The Gods' First Sin
They stood before him, hands trembling.
For the first time in their eternal existence, the gods knew fear.
Not the fear of battle. Not the fear of death.
But the fear of the unknown.
Of what would happen once their hands were stained with the blood of their Creator.
Of what would come next.
Because in the face of their betrayal—he was smiling.
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A Whisper Becomes a Storm
It started as a whisper.
One god questioned. Then another.
"Have you seen what he has done?"
"Entire worlds—gone. He is undoing his own creation."
"He would never harm us… would he?"
The whispers grew. Spread. Rooted themselves in the divine like poison in the veins.
And then the whispers became fear.
They had seen the Creator erase civilizations before.
At first, they thought it was to correct mistakes. A refinement. A reset.
But then the stars began to disappear.
Entire realms vanished without reason.
Time itself began to warp, rewriting history as if it had never been.
And when they asked him why—
He said nothing.
Nothing.
As if they were beneath his notice.
As if they were dust waiting to be blown away.
That was when they understood.
Their Creator—their Father—had become something else.
Something terrifying.
And so, they decided.
They would do what none had ever done.
They would commit the first sin.
They would kill a god.
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The Unholy Pact
The strongest of them gathered in the abyss between worlds.
Ishmel, the firstborn, stood at the center. His face was carved from stone, but his hands trembled.
Astra, the goddess of stars, spoke next. "We must do this."
Vael, the keeper of time, did not speak at all. His eyes were hollow, as if he had already seen the future—and did not like it.
Together, they forged the only weapon capable of erasing their Creator from existence.
A blade made of their combined divinity.
A weapon that should have never existed.
A sin.
But a necessary one.
Or so they told themselves.
---
The Night Before the Fall
He knew.
He had always known.
They thought their whispers were hidden.
They thought their fears were unseen.
But he had watched them from the beginning.
Not with anger.
Not with sadness.
But with understanding.
He stood at the edge of creation, gazing at the endless multiverse.
His masterpiece.
He had given them everything. A place in the stars. Power beyond measure. The freedom to shape, to rule, to exist.
And yet, here they were.
Plotting his end.
The Creator sighed.
"I suppose this was inevitable."
He had lived long enough to see the same story play out in different ways. Empires rose and fell. Civilizations crumbled under their own weight. Love turned to hate. Devotion turned to betrayal.
Why should gods be any different?
Even they feared what they could not control.
He closed his eyes.
He would not fight.
He would not beg.
If they wished to strike him down, so be it.
He only hoped that, in the end, they would understand.
---
The Assassination of the Creator
They arrived in silence.
The highest gods. The ones he had made first. The ones he had loved most.
Ishmel raised the divine blade. The weapon that should not exist. The weight of it made his hands tremble.
He hesitated.
"Say something," Ishmel whispered.
"Beg."
"Fight back."
"Curse us. Hate us."
But their Creator only turned to them, his expression calm.
No anger.
No sorrow.
No disappointment.
Just a smile.
A knowing, unnerving smile.
And in the softest, most broken voice, he whispered—
"I always come back."
Then he laughed.
Not a laugh of madness.
Not a laugh of joy.
But something else entirely.
A laugh that crawled under their skin.
A laugh that made their divine bodies tremble.
A laugh that should not have existed in that moment.
For the first time, the gods knew fear.
For the first time, they felt anxiety creep into their perfect minds.
Why was he laughing?
Why was he not afraid?
Ishmel clenched his jaw and forced the blade forward.
It pierced through the Creator's chest—
But the laughter did not stop.
Even as his form began to fade.
Even as his body was erased from existence.
Even as the multiverse wept.
The laughter stayed.
Soft. Low. Endless.
The gods did not celebrate.
They did not rejoice.
They stood in the silence of creation, staring at the empty space where he had once stood, the sound of his final laughter still echoing in their minds.
And for the first time since their birth—
They felt regret.
And deep within their divine souls, a single, terrible question took root.
"What… if he meant it?"
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