Legacy of Chaos: Born Before Time

The world had form, now. Not perfect, not finished—but stable enough to hold the dreams of gods and the breath of mortals. Mountains rose like the bones of a sleeping titan, oceans curled around the edges of nascent continents, and mana—raw and untamed—streamed through veins carved by Chaos's own will.

But Luke knew structure alone was not enough.

Without law, even creation would decay into meaninglessness. Without rhythm, the song of becoming would unravel into discord. And so, upon the still-breathing skin of the Main Plane, Luke etched the first true laws—not commandments, but truths. They would not be obeyed because of worship or threat. They would be real, immutable, shaping reality like gravity shapes a falling star.

He began with Matter.

Matter, in this world, was not simply mass and energy—it was memory, compacted over time, given form. A stone remembered the pressure that forged it. A river remembered the path it carved. And life, all life, would carry the memory of every choice, every failure, every evolution. This was the Foundation of Material Resonance: nothing truly vanished, and all things left a shadow of themselves behind.

Luke folded this law into the very particles of the world. Stone would remember the weight that pressed it. Water would remember the lives that drank from it. Weapons would remember the hands that swung them.

Next came the Law of Form and Transition.

All physical beings would follow this rhythm: Birth. Growth. Change. Death. Return.

No creature would be trapped in what it was. No being would be denied the right to transform. The body, Luke decided, was only one version of a soul's idea of itself. If a monster evolved, its form changed—but its soul adapted alongside. If a Saint transcended mortality, it wasn't because their flesh became divine, but because their self-image achieved clarity, and the World System mirrored it in form.

He smiled. This was where the Soul Laws would take root.

The soul, unlike matter, was not born. It arrived. It existed outside of time, seeded into form by the World System the moment a new consciousness emerged. From the simplest beast to the most exalted deity, all things carried a soul-thread—a spark of continuity that passed through death, change, and even memory loss.

Luke gathered these threads and spun them into the Cycle of Rebirth.

When a being died, its soul would unravel, shedding unnecessary weight—pain, trauma, unworthy power—but retaining the core essence. If guided correctly, it would return. Not reincarnated at random, but according to resonance. A beast who died defending its kin might be reborn as a guardian spirit. A tyrant might return as a mindless monster, repeating its hunger until it learned silence.

The soul could also awaken consciously—becoming Enlightened, unlocking memory across lives, transcending the need for form at all. This was the road to Saints, to Divine Humans, and eventually, perhaps, to beings like himself.

The World Core pulsed, accepting this law, embedding it into its lattice.

"[System Notice]: Law of Soul Memory established. Rebirth Protocols initiated. Memory Shards allocated to Astral Layer."

Next, Luke turned his attention to Skills.

He had seen the gods wield them—manifesting lightning, bending time, shaping flame from will alone. But for mortals, skills needed structure—a framework the World System could recognize, measure, and nurture.

He divided them into tiers, ranked not by raw power alone, but by complexity, metaphysical depth, and the intention behind them.

The first were Intrinsic Skills—the passive abilities tied to a creature's race, biology, or origin. A dragon might breathe fire. A beastkin might sense emotions. A goblin might move silently in forested shadows.

Then came Common Skills—basic learned abilities: swordsmanship, fireball casting, minor healing. Useful, but not world-shaking.

Above them, Extra Skills—refined talents or blessings acquired through practice or environmental adaptation. Some monsters, when pushed to their limits, would awaken extras like "Magic Resistance" or "Regeneration."

Then came the Unique Skills—Luke's personal favorite.

These were born not from training or race, but from the soul's desires. A goblin who survived betrayal might awaken "Unbreakable Will." A starving child who always yearned for more might gain "Gluttony." These skills were echoes of emotion, of essence, and they grew with their wielder.

And beyond them all: the Ultimate Skills.

These were not simply powers. They were laws made personal. Divine-level abilities that bent or rewrote reality itself. They governed concepts, not just actions. "Justice." "Gluttony." "Order." "Fate." Each Ultimate Skill granted conceptual authority—making the user a living law, a walking anchor in the world's framework.

But even above that… there were Chaos Skills.

These would not be accessible to mortals or even the divine. Only to those like Luke—primordial beings who were not shaped by the system, but who shaped it. These skills embodied the roots of reality: "Beginning." "Uncertainty." "Contradiction." "Potential."

Luke etched this hierarchy into the World System. As he did, he formed the conditions for skill acquisition.

Skills could be acquired in many ways:

Through battle, as instinct sharpened into precision.

Through Naming, when a more powerful being imbued magicules into a lesser one, catalyzing transformation.

Through Desire, when emotion reached critical mass and carved a mark into the soul.

Through Fusion, when two compatible skills combined into something greater.

And with this, he created the World Language.

Not a spoken tongue, but an announcement protocol—a metaphysical voice that would declare great changes, heard not by ears, but by soul-thread resonance.

"[Notice]: Unique Skill 'Iron Will' has awakened.""[Notice]: Goblin has evolved into Hobgoblin.""[Notice]: Demon Lord Seed has been obtained.""[Notice]: Ultimate Skill 'Liora' has manifested."

These declarations would ripple across planes. Some only the user would hear. Others would shake empires.

Luke then addressed Domain Creation—a higher evolution of self, where a being could construct a personal realm within or outside of reality, governed by its own rules. Some would be mental constructs—dreamlike spaces. Others would be absolute: death zones, illusion prisons, weapon fields.

He set the requirements: mastery of a concept, possession of a Unique or Ultimate Skill, and the capacity to sustain it with magicules or soul power.

And with a final breath, he tied everything together—the laws of matter, the rhythms of soul, the structure of skills, and the threads of rebirth—into a single unified Weave.

It shimmered across the Main Plane like starlight across the ocean. It was not perfect, not yet. But it was alive.

"[World Notification]: Weave Integration 87% complete. Evolution Matrix online. Soul Anchor established. Domain Framework accepted. Skill System initialized."

Luke opened his eyes.

The sky above the Main Plane shifted, dimming slightly as if bracing for what came next.

For now, the world had law.

Soon, it would have ambition.