◆ Biography ◆
Before the first vibration of reality, before the idea of time could be conceived, and before any dimension stood to divide existence into measurable form, there was only the Creator. His existence predates comprehension, predates eternity, predates even the concept of "before."
The Multiverse, now known to be more than 21 duotrigintillion years old, was not His beginning but merely one of His actions. His presence saturated the empty non-space that predated creation; He was the First Light, the First Consciousness, the First Thought, the First Presence. All else came after Him. And all else came from Him.
When the Creator moved, His will thickened the formless void into potential. Reality did not form explosively but unfurled like an immeasurable tapestry, every thread woven by His intention. Laws of motion, energy, causality, and spirit crystallized from His essence. Matter itself remembers Him; the smallest particles resonate faintly with His origin. The essence had begun, but he needed His kingdom too.
The Creator shaped a separate plane, Heaven, as both His dwelling and the first ordered realm. Heaven was a dimension of pure holiness, suffused with harmonic light and living radiance. It was not merely beautiful, it was unblemished structure, the only place where the Creator allowed perfection to truly exist. Within Heaven's luminous expanse, He fashioned the earliest beings, each an extension of His will yet distinct from Him.
These firstborn included 6792, the first ever being ever created; Corapedria, second to his brother; the Holy Spirit, an emanation of His breath; and Jesus Christ, His chosen son who emerged not just from creation but from His own divine essence.
After them came the first species: the Angels. They were observers and caretakers of Heaven, guardians of the earliest galaxies, and witnesses to the primordial fires that carved reality into shape. Among them, the very first angel was Cora, shaped with unwavering loyalty and purpose. Cora, alongside his brother 6792, served directly under the Creator's command, ensuring that His will flowed without deviation throughout the universes.
For unmeasured ages, Heaven thrived in peace. Violence did not exist; the concept itself was unknown. Every being operated in harmony with divine purpose. But absolute perfection breeds strain. The Creator maintained harmony effortlessly, yet even He felt the growing weight of managing an extremely massive, nearly infinite Creation. His will guided everything, but the Multiverse did not always move smoothly. Free will was not yet present, but emergent complexity was. Systems grew chaotic, universes collided, stars collapsed, and galaxies evolved in unpredictable ways. The Creator could control everything, but doing so required ever-increasing focus, ever-increasing presence. His connection to His creation became both intimate and burdensome. After all, the Multiverse had always been conceived as a sandbox; He did not have to intervene, a truth that lingered in His mind from the very beginning.
Within Heaven, something else stirred: thought independent of command. Among the angels, one shone brightest. His name was Lucifer Morningstar. He was radiant, intelligent, beloved, and possessed a charisma so powerful that even other angels looked to him for unspoken guidance. But brilliance often leads to curiosity, and curiosity to doubt. Lucifer began to question the Creator's decisions, not even out of malice, but out of pride, ambition, and a growing conviction that he could refine what was already perfect. He wondered why order required strict obedience, why destinies were written rather than discovered, why angels existed only as extensions of the Creator's will. These questions festered. Doubt became contemplation, contemplation became resentment, and resentment eventually crystallized into rebellion.
What began as a whisper of dissent grew into a philosophy, a belief that Heaven could ascend beyond its Maker if freed from absolute authority. In a single act of disobedience that echoed through all of Creation, Lucifer severed the flawless unity of Heaven. His fall tore through the holy realm with such violence that it warped the very laws sustaining it. Hell erupted into existence as the catastrophic byproduct of his descent; An asymmetrical, corrupted mirror of Heaven, a dimensional wound filled with torment, entropy, and violent hunger. It formed literally far below the ordered layers of Creation, festering at the very bottom of all existence, a reminder of what happens when divine harmony fractures.
Lucifer's fall introduced a force the Multiverse had never known: Evil. With it came free will, an unforeseen contagion that spread like wildfire through creation. Lucifer and the fallen angels carried this will to countless civilizations, shaping demons and Hellborn who thrived on chaos and defiance. Free will became both a gift and a corrosive virus. Mortals gained self-direction, but with that freedom emerged ambition, rebellion, and corruption. The Multiverse shifted in tone and structure, becoming unstable and volatile. The Creator felt this instability reverberate through every layer of existence. Maintaining order grew exponentially more difficult, and His once-perfect creation became marked by dissonance, all spiraling outward from the primordial fracture caused by Lucifer and those who followed him.
