The old storyteller sat by the dying embers of the fire, his voice barely a whisper, yet every soul in the tavern leaned in, drawn by something beyond mere curiosity. It was fear, deep and ancient, the kind that lived in the bones of the world itself.

"You wish to know about **him**?" the storyteller rasped, his fingers trembling as he reached for his cup. "The one whose name is but an echo? The one even the gods dare not remember?"

A hush fell over the room. The wind outside howled, as if the world itself objected to the tale about to be told.

"He was once bound by fate, as all things are," the old man continued. "A mere mortal, born of prophecy, woven into the great pattern of destiny. The gods themselves carved his path, shaping him into a hero—a savior of the world."

The fire crackled, casting strange shadows against the walls.

"But he saw the truth. He saw the **chains.** The invisible threads that bound men, spirits, even the divine to a fate they did not choose. And so… he severed them."

A sharp intake of breath. Someone muttered a prayer.

"The moment he **cut his own fate,** the heavens shuddered. The gods, who had sculpted him, who had planned for him to serve their will, recoiled in horror. Never before had something broken free. Never before had something **escaped the script.**"

The storyteller's eyes, clouded by age, seemed to look beyond the room, into something vast and terrible.

"They tried to erase him. But how do you erase something that exists outside of reality itself? How do you kill a man who has already removed his own death?

"They sent warriors, chosen champions, divine beasts sculpted by celestial hands. He **unmade** them. They did not die. They did not fall. They simply… ceased. **Not even their gods could recall their names.**"

The room was silent now, the air heavy with something unseen.

"The gods themselves descended, wielding powers that had shaped creation itself. They called him a mistake. A wound in the fabric of the world.

"And yet… **they feared to face him.**"

A lone candle flickered and died.

"For in his grasp, he wielded not a blade, but something far worse. A thing with no name, no shape, no history. A tear in existence itself. **The Unmaking.** With it, he did not cut flesh. He did not spill blood.

"He removed.

"From memory. From time. From the very concept of being.

"The gods fought. And the gods fled. For the first time in eternity, they abandoned the heavens, sealed the celestial gates, and erased their own names from mortal tongues, lest he remember them."

The storyteller exhaled slowly, as if the weight of the words had drained him.

"The temples fell. Prophecies turned to dust. The prayers of men went unanswered. And in their place, only whispers remained.

"Whispers of the one who **cut fate itself.**"

A lone traveler, seated in the corner, finally spoke. His voice was quiet, measured.

"If the gods erased him," the traveler asked, "if none dare speak his name… then how do you know this tale?"

The storyteller turned to him, his withered lips curling into something that was not quite a smile.

"Because, child… there are some things even the gods cannot forget."

And in the silence that followed, somewhere far beyond mortal sight, **something stirred.**