Ancestral Lineage

The world itself seemed to hold its breath. Time, air, even the pulse of stars—everything paused in anticipation of what was to come. Whether it would herald salvation or doom, none could say. Not that their knowledge could alter it.

This was not a mere disturbance. It was a cosmic turbulence, a ripple that threaded through realms and planes alike. The heavens shuddered. The abyss stirred. Even the void beyond existence vibrated in recognition. Such upheaval only came when something was being born.

Not the tools of mortals, not the creations of men or dwarves that rusted and fell into dust. No—this was far greater. This was Creation in its truest, rawest form.

The birth of a beginning.The birth of a race.

All knew the legends of the Primogenitors—ancient beings who were the first of their kind, the living wellsprings from which entire races flowed. That age had long passed. New Primogenitors arose only through inheritance, the passing of mantle and essence. But inheritance was not birth. It was rebirth—glorious, world-shaking in its own right, but never entirely new.

This… this was different.

This was not a rebirth, but a genesis. A moment so rare it stood outside prophecy, outside expectation. A creation of the highest order, one that could not be contained or repeated.

The world of Debranlith was already home to many: humans, dwarves, vampires, elves, beastkin, werewolves, fae, demons, dragons, youkai, and countless others.The Beast Plane—Old Gassendi—teemed with races born of ancient storms and trials: gargoyles with stone flesh, ice spirits carved of winter's heart, the T'Shalari of resonant stone and scale, the E'Sherils whose elegance was entwined with malice. Some races had been crafted, forged by divine or infernal hands. Others had evolved, clawing their way upward from primal beasts.

But what stirred now did not belong to either path.

This was neither crafted nor evolved. It was unfurling from nothingness, a seed of law and mystery woven into flesh.

Most across the planes had no words for what they felt. Many did not even understand it. But all of them—whether mortal, beast, or god—felt a single truth coil within their souls:

Whatever was being born this day would change the world forever.

...

The volcano roared like a god in agony, its veins of purple lava surging with unnatural hunger. All streams bent toward a single point—a lone figure, floating naked above the abyss. Ethan.

The molten tide struck him, swallowing his body whole. His long red hair disintegrated instantly, reduced to ash in the infernal flood. Yet the lava did not stop—it changed, growing brighter, hotter, until it shed its purple glow and became white fire, no longer liquid but pure searing flame.

These were no mortal flames. They were celestial, a heat tenfold greater than the mightiest star, fire capable of erasing existence itself. His body should have been annihilated. Nothing should have remained.

But something did.

Where flesh once stood, there now floated a constellation of essences, the true fragments of his being.

At the center hovered a colorless orb, so faint it was almost invisible, and yet it drew all things to it like a hidden sun. Around it orbited:

A golden grimoire, gleaming with impossible light.

A crimson droplet, pulsing as though alive.

A deep-brown hammer, ancient and unyielding.

Three dark horns, etched in blazing red sigils.

A blinding golden gavel, radiant with judgment.

A cluster of shifting silver sigils, alive with mystic rhythm.

And lastly, a multicolored orb—swirling with blue, grey, gold, violet, black, and silver, a miniature cosmos unto itself.

These were his essences—the truths that defined Ethan, laid bare before creation.

The white fire circled them like a predator, its heat relentless. Each essence trembled as the flames pressed closer, until the horns resisted. From them burst a crimson-gold radiance, lashing outward, forcing the fire back. The flames surged in turn, refusing to yield, the collision of powers tearing at the silence of the void.

And then—

STOP.

The word rang out, not as sound, but as absolute decree. Flames and horns froze in perfect stillness, like puppets cut from their strings.

A dark red portal cracked open above the horns, its surface rippling like liquid glass. From its depths a scarlet light descended, striking the horns with precise inevitability.

And they began to change.

The three horns cracked apart, breaking down to dust. But they did not vanish. They reformed, grew, reshaped—drawn into something far greater. Six horns now spiraled outward, all joined at their base to form a regal crown. Black as void, they pulsed with crimson-gold inscriptions, lines of power that burned and writhed like living fire.