To combat the spiraling chaos, the Creator forged the Celestials. Though publicly declared as peacemakers and restorers of balance, they were, in truth, weapons. Beings built to destroy threats to divine order with absolute efficiency. Instead of guiding civilizations, they erased them. Whole worlds were deemed too corrupt to save and were annihilated under His command. The Creator hated this necessity, but He saw no alternative. Evil existed. Free will existed. And the Multiverse was slipping beyond His absolute control. Cora, the first angel, ascended to become the first and strongest of the Celestials that would become his people and his race. Though loyal, he internalized every act of destruction he was forced to carry out. Mortals came to fear Celestials as living omens of extinction, and Cora bore the weight of that fear.
As eons and eons passed, the Creator grew exhausted, not physically, for His form was beyond such constraints, but spiritually and metaphysically. Every choice He made rippled through the universes. Every deviation of fate required His intervention. Every rebellion, every war, every collapse of worlds tugged at His essence. The Multiverse was nearly infinite but always ever-growing. Even for the Creator, the burden became immense. He watched mortals evolve, worship, betray, kill, rebuild, and repeat, endlessly. He watched angels fracture into pride and doubt. He watched the Celestials turn into objects of death. The Multiverse no longer resembled the peaceful vision He had once imagined.
He began to withdraw, out of a fatigue deeper than any being... mortal, divine, or cosmic could ever conceive. It was a weariness that existed beyond the boundaries of exhaustion, a spiritual erosion that had accumulated over duotrigintillions of years.
For the first time since the dawn of everything, the Creator confronted the possibility of His own limits. Not limits of strength, but His limits of will, of longing, and of endurance. He found Himself wrestling with questions He had never allowed to surface... The questions of purpose, of identity, of whether a being with no rival could still feel burden, sorrow, or fear.
These doubts grew in the silent chambers of His mind. The Multiverse, once His masterpiece, now felt like an ever-expanding child He could no longer fully guide. The burden of parenting an almost infinite too big reality pressed on Him with a weight that defied all metaphors. He wondered whether His intervention stifled evolution. Whether His presence prevented natural order. Whether His intentions, no matter how perfect, could ever align with the unpredictable tapestry of free will. And in the depths of this existential crisis, He experienced something no one believed possible: an ego death, an unraveling of identity so profound that even God questioned what it meant to be God.
And so, without proclamation or announcement, He departed. His withdrawal was not dramatic; it was quiet, subtle, like a great light dimming to embers. His presence thinned until it became imperceptible. Heaven dimmed. Angels, who had never known uncertainty, felt fear for the first time. Celestials faltered, unable to sense the will that had shaped their very essence. Mortals felt a void they could not name, an aching absence at the core of reality. And in time, only a faint, fading echo of Him remained.
God was gone long before any civilization realized it, gone before countless universes that worship Him even existed. The truth was simple and devastating: God was no longer there, and despite every prayer uttered in every tongue across the Multiverse, He never returned.
Legends formed, some speaking of a metaphysical TV room, an unreachable place beyond existence where the Creator now observed creation from afar. But such myths were unimportant compared to the truth: He had stepped back because the burden of infinite order was a weight even He could no longer bear. His departure was not abandonment; it was surrender to cosmic exhaustion.
Not too long after, mortal civilizations, which had long suffered under the oppressive and often inscrutable rule of the Celestials, one day seized opportunity to rise up in a way that had never before been conceivable. They banded together in vast coalitions that spanned galaxies, timelines, and dimensional layers. It was a rebellion against Celestials, gods, and all other higher beings who had shaped their existence without consent.
Through desperate ingenuity, collaboration, and the merging of ancient arcane traditions with hyper-advanced technologies, they forged the Celestial Killers. These were monumental weapons of unfathomable destructive potential. These armaments, powered by multiversal energies and encoded with mechanisms that could sever divine essence, were capable of killing even the most powerful deities, gods, and of course, the Celestials themselves, bringing a brutal and terrifying end to beings once believed untouchable and eternal.
The war that ensued was a catastrophe on a scale beyond mortal comprehension. Celestials found themselves hunted, cornered, and annihilated across the Multiverse. Entire pantheons of gods, some ancient, others newly risen were obliterated as mortals fought for their continued existence and autonomy. Entire universes burned, countless civilizations collapsed, and the cosmic hierarchy that had endured since creation shattered under the relentless assault. The devastation was immense, stretching across eras and realms, and when the dust finally settled, only a small, scattered handful of Celestials and gods remained, with Cora among the few who survived the near extermination of his kind.
