The First Being floated in silence, watching his fragile creation—a small sphere of light—hover in the void like a lone firefly in an eternal night. It flickered gently, anchored not by law or matter, but by the sheer force of his will. It was beautiful, delicate… but unstable.
He could feel it.
It would vanish the moment his will faltered.
This was not enough. If he truly wished to create, he needed to make something that could exist without him—a creation that could stand on its own, that could endure. Something that could grow, change, and thrive within its own laws.
So he turned once more to the Codex Noeternum, the boundless archive of all knowledge—past, present, and future. The Codex did not speak in words, but in thoughts, impressions, and revelations. It did not instruct, but unfolded truth into the core of his awareness.
And so he asked, his thoughts reaching toward it:
"What is Primordial Chaos?"
The answer came as a storm of clarity.
Chaos is not evil. Chaos is not wrong. Chaos is the potential of all things—endless mutation, unbounded possibility. It is entropy in motion.
It is the state where every form exists and does not exist at once. It is raw, it is infinite, it is alive in its own way.
Entropy, the Codex showed him, was the law that all things made would eventually fall apart unless there was a structure to hold them—an anchor, a source.
The First Being pondered this deeply.
If Chaos was ever-changing, then to make creation stable, he needed something unchanging. A root. A foundation. A pillar that could resist entropy and impose order upon the chaos. He had used his will to do this once, but he knew now that will alone was not enough. His will needed a place to act, a structure to shape.
So he asked again:
"How do I make my creation stable?"
The Codex responded with a vision—a complex web of concepts woven together in harmony:
You must create a container first—a Void wrapped in Will. A controlled pocket within the boundless nothing, where Primordial Chaos can be held and shaped.
Then, within that sacred space, you must construct the foundation: the Fabric of Reality. A stage upon which your matter, your dimensions, your creations can perform their roles.
The First Being listened. He felt each concept sink into his essence like seeds waiting to blossom.
"What is that fabric made of?" he asked.
This time, the Codex responded not with a single idea, but two.
Space… and Time.
Space was the great expanse—a stage where things could exist. It gave everything a place, a position, a relationship to other things. Without space, there could be no where.
Time was the engine—the flow that allowed events to happen, for change to occur. It gave creation direction, motion, and memory. Without time, there could be no when, no before or after—and thus, no story, no growth.
Space gives form. Time gives motion. Together, they form the fabric upon which creation rests.
And in this moment, the First Being understood:
Creation wasn't just about will. It wasn't about force.
It was about balance.
He needed a Void that was his own—a pocket of stillness carved from the endless sea of Nothing. He would surround it with his Will, and fill it with Primordial Chaos. Then, he would lay down the first laws—Space and Time—as threads to weave into the very bones of his new reality.
Only then could he begin building worlds.
Only then could he let go of each creation and trust that it would remain.
The glowing sphere of light before him dimmed slightly, almost as if it too was listening. As if it could feel its maker grasping truths that would reshape everything.
The First Being closed his awareness, retreating inward.
He imagined the Void he would shape.
He saw the Fabric he would weave.
And he whispered, to no one and to everything:
"Let the foundations be laid."
The Codex pulsed faintly, as if in silent approval.
Chaos churned quietly, waiting to be given purpose.
And the First Being began to prepare—for the birth of the universe was near, and the first true act of creation had only just begun.