Creation Of All Things

Celestial Plane — Moments Later

The Temple faded behind him.

Joshua walked forward, coat brushing lightly against his ankles as stardust curled at his feet. The Celestial Plane wasn't made of ground—it was made of presence. Each step he took left no mark, but something still shifted under him. Like even this realm respected his movement.

He kept his hands behind his back. Calm. Focused.

But his eyes… they scanned everything.

The sky above churned without wind. Planets moved out of sync. Stars blinked in odd rhythms. The colors in the distance—too many. Too wrong. Fuchsia bleeding into midnight, bleeding into silence.

The multiverse had flinched.

And Joshua was trying to find where it bled.

He moved past constellations frozen mid-birth, stepped over floating runes the size of cities. The deeper he went, the heavier the air felt. Not with gravity. With consequence.

That feeling—like something massive had just breathed in a place where breath shouldn't exist.

"Still warm," he muttered to himself, kneeling near a rippling distortion. It looked like a wrinkle in the air, folding and unfolding without rhythm. His fingers hovered over it. "Whatever happened… happened here."

But there were no signs of damage. No residue of magic. No echoes of divine interference.

Just pressure. A massive pressure that didn't belong.

Joshua stood and looked around.

Endless.

Endless sky. Endless silence. Endless stars.

But he knew better.

Something had moved through here. Something not from here.

Not divine. Not chaotic. Not even cursed.

Just… wrong.

He pressed his palm gently into the air, dragging it like chalk across an invisible wall. Runes tried to form—but broke apart mid-sequence.

"Even the plane doesn't know what touched it," he said quietly.

A chill ran through him.

He had faced gods. Monsters. Even his own reflections. But this? This was something else.

The kind of event that ripples backward. The kind that didn't announce itself with thunder or screams… but left everything just slightly… off.

He turned slowly, trying to triangulate where the pressure faded. Every direction was empty, but one of them felt emptier than the rest.

He followed it.

Through nebula bridges.

Past ancient god-statues carved into dead suns.

Deeper.

Until he reached a point where even the stars refused to exist. No wind. No pulse. Just pure blank.

He hovered there, eyes glowing faintly.

"Where are you…" he whispered.

No answer.

Not even an echo.

Only that feeling again.

The kind that lived in the corners of perception. The kind that didn't want to be found.

He clenched his fists. Closed his eyes.

Tried to remember the pulse—not just feel it. Not just chase it. Remember it like a name.

But it slipped away again. Like a dream fading after waking.

"…You're hiding," Joshua murmured. "Or you're watching."

He opened his eyes.

Then looked up.

Nothing.

But his gut twisted anyway.

Whatever it was, it didn't want to be seen yet. And maybe—it never did.

Joshua slowly turned around and began walking back.

Back toward the Temple. Back toward the questions.

He hadn't found what caused the disturbance.

But now… it knew he was looking.

And next time?

It might not be quiet.

Modern Earth – A Private Island, Somewhere in the Multiverse

The sun hung lazy in the sky. Waves crashed gently on the shore. A breeze rolled in off the ocean—warm, soft, perfect.

Under the shade of a large parasol, Adam lay on a reclining beach chair, shirt unbuttoned, sunglasses on, drink in hand.

He looked like a man on vacation.

He was a god.

And just above him—arms crossed, long coat fluttering despite no wind—stood Aurora.

Her expression was unreadable, but her tone carried that familiar sting.

"You know you're a god now, right?" she said, tilting her head. "Maybe start acting like it."

Adam glanced up at her over his sunglasses.

"And what does that mean exactly?" he said, voice low and smooth. "Sit on some giant throne floating in the void? Dress in white robes and grow a beard?"

Aurora didn't blink. "That wouldn't kill you."

Adam took a slow sip from his glass. "No, but it would bore me to death."

He sat up slightly, one arm resting on the chair's edge, golden tattoo-lines glowing faintly across his chest like living circuits.

"Look, I can hear the prayers just fine from here," he said casually, tapping the side of his head. "I answer them when they matter. Fix things when they break too far. But I'm not about to spend centuries parked on some floating rock pretending I'm too divine to blink."

Aurora sighed. "You're still ridiculous."

"And you're still too serious," he grinned. "We balance each other out."

She walked forward, boots crunching into the soft sand as she stopped right beside him.

"You realize this world isn't a fantasy realm, right? It's modern. They don't expect gods to show up with wings and halos anymore. They expect results. Fix the climate. Stop wars. Heal the sick. Not tan under the sun with your buttons open."

Adam stretched lazily. "That's the thing. I have been fixing things. Quietly. Without making a scene. CEOs don't mysteriously die from heart attacks for no reason. Politicians don't suddenly confess their crimes live on air because they feel guilty." He smiled. "Little nudges. Barely a touch. But it's working."

Aurora studied him for a moment, then sat beside him.

"…You're not what I expected," she muttered.

Adam raised a brow. "I'm better?"

"You're messier."

"Same thing."

They both sat there in silence for a moment.

The waves rolled in again. Somewhere, a seagull screamed in the distance. The moment felt oddly normal—like they weren't gods at all.

Just two people.

Then Aurora spoke again.

"You're not planning on hiding out here forever, are you?"

Adam shook his head.

"Nah. Just for now. Just long enough for the noise to settle. When it does… I'll go back. Fix what needs fixing. Erase what needs erasing."

Aurora turned toward him. "And the multiverse?"

He smiled. Not playfully this time. Just calm. Certain.

"I'm watching it. Carefully. Like I said—being a god has perks."

He snapped his fingers lightly.

A projection lit up in the air above his palm—dozens of worlds layered like glass panes, orbiting each other slowly. Lives blinking. Systems humming. Lights dimming and reigniting.

Adam stared at it for a second.

Then he closed his hand.

The projection vanished.

"I'm not a ruler," he said quietly. "I'm just the firewall."

Aurora leaned back, finally letting the ocean wind tug at her coat.

"…Fine," she said. "But if this world goes up in flames while you're out here drinking cocktails, I'm dragging you off this chair myself."

Adam raised his glass. "Deal."

She paused.

"…I'm serious."

"So am I," he said, toasting toward the horizon. "But come on, if I can't take a break after becoming god, then what's the point?"

Aurora rolled her eyes.

And for the first time in a while—

She smiled.