The void stretched infinitely, an abyss of absolute silence. No light. No time. Only the weight of eternity pressing upon itself. And in that emptiness, where not even the gods dared to tread, something stirred.
A thought.
The first thought in a place that had never known one.
A ripple formed in the abyss, and then, like ink bleeding into water, colors began to swirl. Faint at first—shades of blue, red, gold—until the blackness gave way to form. It was not creation, not yet, but something close. A possibility.
And then, for the first time since existence began, something impossible happened.
The void dreamed.
From that dream came the first spark of light, the first sound—a slow inhale, hesitant, confused. A being opened its eyes within the abyss, eyes that saw nothing and everything all at once. It did not know its name. It did not know why it had awoken. But it did know one thing:
It should not be here.
The moment the being existed, the universe trembled. The gods, high above in their celestial towers, felt the disturbance ripple through reality. They turned their gaze toward the abyss, toward the thing that should not have been.
And they were afraid.
For gods do not dream.
So why had this one?
A voice, ancient and thundering, echoed across the cosmos.
Erase it.
The celestial balance tipped, and the war for reality began.
The being struggled to move, limbs unformed and shifting, as if it were still deciding what it was meant to be. Thoughts drifted in its mind like echoes, scattered pieces of a puzzle that had no edges. It reached out, sensing the boundaries of the abyss, pressing against them. The void was infinite, but something in it resisted.
A presence.
Not a god, not yet. But something watching. Studying. The being felt its existence being measured, weighed, judged.
And then, a pulse.
Pain lanced through the void-born entity, an unseen force trying to crush it back into nothingness. The gods were acting, moving against it. The being screamed, though it had no voice, its formless essence flickering like a candle in a storm.
But it did not die.
Instead, it changed.
The void around it shifted, and suddenly it was falling—falling through light, through shadows, through memories it did not understand. Stars blurred past, entire galaxies rushing by as the abyss cast it out, rejecting what should not have been. And then, with a final lurch, the being crashed into existence.
The first thing it felt was pain.
A searing, all-consuming pain, as though it had been torn apart and stitched back together in a form that did not fit. It gasped—an unfamiliar sensation—lungs heaving as air forced its way inside. It had a body now. A form. But it was wrong, fractured. Unfinished.
It lay on a barren plane, the sky above an endless void, neither black nor white but a swirling mass of color and light. The ground beneath it pulsed, shifting like liquid yet firm beneath its weight.
And then, the whispers began.
They came from everywhere and nowhere, voices overlapping in a cacophony of sound, speaking in a language it did not understand—until it did. Each word burrowed into its mind, carving itself into its very being.
What are you?
It did not know.
You do not belong.
It knew.
You should not exist.
And yet, it did.
The whispers grew louder, forming into shapes—dark figures looming at the edges of the strange world. Eyes, too many to count, flickered in and out of existence, watching, waiting.
A force pressed down upon it, an invisible weight trying to crush it into nothingness. It fought, instinctively, resisting the pull, but the pain intensified, its very form unravelling. It was being erased.
But something within it refused.
A spark ignited in its core, a defiance that was not its own but belonged to something older, deeper. The void may have birthed it, but it would not take it back.
The pressure shattered, and with it, the plane of existence around it collapsed.
The being awoke, gasping, in a world that was not the void.
Sky. Land. Air.
It was lying in a crater, the earth scorched around it. Above, the sun burned bright, unfamiliar yet familiar. It pushed itself up, limbs shaking. A body—human, or close enough. It could feel its heart pounding, blood rushing through its veins.
But something was wrong.
It could still hear them.
The whispers.
Faint now, but ever-present, lurking beneath the surface of reality.
The sky above rippled, like a reflection disturbed by a falling stone. A sound echoed across the land—a chime, discordant yet mesmerizing, as if reality itself had been struck like a great bell.
The being turned its gaze upward, and for the first time, it saw them.
Figures descending from the heavens, wrapped in robes woven from starlight and shadow. Their eyes burned with celestial fire, and their hands clutched weapons that hummed with divine power.
They were not the gods. Not yet.
But they had been sent.
To erase it.
A strange calm settled over the being. It did not know what it was, but it knew one thing with certainty.
It would not die here.
A pulse of energy radiated from within, a response to the divine judgment hurtling toward it. The air thickened, the ground cracked beneath the weight of impending battle.
The first clash between what should not exist and the will of the gods had begun.
The battle erupted in an explosion of energy that sent shockwaves rippling across the barren land. The celestial figures moved as one, their weapons tearing through the very fabric of reality, seeking to undo what had been done. The being—formless yet forming, incomplete yet defiant—instinctively countered, hands moving without thought, summoning barriers of raw existence to deflect the divine fury.
Every impact sent pain lancing through its body. Every clash sent echoes of its defiance rippling across the universe. It was not just fighting for survival; it was fighting for being.
The gods had declared its existence a mistake.
But mistakes did not dream.
They did not fight.
They did not change.
With a final surge of energy, the being lashed out, not just with power, but with will. A single moment of rebellion against the natural order. And as the celestial figures faltered, even for an instant, the being seized its chance and fled.
The war had begun.
And it would not end until the gods themselves understood the answer to the question:
End of Prologue.
📢 Author's Note:
Hey everyone! This is my Second novel, and I'm beyond excited to share this story with you. Gods Don't Dream, So Why Am I? is a tale of cosmic mysteries, forbidden existence, and the battle between fate and defiance. And trust me—it only gets more intense from here!
If you've made it this far, I have one small request: Please read at least 10 chapters before leaving a review. The world is just beginning to unfold, and I want you to fully experience it before making your judgment.
✨
— [Kirito_Kazuha]