybe... something awoke. And so, for the first time in recorded existence, a creation raised its voice against its creator."

Arcane paused, watching Lucius for a beat before continuing.

"The father was swift in response. He subdued his son. Shackled him. Imprisoned him in a plane no mortal or divine eye could reach. The angel's battalion—his comrades, his friends, his family—pleaded for his release. Their voices, once mighty, fell on deaf ears."

Arcane's tone darkened.

"But the gods talk. And word spread. Other domains heard of the rebellion. And they laughed. Mocked the father of the First Angel. A god, unable to command loyalty from his own son? Humiliating. And when gods are mocked, they do not apologise. They retaliate."

Lucius felt his stomach twist as Arcane's next words fell like thunder.

"The father slaughtered them all. Every comrade. Every friend. Even the First Angel's children—wiped out, erased, as if they had never existed. A brutal message to the other heavens. A declaration: defy me, and I will unmake you."

A heavy silence followed. Lucius's voice was barely more than a breath.

"Why…? Just for a plea for peace?"

Arcane's eyes softened with a pain that seemed eternal.

"Yes," he whispered. "Peace threatened the system. Questioning threatened the hierarchy. So he made an example. But in doing so, he also birthed something he never intended…"

Lucius looked up.

"What happened after?"

Arcane stared at him. A strange expression crossed his face—grief, pride, fury, and something like reverence.

He answered in a voice that seemed to carry the echo of entire worlds.

"The First Heavenly War."