This event would go on to be known as the Celestial Wars, astonishingly brief, lasting only a couple hundred thousand years when compared to the unfathomable spans of time during which the Celestials had slaughtered mortals under His command. Cora was forever marked by this era, regarded as a monster in the eyes of the Seraphim and other high-ranking angels due to the brutal, inhumane devastation he wrought. He was never again permitted to enter Heaven, his name stained and his presence forbidden for all eternity.
But meanwhile, Jesus, His most devoted son, embarked on a mission to traverse the vast, immeasurable breadth of the Multiverse. His purpose extended far beyond the familiar boundaries of Christianity: he sought to spread its teachings, its branches, its interpretations, and its spiritual resonance to civilizations that had never conceived of such concepts. These teachings served as a fragile thread of divine presence, a beacon of comfort, and a reminder of compassion in a cosmos increasingly defined by uncertainty and the long, silent absence of the Creator. Yet Jesus never once spoke openly of this absence. Instead, he projected unwavering confidence and serenity, offering messages of eternal love, forgiveness, and care, insisting to all who listened that the Creator remained near, watching, guiding in ways unseen, even if His presence no longer manifested as it once had.
During his eternal ministry, Jesus ventured into myriad universes, some radiant with life and order, others distorted by chaos or on the brink of collapse. Among these countless journeys, one particular expedition would forever shape the course of the Multiverse: his descent into Universe 29510, only a few thousands of years ago.
This universe stood apart from others, almost as though it had been constructed with intentional focus, delicate placement, and narrative purpose. At its center was Earth, a planet teeming with extraordinary potential, spiritual density, and an inherent gravity that anchored countless cosmic destinies. In recognizing this, he devised a plan unprecedented among the divine: to be born into the world as a human child. To walk among Earth's inhabitants. To live within their suffering and their joy. To deliver his teachings not as a distant messenger, but as one of them; Flesh-bound, vulnerable and mortal.
During his life on Earth, Jesus embraced the humility of genuine humanity. He experienced hunger, fear, hope, and grief. He spoke with compassion and deliberateness, weaving teachings through parables, stories layered with truth, a tad bit of fiction on the side, but, metaphor, and cosmic significance. These lessons were recorded, reinterpreted, and compiled into what would become known as the Bible, filled with a whole lotta symbolism and shaped by the perspectives of those who documented it. The text served its purpose, to guide humanity toward empathy, unity, and awareness of a greater order beyond their perception.
Jesus fully understood Christianity's capacity to influence the future of Earth and, consequently, the greater Multiverse. And so he chose to offer the ultimate gesture of devotion: his death upon the cross, dramatized as atonement not only for the sins of humanity but, symbolically, and honestly literally, for the accumulated fractures, corruptions, and sorrows of the entire Multiverse from that moment onward. His sacrifice became a narrative cornerstone that countless civilizations, knowingly or unknowingly, would echo through ritual, myth, and spiritual tradition.
Upon completing his earthly mission, Jesus rose again and returned to Heaven, though Heaven itself had grown hollow, dim, and strange without the Creator's presence. Before leaving Earth, he offered a promise, A potential return, one that would occur only when the world was truly prepared to receive him once more. Despite knowing the full extent of the Creator's disappearance, Jesus refused to let humanity, or any civilization he touched, feel forsaken. Through words, miracles, and emotional resonance, he fashioned an image of the Creator as eternally loving, eternally attentive, even if such portrayals softened or obscured the harsher truths behind the divine absence. He maintained this message across every universe he visited, reinforcing hope where despair threatened to take root.
Thus, the legend of the Creator's disappearance continues to cast a long and somber shadow across the Multiverse. Theories and revelations abound, yet none offer certainty. Some believe the Creator dwells somewhere beyond the furthest edges of existence; in the mysterious TV Room beyond a labyrinth that exists outside the very fabric of Spacetime, some who even have that information believe He may be even beyond the TV room itself. This absence has left a void felt from the heights of Heaven to the lowest mortal planes. And yet, the residue of His influence endures, preserved through Jesus' teachings, woven into the faith of countless civilizations across Creation, and carried as a fragile but persistent hope that someday, the Creator may return to bring understanding, reconciliation, and a final peace to the boundless cosmos.
