The First Being stood still, surrounded by the silence of the inner void, contemplating the mystery that still eluded him—the birth of Time. Space had been shaped, dimensions aligned in perfect harmony, but without Time, all would remain motionless. Frozen. Meaningless.
He remembered the words of the Codex Noeternum, etched in luminous thought:
"To create Time, you must let go of timelessness. The anchor of Time must be an Event—a moment unlike all others. It must be something irreversible."
An event. Not a thought. Not a feeling. Action.
He mulled over countless actions that could serve as the first event—something profound, something eternal. But nothing felt right. Frustration began to bloom, subtle but strange, for even emotion was new to him. In that frustration, he sighed—not with lungs, for he had no body, but with essence.
And that was when it struck him.
The sigh.
He could not physically breathe, but what if breath was not of air, but of intent?
He gathered his will, summoned his awareness, and then released it—not as sound, not as light, but as the first Breath of Time. It was not a whisper, not a roar. It was something else entirely. A flow that moved only forward—endlessly, inevitably.
Time had begun.
His breath rippled through the space he had shaped—no longer just hollow dimensions, but now a canvas being painted by motion. The moment his breath touched the primal space, waves formed across it like ripples on a still pond. But these ripples did not fade. They etched themselves into the very nature of the cosmos.
Now that the creation of both Space and Time was complete, he turned his attention to the union of both. He began weaving them together into a fabric—one that would hold the weight of stars, the dance of galaxies, and the whispers of aeons.
Within the great sphere of his will, the primordial chaos—wild, restless, and seething—had settled into the lowest depths. It churned like a sea of potential at the foundation of the sphere. And far above, high beyond the mind's reach, the Space-Time Fabric shimmered, waiting to be anchored.
But chaos did not yield easily.
As he tried to lay the first threads of the fabric, Chaos pushed back. It roared with silent resistance. Time tried to spiral backward into non-existence. Space convulsed, attempting to collapse under its own weight.
Yet the First Being did not falter. He stood at the center of it all, his Will now a golden thread, shining with resolve. He wove it through the strands of Time and the contours of Space—not to restrain them, but to teach them rhythm. Not to dominate Chaos, but to invite it into harmony.
He allowed the fabric to breathe, to pulse like a living thing. It stretched, curved, and danced—but it held. The Space-Time Fabric was born.
He admired his creation. Not with pride, but with purpose. For now, the path was clear. The next phase of creation awaited—form, energy, life, meaning. But as he turned his gaze to the vast emptiness above and below, something caught his attention.
Something he had not made.
It was subtle at first, like a flicker in the edge of thought, a presence not born of Will, nor drawn from Chaos.
He paused.
His thoughts sharpened into a question, one that echoed through the void.
"What is this?"
The silence deepened.
A beat, soft but ancient, resonating just outside the bounds of his creation.
His newly woven fabric shivered—not from weakness, but from awareness.
Something was approaching.
And the First Being, for the first time, felt the weight of the unknown.