The cosmos trembled under the weight of an inevitable collision. A storm, born from the deepest corners of the universe, began to stir as the forces of the Primordials gathered for the battle that would determine the future of all creation. Time, Chaos, Fate, Space, Darkness, Light, Order, and the newly emerged Nothingness and Everything were poised to clash, their power uncontained, their wills irreconcilable.
Jack stood at the center of it all, his silver hair cascading like moonlight, his blue eyes cold and resolute. The air around him seemed to pulse with the raw energy of the universe, a reflection of his own inner turmoil. For the first time, he realized that his power could no longer be hidden or ignored. He was more than a force to be reckoned with—he was the axis upon which the multiverse would turn.
The Primordial Era had begun, and the time for games had ended. The Nine Forces, each led by one of the Primordials, were gathering in the heart of the universe, ready to wage war over supremacy. Jack had known that this moment would come, but even he could not have predicted the scale of what was about to unfold.
Across the vast expanse of the multiverse, the Nine Primordials assembled. At the helm of each force stood one of the primordial entities, their figures towering over the battlefield like gods, each exuding an aura of unmatched power.
The Chaos Lord was the first to arrive, a being of wild, untamed power whose very presence warped reality around him. His body shifted between forms, a swirling mass of ever-changing elements—fire, water, air, and earth—all blending together in a tempest of destruction. He was the embodiment of change, the master of the unpredictable, and he relished in the chaos of battle.
The Lord of Time, a figure of ageless wisdom, stood tall in his robes of shimmering silver. His eyes, infinite in their depth, saw the past, present, and future all at once. Time bent to his will, and with a mere gesture, entire moments were erased or accelerated, shaping the battlefield as if it were clay in his hands.
The Fate Weaver, the embodiment of destiny, was an enigma—her form a shifting blend of shadow and light, her every movement echoing with the weight of inevitability. She wielded the threads of fate, weaving destinies that could not be avoided, shaping the flow of events in ways that no one, not even the other Primordials, could comprehend.