One may ask himself, why? Why is the weight of the world bearing down on me. It's really quite simple, It's Not. The weight of the universe IS. Buckle up and glide forward into the doom and recklessness of creation...
In a realm of blissful ignorance, somewhere beyond the reaches of mortal existence, in a void where time and space themselves are malleable concepts, an ethereal light illuminates a grand table. This table, vast and shimmering with the energies of creation itself, and a small fraction of the power of existence is surrounded by beings whose forms defy understanding. They are the Creators—architects of reality, arbiters of destiny, entities of inconceivable power who exist outside the laws of the universe they oversee.
These Creators, whose laughter can shatter planets and whose whispers can bend galaxies, do not watch over their universe with the care of benevolent gods. No, they are far more callous than that—playful in the most terrifying sense. They are players, and their game is endless.
Around this cosmic table, a recent event from their latest game plays out—a battle between Marcus Cassianus, a mortal warrior, and the Hunger Incarnate, an ancient force unleashed by the Creators' whim. The battle, fierce and consuming, echoes across the fabric of reality, its intensity lingering like an aftertaste on the Creators' lips.
One of the Creators, its form blazing like a sun on the verge of collapse, leans forward to study Marcus's flickering image. "The mortal survived," it muses, its voice a resonant hum that sends ripples through the table.
"Indeed," says another Creator, whose body shimmers like the corona of a black hole, pulling in all surrounding light. "He is proving... resilient."
Across the table, a third Creator, a being whose form undulates with the colors of a nebula, laughs softly. "Resilient, perhaps. But he is still mortal, still bound by flesh and bone. The hunger will consume him in time—no one escapes it."
The Creators fall silent, watching Marcus, whose small figure traverses the desolate landscape of Zephyros. He clutches the Pharos Sphere in his hand, its light barely visible, a faint glow amid the darkness that surrounds him. They study him with a mixture of fascination and indifference, as though he is nothing more than a piece on a cosmic board, an intriguing but ultimately disposable player in their grand game.
The silence breaks as another Creator, seated at the far end of the table, stirs. This one's form is a tapestry of shadows and stars, a shifting pattern of light and dark that seems to embody the duality of the universe itself. "Shall we... raise the stakes?" it asks, its voice a whisper that reverberates through the void.
The others turn to look, intrigued.
"What did you have in mind?" asks the sun-like Creator, its eyes blazing with anticipation.
The shadowed Creator smiles, a subtle shift in the starlight of its being. With a flick of its wrist, it conjures an image above the table—a figure cloaked in darkness, its eyes blazing with a deep, consuming red, like the heart of a dying star.
"The Harbinger," it announces, its voice tinged with amusement. "An agent of the Hunger, crafted from the essence of the void itself. A being who will do more than merely consume. It will lead the feast, spreading the hunger's influence across the stars, guiding it to every corner of the universe."
The Creators murmur in approval, their voices a mixture of whispers and echoes, each one resonating with the promise of new chaos. The Harbinger's image pulses with a dark energy, a force so intense it seems to warp the space around it. The figure is a perfect reflection of the hunger—insatiable, inevitable, and utterly merciless.
"But what of Marcus?" asks the corona-like Creator, tilting its head as it studies the mortal's flickering image. "He has proven more resourceful than we anticipated. He may yet pose a challenge."
The shadowed Creator chuckles, a sound that feels like the collapse of distant stars. "Marcus Cassianus is... resilient, yes. But he is also bound by the very tool he wields. The Pharos Sphere strengthens the hunger with each victory, feeding it with the energy of his defiance. In time, his strength will serve only to deepen the feast."
The others nod in agreement, their forms shifting as they contemplate the irony of Marcus's struggle. To the Creators, the Pharos Sphere was never a tool of salvation; it was a conduit, a link between Marcus and the hunger, designed to ensnare him in an endless cycle of resistance and consumption.
Another Creator, whose form resembles a swirling vortex, leans forward, its gaze fixed on the Harbinger. "Then let it be done. We will set the Harbinger upon him. Let Marcus believe he fights a new threat, unaware that his every battle only strengthens the hunger."
The Creators smile, each one envisioning the chaos that will unfold. They are silent for a moment, as if savoring the anticipation, watching the Harbinger's dark form drift into the universe like a shadowed plague. The Harbinger is a new piece on the board, a weapon that will test Marcus's resolve in ways he has never known. And all the while, the hunger will grow, feeding on the struggle, on the defiance, on the very essence of resistance itself.
As the image of Marcus fades from the table, the Creators return to their conversation, their voices filled with cruel amusement. They debate strategies, outcomes, ways to twist the story further, weaving threads of fate and chaos as easily as a mortal might spin a tale.
And as they speak, the Harbinger descends upon Zephyros, unseen, its presence casting a shadow across the landscape. It is a being without mercy, without empathy, without fear—a creature of pure hunger, destined to lead the feast.
In the world of mortals, Marcus will soon wake to a new nightmare. He will fight, he will struggle, he will defy—unaware that his every action is exactly what the Creators desire. His journey, like those before him, is just one chapter in an endless cycle of creation and destruction, a game with no end, no victor, only the promise of eternal consumption.
For in the dominion of eternity, there is no escape. Only the feast.