The void.
Not the darkness we know — not moonless nights or forgotten cellars. No. Here, there was no darkness. Only absence. Of space, of time, of thought.
Even memories had dissolved. Even fear had lost its name.
And yet, something… breathed.
A slow, distorted, muffled pulse.
A heartbeat from before creation.
"Instability detected."
The voice had no source. It came from neither above nor below. It was the very fabric of this no-place. Each syllable seemed to vibrate through the bones of the void, as if Reality itself shivered at hearing its own verdict.
"The Order has been broken."
A pause.
Not silence. A waiting.
Then, within this boundless space, a spark was born. At first imperceptible — like the ghost of an idea, the beginning of light — then it became form.
A single point, suspended, pulsing.
An embryo of intention.
"Permission to communicate?"
A light answered. Not with sound. With acceptance.
The kind of answer one feels, like a shiver at the base of the neck.
"Granted."
And then everything began.
Lines burst forth. Fine, sharp, impossible. They formed spirals, then circles, then glyphs. Living equations, ancient languages etched into the marrow of the universe.
They floated in the abyss, like torn fragments of a broken code.
"The Ten Guardians have been… dissolved."
The word was not chosen lightly. It spoke not of death, nor destruction. Merely of methodical disappearance.
As if they had been… erased.
Not destroyed, but unindexed.
And suddenly, the universe trembled.
At the edge of dead galaxies, on the surface of black suns, in the oldest folds of the cosmos — all stilled.
No chaos. Not yet.
Only anticipation. As if even the gods held their breath.
"Reason for erasure?"
"Denied."
The answer struck. Not with brutality, but like a door discovered… already shut.
No explanation.
As if the question was never meant to be asked.
"Initiating replacement protocol: authorized."
Then came the light.
Not light like the stars — but a primal glow, one that precedes color, precedes meaning.
A sphere suspended, beating slowly.
A Will, perhaps. Or merely the echo of what was once a will.
"Launching selection."
A vortex opened.
It was made of memories, of lifelines, of extinguished recollections.
Each thread, each spiral, each fleeting name belonged to a being.
Human or not. Conscious or not.
Billions of souls stirred, dissected.
A sea of untold stories.
"Loading: 1%… 14%… 37%… 73%… 100%."
Then, without announcement, everything stopped.
The numbers vanished. The torrent of data froze. The vortex slowly became a web.
A map.
A Judgment.
"99%: rejected."
No cry. No complaint.
Rejection wasn't death. Just… forgetting.
Their chances extinguished in silence, like a candle in a storm.
Nothing personal.
The universe does not hate.
"Retention: 1%."
Ten.
Ten lights remained, each isolated, yet radiant.
No larger than a sigh.
But impossible to ignore.
"Permission to vote: granted."
The vote was not public.
There were no raised hands, no arguments.
Only deliberation — outside of language, outside of time.
"Result: 51% in favor. 49% opposed."
A fragile balance.
Almost an error.
But enough.
"Choice validated. Transmitting charges: in progress."
Then the map expanded.
Not a terrestrial map. A shifting cosmography.
Each point, each star, each system — a note in a forgotten score.
And slowly, ten locations were marked with a pale halo, as if branded with fire into the flesh of reality:
Candidate 1: Milky Way — Solar System — Earth
Candidate 2: Milky Way — Earth
Candidate 3: Andromeda Galaxy
Candidate 4: Triangulum Galaxy
Candidate 5: Large Magellanic Cloud
Candidate 6: Small Magellanic Cloud
Candidate 7: Messier 87
Candidate 8: NGC 1300
Candidate 9: Sombrero Galaxy
Candidate 10: NGC 6744
Ten embers cast into the abyss.
Ten seeds of an uncertain future.
"Transmission… complete."
A long silence stretched — like a vigil after the burial of a world.
But there was no mourning, no ceremony.
Only a voice.
Ancient.
Inhuman.
Certain.
"Let Balance be restored."
And the void… closed its eyes.