Forget what science has taught you. Abandon your myths of gods and creation stories.

Because we have all been deceived about the origin of the universe, and its true story is far stranger than you could ever imagine.

The universe wasn't born in a Big Bang, nor was it crafted by the hands of a divine being. Instead it was shaped through hard work and relentless determination.

The universe is a Muscle.

Space is not an empty void filled with galaxies and stars; it is a vast, throbbing expanse of the Muscle-time continuum. With every twitch and flex of its mighty fibers, the colors and matter we perceive spring forth from its grandeur.

But the Muscle is not a sentient creator with clear purpose or intent. It has no feelings, no intelligence, and its existence was not a product of chance. Like every great muscle, it owes its form to those who sculpted it.

The first to work out the Muscle were the Primordial Bodybuilders. But they didn't do so for leisure; they did so out of pure desperation. Their species transformed the Muscle into the foundation of everything we know in a final, tireless bid to avoid total extinction.

Their story began long before the universe's creation, on the Muscle itself: a simple, fleshy sphere suspended in the eternal void of the fourth dimension.

The Primordial Bodybuilders were once a peculiar life form. They originally existed as tree-like beings with vibrant, seven-colored leaves that dotted the surface of the Muscle. Known as the Vor, these beings coexisted harmoniously with their surroundings, desiring nothing more than survival. They sustained themselves by absorbing nutrients from the silver pools of time beneath the Muscle's surface.

But the relationship between the Vor and the silver time was anything but harmonious. The Vor were incapable of consuming moving time, and silver time itself resisted standing still. Locked in perpetual conflict, their battleground lay deep within the Muscle.

Hidden within its core was a fourth-dimensional river of silver time. Unlike third-dimensional rivers, which flow in only one direction, this river flowed in all directions, expanding outward spherically from its center. It coursed through the fleshy Muscle, with some streams rudely diverted and slowed to a halt using intricate channels for the Vor to feed off of.

The Muscle functioned more like a dam than ordinary flesh and blood, and the Vor exploited its unique properties to wage and win their war against silver time.

But this battlefield was about to spiral out of control.

The river of time that connected to the center of the Muscle was merely a tributary of the great Past-Present River. One fateful day, that massive river sent an overwhelming surge of silver time into the core river of the Muscle.

In an instant, the tranquil world of the Muscle erupted into chaos. The heavy currents of silver time tore through their fragile habitat, disrupting the delicate balance they had fought so hard to maintain.

With such a violent flow of silver time, the Vor could no longer slow it using their existing channels.

Silver time surged unstoppably through every fiber of the fleshy sphere.

The Vor's food supply began to dwindle, and many withered and died. Yet this was far from their greatest concern.

Swelling like a balloon, the Muscle strained to contain the surge. It was on the brink of tearing apart completely.

Desperate, the Vor willingly sacrificed themselves to drain the buildup of silver time, but their efforts came too late.

Black hole-like tears marred the Muscle's surface, spilling silver time in destructive torrents that flooded the land. Oceans of flowing silver time overwhelmed the Vor. Their once-vibrant leaves and trunks were exposed and suffocated by the relentless deluge, as their fragile habitat was reduced to fragments.

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Faced with annihilation, the Vor were left with one grim reality: adapt or die.

The Vor were forced to abandon their colorful plumage and tree trunks, reshaping themselves into small, root-like forms to survive the flood. Enshrouded in protective Muscle, their new forms became spherical, functioning like bizarre submarines. Maze-like veins threaded through their bodies, channeling the silver time that surrounded them. These veins absorbed silver water from all directions, converting it into small droplets of drinkable silver time.

Though few in number, those who survived evolved into the Primordial Bodybuilders, the very first architects of existence.

Yet their survival was far from assured. To sustain themselves, they needed more Muscle.

Far more.

Driven by necessity, the Bodybuilders swarmed the unclaimed Muscle like ravenous wolves, hungrily incorporating it into their physiques. For some, this process was agonizingly slow. To overcome this challenge, they banded together, pooling their efforts to build even greater amounts of mass.

Through their relentless conquest of Muscle, the universe as we know it began to take shape.

No longer haunted by extinction and mastering the art of bodybuilding, they transcended their survival instincts and embraced ambition. Prosperity became their ultimate goal, and they expanded their bodies to unimaginable proportions, free from the looming specter of death.

Thus began the "Golden Era of Bodybuilding," a time when creation flourished.

During this era, generations of Bodybuilders competed to surpass one another, forging stars and galaxies as monuments to their boundless identity. The cosmos was filled with wonders, each creation more complex and grander than the last.

But the Muscle was not infinite. The reserves left behind from their ancestry began to dwindle, until it eventually dried up entirely.

Without the Muscle's boundless bounty, the cosmos grew silent. The younger Bodybuilders gazed longingly at the stars, their hearts heavy with despair, knowing they could never match the brilliance of their predecessors.

Deprived of opportunities for growth, the universe entered an age of stagnation.

It was an era defined by the hopeless search to rekindle the brilliance that had once illuminated the cosmos.

Gone were the tales of triumphant creation, replaced were sagas of unfulfilled dreams. The cosmos no longer celebrated heroes, it only mourned the slow, inevitable death of ambition.