In the beginning, before time even had a name, there was a moment—a violent, brilliant flash that tore through the eternal silence like a scream echoing through an empty void. This was the Big Bang, the birth of everything we know. But it wasn't just one explosion. It was the first flare in a cosmic fireworks display—an endless cycle of creation—each burst breathing life into something new. With every pulse, a universe unfolded, and from that repeating rhythm, a vast multiverse began to take shape, stitched together by ancient, relentless energy.
At first, these young universes drifted aimlessly, like cold stones floating through a sea of shadows. They had no purpose, no movement, and no gravity to hold them together. But over time, from deep within the multiverse, a powerful force emerged—a concentrated energy so immense it began pulling those drifting worlds into motion, like dancers circling a hidden flame. To many, this force wasn't just physics. It became sacred—a godlike presence that gave meaning to the chaos.
In one quiet corner of this sprawling multiverse lay a world called Earth 7701. It was a fractured world, torn between two beliefs: those who followed the ancient legend of the universe's birth and those who did not. The believers clung to sacred stories, passed down through generations, carefully preserved in scrolls, and whispered in candlelit prayers. The non-believers dismissed it all—just superstition, they said. To the devout, they were heretics. To the skeptics, they were fools. Their conflict had lasted for centuries, sometimes roaring in bloodshed, sometimes simmering in silence, but always dividing hearts.
In the middle of this world stood a peaceful village, untouched by the larger conflicts. It was called Crimson Land. On a soft morning painted gold by the rising sun, the village stirred to life. Warm light spilled over cobbled streets. The air carried the faint, soothing voices of villagers gathered in prayer, singing the "Song of the Universe"—a hymn older than memory, wrapped in both mystery and warning:
"The world will know who is the god—
in the end of their struggle.
It has some rules, or you will be crushed.
The war is not only for survival;
Sometimes it takes lives.
The dark is in the center, but the light can cover it.
You will be confused, but don't worry—
He can always guide you."
No one knew where the song truly came from. Some said it was written by a prophet. Others whispered that it had fallen from the sky. But no one dared ignore it. Everyone sang it—young and old, believer or not.
The temple stood at the village's heart. It was humble, its brick walls cracked and worn with age but still standing proud. At its steps lay hundreds of coins, offerings scattered like tiny suns across the stone. They shimmered in the light, and villagers took care not to step on them, believing each one sacred.
Just outside the temple, an old man stood singing the hymn with all his might. His voice was rough and untrained, cracking at the high notes, but it carried conviction. His eyes were shut tight, his soul lost in the song. Not far from him, two young children—barely six years old—waited for their parents. One dreamed of becoming a police officer, a protector of the people. The other held a sketchbook tight to his chest, eyes sparkling with the dream of becoming a mangaka.
And then, the ground trembled.
A low, deep drumbeat echoed from the sky—slow, heavy, like the heartbeat of something ancient and restless. The earth jolted violently. The children fell. Dust spiraled into the air. And the light—bright just moments before—began to fade. Not like passing clouds. Like the sun itself was dying.
Terrified, the children scrambled to their feet and rushed back toward the temple. Inside, prayers halted. Heads turned. Panic bloomed in the silence.
Outside, the old man stopped singing. He stared at the sky, then slowly turned to a man beside him—his lifelong friend, a devout non-believer. His voice was soft, almost mournful, as he said,
"It is not a myth."
And then, in a single instant, everything vanished. The village. The people. The temple. All of it—gone.
Only silence remained. And the fading echo of a final truth:
"It is not a myth."