In a space known to almost none, a realm beyond comprehension, lies the center of all existence—a colossal tree suspended above an endless abyss. Its roots, twisted and boundless, descend into the nothingness below, as if anchoring creation itself to an unseen foundation. On four of the tree's most ancient branches sit four figures, each embodying a force beyond mortal understanding.

The first figure, radiant and resplendent, is a being of pure white light, a crown of brilliance hovering above his head like a halo. He speaks in a voice that reverberates through the void, declaring that the time of reckoning has come.

"The Creator, through a messenger, has given us the command to begin the end of all things".

A figure beside him, wreathed in flames of crimson red and holding a sword that glowed like molten steel, listened and narrowed his fiery gaze. He speaks next, his voice sharp and scorching, questioning the certainty of the command.

 "Are you sure of this?" he asks, voice simmering with reluctant anticipation. "This is no mere trifle. Once done, it cannot be undone. We're speaking of the end of the end itself." His words linger in the air like embers, carrying the weight of a finality that none could escape.

The third figure, wrapped in a shadow so dense it devours even light, is calm, stoic, and unmoved. A great weighing scale floats behind him. His voice is a low murmur, deep as the roots of the tree. "If the Creator has decreed it, then it must be so. The ungrateful shall be judged; there is no more to be said." For him, there is no doubt, no hesitation. Judgment, in his eyes, is a necessary end, an inevitable culmination.

Silence falls over them as they turn to the fourth figure, awaiting his voice. This last of the four does not radiate light or darkness; instead, a faint green aura wraps around him, soft and steady. He seems less like a force of destruction and more like a presence untouched by any need for grandeur. They wait, but he remains silent, a pillar of tranquility amid the looming storm.

The figure of pure white light finally speaks, addressing him. "Iku," he says, a faint note of curiosity tinged in his otherwise stern tone. "Do you not have anything to say?" His question hangs in the air, an open invitation for Iku to break his silence.

Iku, the quiet one, only shakes his head in response, his face unreadable. The figure of white light nods, taking the gesture as tacit agreement. "Very well," he says. "As always, you align yourself with the Creator's will." His voice hardens, growing resolute. "Then, with all in agreement, the end of days shall commence. Unseal the first seal."

But before the words can solidify into action, Iku raises a hand, stopping the pronouncement with a quiet authority. "Not yet," he says simply, his voice as soft as a leaf drifting on a breeze yet powerful enough to halt the moment.

The figure of red flames flares up, his impatience seething as his fire roars to life. "What do you mean? You dare to defy the will of the Creator, Iku?" he demanded, his fiery sword clenching in his hand. The mere idea of opposing the Creator's decree sends his flames crackling, wild and untamed.

The figure of white light looks upon Iku with measured intrigue. "Iku, why do you resist?" he asks, genuinely perplexed. "You have always been driven, relentless in upholding the Creator's commands. The end of the world would free you to act without restraint. Why would you delay that?"

Iku meets his gaze, his eyes calm, untouched by the heat or the light around him. "I have unfinished business in the world," he says. His words are quiet, almost reluctant, yet there's an unmistakable firmness to them. "Give me one human year. One year, and then you may proceed."

The figure of pure red flames erupts with a fiery indignation. "Who are you to stall the Creator's will?" His flames lick the air, his entire form ablaze with fury. Beside him, the figure cloaked in shadow and bearing the scale nods in agreement, casting a judgmental glare toward Iku.

But Iku is unmoved. His green aura pulses with a serene intensity. "If you refuse me this," he says, "I will not join you in bringing an end to the world." His voice, calm and unwavering, sends a ripple of quiet shock through the assembly. He reminds them of his role, of how essential he is to the very apocalypse they speak of.

The figure of white light observes the tension between them, then raises a hand, his radiant presence steadying the scene. "It does not trouble me to wait a mere human year," he says thoughtfully, as if pondering the weight of time itself. "To beings like us, a year is but the blink of an eye. Even to the Creator, this delay is nothing." His gaze turns to the others, a subtle look of warning in his eyes. "Let us grant Iku his year."

With this declaration, a shift occurs in the balance. It is now two against two, the decision hanging delicately. The figure of red flames simmers, his defiance slowly cooling into reluctant acquiescence. "Very well," he concedes at last, his flames dimming to a controlled burn. "But one year, Iku. No more."

The figure with the scale sighs, his shadow darkening, but he too yields. "I agree," he says, voice heavy with reluctance.

Iku inclines his head in thanks, his form vanishing into the green aura that surrounds him. And with that, he is gone, leaving the three to sit in silence, contemplating the decision they have made.

The being of pure red flames turns to the figure of white light, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Why did you agree to his request?" he asks, the flames in his voice now controlled but smoldering. "If we had all stood against him, he might have relented."

The figure of white light looks off into the void, his gaze contemplative. "No," he says quietly. "Iku had already decided. He would have followed through regardless, even if it meant facing us in defiance. I could see it in his eyes."

The fiery one scoffs, disbelief flickering in his expression. "He is strong, yes, but against the three of us?" He laughs, though the sound is tinged with unease. "Surely, even he cannot prevail."

The figure of white light shakes his head slowly, a knowing air cloaking his words. "You overestimate yourself," he replies. "Iku's power is… something else entirely. There are depths to him we do not understand. The Creator placed him among us for reasons beyond our knowing."

A wry smirk creeps across the fiery one's face. "You make him sound like he's the vastness of the cosmos itself," he scoffs, though there's a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

"Perhaps I am exaggerating," the figure of white light replies, a faint smile softening his stern features. "Or perhaps I am not. You may understand once you witness his strength." His gaze shifts, piercing and introspective. "And you shall, in a year's time, when the end of days truly begins."

As they sit in the vast emptiness, the figure of white light allows his thoughts to drift. A question gnaws at him, one he cannot shake. What could possibly be so important to Iku that he would dare defy the Creator's will? Could there be a force in the mortal realm that would compel even a being like Iku to stay his hand?

He pondered this, an unsettling thought formed in his mind—a thought of possibilities. 

'If Iku, one of the most obedient among us, could defy the Creator for something as seemingly trivial as a "human year," then perhaps... just maybe I could use it…'