They were no longer crude or primal. These were the horns of a sovereign—demonic in ferocity, draconic in majesty, divine in presence.

And they had defied the celestial flames themselves.

This was no mere mutation. It was a rebirth of essence; a transformation carved into law.

Whatever this crown was, it carried a truth that all things would come to understand:It was not to be challenged.

Then the voice spoke again. It did not echo, nor did it thunder, yet its presence was undeniable. It pressed upon all things—not crushing, not light, but absolute. It was truth given form.

"First, he was an outcast…"

The weight of the words rippled through the void.

"Cast down from heaven, forced to walk among men. Yet he defied the fate written for him. He rebelled, he fought, and he broke what none before had broken. He is the first singularity to shatter destiny itself."

Lucifer.

At the utterance of the name, the colorless orb stirred. It floated higher, rising above the gathered essences like a hidden sun revealing itself. It pulsed, expanding, until it reached the size of a football, glowing faintly as though infinity itself breathed inside it.

The crown of horns—regal and black, inscribed with crimson-gold runes—drifted upward, drawn to the orb's light. The horns radiated a fierce brilliance, an aura thick with rebellion, defiance, and unyielding malice. Their glow clashed against the heavens themselves.

And then, the celestial flames struck.

This time, the horns did not resist. They surrendered, letting the white fire consume them utterly. The mighty crown disintegrated, its form undone, its essence stripped bare.

But even in death, it did not vanish.

From the dissolution poured a stream of dust—crimson-gold infused with flecks of purest white. It flowed like molten starlight, slow yet inexorable, drawn into the colorless orb above.

The orb drank it in, filling, swelling, its emptiness replaced with fire, rebellion, and truth. With each particle absorbed, its glow deepened, becoming something both sacred and profane.

The first essence had been claimed.

The voice spoke again, calm yet eternal, a weight that pressed upon the soul and carved itself into existence.

"Second… he was not born of this world. His beginning was elsewhere. He was blood made manifest, a river of eternity, a tide of hunger and strength. In his veins flowed both curse and divinity, for he was the origin of all that drank and all that endured. He is the first to name blood as power."

Kael.The First Blood Primogenitor.

As the name was uttered, the crimson droplet trembled in its orbit. It pulsed like a living heart, every beat releasing waves of scarlet light. The droplet swelled, becoming a sphere of liquid blood suspended in the void, glowing with unfathomable vitality.

The celestial flames surged, wrapping around it, searing its surface. Instead of burning away, the droplet boiled violently, releasing a storm of blood-essence that hissed against the fire. Yet it did not resist destruction. Like the horns before it, it yielded to the flames.

The sphere ruptured, bursting into a mist of crimson so thick it drowned the light. The void itself tasted of iron and eternity. From within the mist, particles condensed into a stream of luminous blood-dust—scarlet with veins of silver, shimmering with a primal hunger.

The stream flowed upward, winding into the colorless orb. As it entered, the orb drank deeply, its glow intensifying. The golden-crimson fire of rebellion fused with the living scarlet of blood, and the orb grew brighter, heavier—like a heart being forged for a god.

The second essence had been claimed.

The void stilled once more. The hammer—ancient, unyielding, forged in the marrow of mountains—began to stir. Its surface rumbled with deep tremors, as if echoing the heartbeat of the earth itself.

Runes carved into its head flickered to life, glowing with molten veins of bronze and gold. With every pulse, sparks burst from it like fragments of a dying star.

It did not rise swiftly, nor did it flare wildly. Instead, the hammer radiated a steady, inexorable force—the weight of stone, the patience of soil, the resolve of creation.

The celestial flames licked toward it, and the hammer shuddered in response, as though preparing itself… not for resistance, but for the inevitability of fusion.

The third essence waited, pulsing with power.

What was to come would be of cosmic proportions.