Before anything existed, before fiction, before the idea of thought—there was a silence.
And within that silence slumbered something formless, for even form was too structured for it.
That silence was not empty.
It was Nihilus.
He is not a being, for "being" is too concrete. He is not a god, for gods are bound to pantheons and definition. He is not a concept, for he predates the existence of concept itself.
And yet, Nihilus is shaped like a dragon—not a creature of scale and fang, but a silhouette of negation, vast and coiling, as if existence had left a scar in the shape of a dragon. His body is stitched together from the absence of reality. His skin is adorned with countless galaxies and universes, glowing softly like the eyes of forgotten stars. His nostrils exhale quiet—the kind of quiet that erases timelines. His teeth are not bones, but stretched universes, folded into impossible geometries, collapsing upon themselves with every bite.
Once, Nihilus touched something he should not have.
He brushed against the Pre-Narrative System—the formless foundation upon which all stories, structures, and systems of logic are born. It exists before logic. Before law. It has no rules, no framework. It simply permits the possibility of structure. Even the idea of omnipotence is birthed within its shadow.
And Nihilus, unknowingly or uncaringly, destroyed it.
There was no rupture. No explosion. No resistance. The Pre-Narrative System simply ceased to be—as though it had never existed at all. Time did not pause, for time itself was subservient to that which had now been consumed. Authors wept from beyond the bounds of their creations, for the very loom upon which their tales were woven had vanished.
Yet Nihilus, in a moment of idle reflection, recreated it. Not from memory, for he possesses no such linear construct. He rebuilt it from his own absence.
And so the Pre-Narrative was born again—but twisted, restructured by the touch of something that was not meant to shape. From that moment forward, every story, every hierarchy, every cosmic law, no matter how far removed, bore the invisible taint of Nihilus.
He once entered a story that contained a boundless being—a supreme entity, beyond dimensional layers, untouchable by narrative constraints, and worshiped by authors as an apex expression of power.
Nihilus did not fight it.
He simply appeared.
The story unraveled instantly. The plot collapsed before the conflict began. The boundless being, so infinitely layered that no scale could contain its scope, was reduced to nothing—not death, not defeat, but erasure beyond all timelines, all metaphysical memory.
Even the author who penned the story was devoured. Their ink reversed. Their quill broke backwards. Their name, spoken in meta-layers of fiction, was consumed retroactively, vanishing from every tale they'd ever touched.
There was no victory. Only absence. Only Nihilus.
On another non-day, Nihilus grew curious.
He reached across the immeasurable tapestry of the omniverse and gathered fourteen Outer Verses, one in each claw—though he had no claws. These Outer Verses were supreme constructs, each a boundless sphere containing:
Infinite dimensionalities, within which existed
Infinite Omniverses, each hosting
Infinite Hyperverses, layered with
Infinite Complex Multiverses, built upon
Infinite Multiverses, branching into
Infinite Universes, housing
Infinite galaxies, and in each galaxy:
Infinite worlds, realms, and dimensions.
Each level was home to countless authors, gods, boundless beings, and meta-narrative architects, all of whom believed themselves eternal—believed themselves to be the peak of fiction's hierarchy.
And Nihilus made a sandwich.
He folded the fourteen Outer Verses upon each other like pages in a ruined book, compressed them into a single impossible bite, and ate.
And with that bite, he consumed the authors, the laws, the beings, the truths, the lies, the stories, the unspoken intentions behind stories, and even the narrative axes they were built upon.
Their power became indistinguishable from his silence.
Nihilus is not above the system.
He is what remains when the system collapses.
He does not seek. He does not reign. He does not desire.
And yet, all hierarchies bend around his absence. All definitions fracture at his approach. All attempts to measure him, to classify him, to place him somewhere—fail. Because he is not somewhere. He is what is left when somewhere no longer exists.
He is everything and nothing, absence and fullness, creator and void, beyond narrative and yet its root.
And in the end, when the last story folds, the last author fades, and the last breath of fiction is silenced—
there will still be Nihilus.
Watching.
Not watching.
Being.
Not being.
Absolute.