In the beginning… there was no beginning.
There was no flash, no whisper, no first tremor of light that could tear through the darkness. There was not even that primordial void in which myths are usually born. There was only the Game—ancient, cold, and as ruthless as a mathematical theorem proven before the birth of stars.
It had no rules, for rules are limitations, and the Game tolerates no boundaries. It had no goal, for a goal implies an end, and the end is a defeat for those who dare to think of a finale. The Game simply was. And within it, infinities danced.
Multiclusters coiled like smoke from the dying campfire of the gods. Realities collided, merged, tore apart, and rose from their own ashes in new forms. Galaxies were born and died faster than a thought could grasp their existence. Gods—billions, trillions, countless—rose, ruled for a blink, fell, and became fuel for the ambitions of others. Some whispered prayers, others roared curses, and still others simply remained silent, realizing that even their silence was already part of someone else's move.
And above all this—or, more accurately, outside of all this—stood Him.
Aja Temphart.
The Eyeless. Eyeless, because a gaze implies a subject and an object, and He required neither. The Executioner of Gods, though the word "executioner" is too human, too soaked in blood and theatricality. He did not execute. He simply… ceased. Like a melody is ceased by plucking a note from the sheet music.
His presence was not felt as pressure or terror. It was felt as a sudden silence in the midst of a symphony—the moment you realize the music will not return. Every universe, every supernova collapse, every final cry of a dying pantheon—all of it had already been accounted for. Not predicted. Accounted for. Like a bookkeeper noting a line in the ledger of eternity.
And yet…
In one of the tiniest, almost imperceptible multiclusters—where even higher entities would wither from boredom—something different was born.
This world was unlike the others.
The Earth here was but a fragment, one of thousands of floating continents drifting lazily in the interstellar ether, bound by golden-blue arteries of pure energy. The sky knew no horizon—it dissolved into infinity. Space was not empty—it teemed with life too vast, too hungry to be called "life."
Monsters were born directly from the vacuum, like nightmares tired of waiting for sleep. They swallowed stars like candy and tore the fabric of space with claws made of pure nothingness. Their bodies were woven from dying light and the screams of those they had devoured before. And their souls…
Souls became currency.
Death became a profession.
The Hunt became the only honest way to exist.
In this world lived the Hunters.
Not heroes in shining armor. Not sages in ivory towers. Simply those who understood: either you kill, or you are killed. Either you grow strength from the death of others, or you become fertilizer for another's growth.
And among them was she.
Astra Nova Luna.
A name that sounded like a shard of a star fallen into a black abyss without being extinguished.
She did not seek glory. She did not gather followers. She did not carve her name into the bones of the defeated. She simply… kept moving.
Her hair, the color of a fading supernova, fluttered in a vacuum where there should be no wind. Her eyes—two shards of absolute cold—saw further than the laws of physics allowed. She flew where others suffocated. She breathed where the air had long since died. She laughed in the heart of a dying star as it writhed in agony.
But most importantly—inside her slept Him.
Thanatos-Nova.
Not a god in the usual sense. Not a demon. Not an ally. Simply… an old hunger wrapped in the form of an ancient contract.
He promised no salvation. He offered no immortality out of mercy. He traded.
"Kill—and receive.
Eat a soul—and grow.
Give me a piece of yourself—and I will give you a piece of infinity."
Every new ability came with the aftertaste of metal and ash. Every enhancement—with the quiet crack of a tearing soul. Not her own. For now—someone else's.
Astra did not hesitate.
She saw the weak. She saw how they died beautifully, tragically, senselessly. And she decided: it is better to be the one who cuts than the one who is cut.
She hunted on the rusted rings of gas giants. Inside black holes where time coiled into a knot. In the rifts between realities where the laws of physics shrieked in pain. Every fight was not a battle—it was an investment. Every victory—a line in a balance sheet leading to something greater.
She did not know yet.
She did not yet feel the cold gaze that has no need for eyes.
Her growth had already been noticed.
Her path had already been written into the structure of the Game—not as a primary line, but as a thin, almost imperceptible smudge in an infinite calculation.
One day, she will meet the Eyeless.
He will not come with an army. He will not send angels or demons. He will simply… appear. In the moment she decides she has reached the summit.
He will not fight.
He will simply take Thanatos.
He will pluck the ancient hunger from her chest like pulling out a splinter. Without pain. Without warning. Without explanation.
And he will leave her alone.
With a power that no longer has a master.
With a body that no longer needs oxygen, warmth, or laws.
With a mind that now sees too much.
And then, the real hunt will begin.
Not for the monsters that devour stars.
Not for the gods that weave intrigues in multiclusters.
But for the very fabric of reality.
For the Game.
For Him.
Because when even the God of Death dies inside you—only one thing remains.
To become the death of the universe itself.
And to see if the Eyeless God has enough moves left to stop that which he himself brought into being.