Somewhere out in the uncharted vastness of the chronoverse, a young and nubile man scans one of the ancient, many-dusty tomes of the cosmic library. His fingers dance across the pages like whispers of wind until a voice, trembling as a broken reed, cuts into the quiet sanctuary behind him. "Master… run… please… leave." The plea shimmies in the air, like a faint echo in an empty hall.
He spins around in disbelief, his eyes wide with horror as his loyal subordinate stands before him with a sword plunged into his body and blood blossoms diffusing from the wound. He screams, running to the fallen, and his voice was a river of woe: "Why? Why must you kill my subordinate? All my life I have served this family, asking for nothing in return." The subtext in the tone is tinged with heartache, set over the unsaid years of endurance.
But facing him is a man with a sneer cold and hard as stone. "You parasite," the assassin spits, the result as effective as a whip cracking through the air. "All this time, you have leached off the family, offering nothing back. A crippled body, unable even to cultivate, yet feasting on the family's legacy." The attacker flicked his wrist, and out came a dagger that plunged into the young man's side. Bending closer, he breathed, with venom in his tone, "Die for the family, if that's all you're good for.
As laughter fills the void, the young man's consciousness flashes out, only to again reawaken into the lowest universe-the seventh, a desolate wasteland known as the "Trash Universe," where failed experiments and forsaken dreams go flying away like so many leaves in a tempest.
He blinks, taking in his frail new form, but a spark of hope flickers as he senses the cosmic energy around him-thin, but present. "Could it be? A faint, slim slice of a smile curves his lips upwards. For the first time, he began to cultivate-a slow and painful process that had taken 9,000 years in this godforsaken land where energy came as rarely as the rain in a desert.
"Now. let me shape my world," he whispered to himself, his tone firm, with eyes gleaming with imagination about what was in store for him.
To create life, he has to clench his dantian-inwards, his life essence folding inwards like a star collapsing under its own gravity. His raw, untamed primordial essence begins pulsating-a heartbeat of creation. He crafts this core into an expanding planet over millennia, his will forming mountains, seas, and skies. With every layer, so the land is a canvas, painted in colors of his making.
Through desolate landscapes of the seventh universe, he gathered pieces of dead worlds: ancient seeds, minerals, even shards of crystal still glimmering with traces of life. With these, he breathes life into his creation, sowing the seeds across his planet, like a gardener nurturing his first bloom.
He splits the continent into eight, placed like chess pieces on some cosmic board: ice realms rising in the north and south, continents sprawling from west to east, two more anchoring the eastern pole. Renames them in that stern, unrelenting vow of revenge: Nemesis, Remuneration, Quittance, Reprisal, Vengeance, Retaliation, Retribution, and Wrath Island.
To protect this young world, he threads runes along its edges, as would a cloak to shelter the child. A subspace-a hidden haven-forms between his planet and the rune barrier: a celestial retreat that will be his home. Within this pocket dimension, he crafts a home from the finest scraps he has gathered; each fragment serves as a reminder of his journey through cosmic refuse.
He flipped on an elaborate device at the center of the world: a network of runes and metals exactly mirroring the cosmic framework. It hummed to life, and he called his creation Restitution Planet-a world built upon the ashes of his old life and testament to his resolve.
Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling. The system beeps; its voice, the echo of rebirth. He smiled and began uploading all the knowledge he had gained from the universe onto the system, rules and guides, history-a legacy carved out from his very soul. He works at this task for thirty years, his cosmic energy waning day by day, like a river wearing its banks down. Weary, he slumped onto the floor, his sleep as profound as the universe itself.
Centuries drip by like honey, and he wakes up to find his planet changed: forests garb the land, the oceans rock continents, and odd creatures populate his world, born of the seeds and strange materials he'd sown. He is in awe of the insects dancing through emerald canopies, shimmering depths of seas teeming with primordial life.
He looks upon his creation and then realizes he has not registered the continents within his system yet. With an unwavering hand, he names each one of them, thus binding them into his memory and his purpose of retribution. He watched as his world continued to flourish, and with every name, so it seemed another sigil of power toward his path of vengeance.
Beyond his realm, in the control room of the cosmic dimension, voices raise in alarm. "Sir! There appeared an unregistered new planet." A junior officer stumbles in, breathless. "Locate it!" orders the superior, the sound of whose tone is edged with urgency. Within the Trash Universe, however, concealed from the prying eyes of the cosmos, Ayodeji proceeds with his work, now ready to begin the next phase of his plan.
To this newly chiseled world of his, he whispers in a hushed tone, his voice piqued upon the cosmic winds: "For all that I have lost, this world shall remember my name." Saying so, he puts his planet on autopilot and succumbs into deep restorative sleep, allowing the fates to weave threads of his essence deep within the tapestry of the chronoverse.