The Abyss was silent.
The Black Throne stood unchallenged, a pillar of absolute will at the center of an infinite Plane.
Veyrath slept.
Seraphis ruled.
Caelora guarded.
And beyond the veiled borders of the Silent Abyss…
the multiverse began to tremble.
It started as a whisper.
A faint, formless pull, radiating outward from the heart of Veyrath's slumber —
an unconscious call woven from authority and power too vast for any single world to contain.
It slipped between dimensions.
It flowed across the bones of dead gods.
It weaved through the blood of forming stars.
It kissed the wombs of dying worlds.
And the multiverse, though blind and deaf to its true master, answered.
Life stirred.
Across countless newborn realms — worlds of boiling seas, endless deserts, frozen skies — the first stirrings of clanmates began.
They were not like Seraphis.
Not crafted with the full artistry of Veyrath's direct hand.
These were lesser clans:
Primitive,
Incomplete,
Weaker,
But undeniably his bloodline.
Their forms mirrored fragments of his authority:
Tall pale beings with chakra paths woven through their bodies,
Horns sprouting in homage to a throne they did not remember,
Eyes that yearned for power, but could not understand why.
They named themselves Otsutsuki.
They did not know where the name came from.
They did not know that it was a broken memory of their King — a scar across existence left by the weight of his sleeping will.
They wandered from world to world, consuming, conquering, seeking strength.
Some raised temples to no gods.
Some devoured sacred fruits.
Some seeded fear into the bones of planets.
They were clans born of instinct, not memory.
Blood of the bloodline, yet ignorant of its crown.
They were clanmates to the Primordial Otsutsuki.
And they did not know.
Back within the Silent Abyss,
Seraphis stood at the top of the Black Throne's dais, silent and regal.
Her golden eyes — deep as newborn stars — stared into the shimmering mirrors of the Plane,
portals that reflected all the forming worlds.
She watched.
She witnessed.
She ruled.
"They rise," she murmured, voice low and aching with pride and sorrow.
"They do not remember you, my King, but they are yours."
Caelora stood one step below, silent as a blade.
"They are imperfect," Caelora said, her silver voice cool.
"Should we claim them? Brand them with your crest?"
Seraphis shook her head slowly, her long silver hair trailing across the obsidian stone.
"No," she whispered.
"Not yet. They are children still — wild and blind.
When he wakes, it shall be his choice whether to gather them… or let them burn."
She pressed a hand over her heart, feeling the slow, patient thrum of her bond with Veyrath.
He slept.
He dreamed.
And his dreams shaped destinies.
"Until then," she said, her voice rising into the endless black sky,
"we guard the True Throne. We honor his name. We prepare the way."
Caelora dropped to one knee, head bowed, her sword flashing like a promise.
"As you command, Empress.
As he commands."
Across the multiverse,
the clans of the Otsutsuki grew —
fragmented and crude,
but seeded by something ancient beyond their comprehension.
They conquered worlds.
Harvested fruits of power.
Feared death and sought immortality.
Yet none of them knew why they existed.
None of them knew the shape of the dream that had given them life.
They were preparing themselves, unknowingly, for a world they could not survive.
For when Veyrath would open his eyes again,
they would either kneel…
or they would be burned away.
The rivers of the Plane wept silver light.
The suns of the Abyss burned with patient fury.
And atop the Black Throne, wrapped in the Cocoon of Authority,
Veyrath slept.
Waiting.
Gathering.
Dreaming of the day the multiverse would remember its true King.