In that universe, chaos and constant war had always existed. Since its origin, it had known nothing else. Survival depended on strength, strategy, and the will to destroy before being destroyed.

  And in the middle of that brutal world… Azaeriel was born.

  But he was not born divine.

  He was not born strong.

  He was not the biggest.

  He was not the fastest.

  He was not the most feared.

  In fact, he nearly died many times.

  Too many times.

  Statistically speaking, he should not be alive.

  Azaeriel grew up in an environment where every mistake cost blood. He learned to fight not out of pride, but out of necessity. He lost. He fell. He was surpassed. And every defeat left a mark.

  But it also left knowledge.

  While others relied on their natural power, Azaeriel analyzed. He observed patterns. Understood abilities. Discovered weaknesses.

  His true strength was never brute force…

  It was adaptation.

  Every battle made him more precise.

  Every enemy he defeated forced him to evolve.

  Over time, he stopped surviving.

  He began to dominate.

  First, he defeated warriors.

  Then strategists.

  Then entities who called themselves gods.

  (Some were rather mediocre for claiming such a title, but he did not judge… he destroyed them.)

  Not because he was chosen.

  But because he never stopped improving.

  Until the day came when no one was left capable of forcing him to grow.

  And that was when the real problem began.

  He loved fights.

  He loved tension.

  He loved that instant when two wills collide and only one prevails.

  But there came a moment when no one could challenge him anymore.

  That led him to destroy his entire universe.

  It was not an act of evil… it was desperation. He unleashed all his power, hoping that something — anything — would stop him.

  Nothing did.

  No final hero.

  No hidden entity.

  No second phase.

  When the energy faded… he was alone.

  He grew restless. He lamented. Not for his universe… but for no longer being able to feel what battle once made him feel.

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  His name is Azaeriel.

  Azaeriel:

  “Too much… too much… I can’t stand this silence. I am so strong that not even I can kill myself. Was my existence a mistake for this universe? Why… why did I have to become this strong?”

  (Dramatic pause.)

  “…At least someone could have tried something more creative.”

  But Azaeriel possessed something even he did not understand.

  Sometimes, he had visions of another world… yes, this real world — the one where you are reading this now, dear reader.

  Over the years, he adapted to these visions, until he could enter them whenever he wished.

  The thing is…

  It was not a vision.

  It was the real world.

  And Azaeriel could see it.

  His sight was blurry, limited only to whatever fell within his visual range.

  You see… what Azaeriel was seeing…

  Was what a cat was seeing.

  The cat of this world and Azaeriel were connected.

  He did not know why, but he was deeply interested in what he could observe.

  Sometimes he only saw the cat eating.

  Other times, people walking.

  Or the cat running away.

  Which he found particularly disappointing.

  The cat through which Azaeriel saw was a coward. It never fought. Azaeriel would have loved it to be one of those rooftop fighters, because what fascinates him most is combat — no matter the scale.

  But no.

  This cat ran from everything.

  Even from plastic bags moving in the wind.

  Then the cat died.

  Azaeriel is immortal and lives for vast stretches of time.

  Cats… do not.

  And his vision changed.

  Now he no longer saw through the eyes of a cat, but through the eyes of a child.

  That is how it works.

  When the cat died, Azaeriel connected to a newborn boy.

  The boy grew, and even when he was still a baby, his parents would watch movies, anime, and comics around him.

  And Azaeriel loved it.

  Explosions.

  Epic speeches.

  Unnecessarily long transformations.

  Rivals shouting each other’s names before attacking.

  Art.

  The boy grew into a passionate fan of all these things — especially battles.

  But no… the boy only liked watching fights in manga, series, and films.

  He did not like living them.

  For Azaeriel’s mind slightly shapes the mind of the person he connects to.

  Battle had caused Azaeriel great suffering.

  So the one he connects to ends up rejecting combat… hating what happened to Azaeriel without even knowing why.

  Only feeling that deep loneliness that came from always winning.

  Azaeriel loves battle.

  But battle left him alone.

  And so, unconsciously, he transmits rejection toward it.

  What irony.

  The boy became an introverted fan, locking himself in his room to watch shows, movies, and consume stories of endless battles all day.

  And Azaeriel watched it all.

  At first, he did not understand how to do anything else.

  He had only destroyed.

  He had never created.

  He began by trying to recreate things from the real world inside his empty universe.

  He tried to create a rock.

  It turned to dust.

  He tried to create water.

  It evaporated into pure energy.

  He tried to recreate life…

  What emerged had no consciousness. Only hollow movement.

  He tried to create a chair.

  It exploded.

  Do not ask.

  Years passed. Decades. Perhaps centuries.

  Until he succeeded.

  He realized he should not copy the form…

  He needed to replicate the complete information that defined it.

  It was not about creating matter.

  It was about reproducing structure, concept, essence.

  After many years, he mastered it.

  And then he thought of something greater.

  He wanted to recreate the characters he had seen.

  Not to fight them — he knows he is far too strong —

  But to watch them fight each other.

  To witness in person what he once could only observe through the eyes of a boy in front of a screen.

  He wanted to feel that emotion again.

  So he began.

  He did not create incomplete versions.

  He created perfect copies.

  Their emotions.

  Their attitudes.

  Their pride.

  Their intelligence.

  Their traumas.

  Their moral codes.

  Perfect clones.

  Beings who did not know why they were there.

  Beings who believed they were the originals.

  Beings with real memories.

  And when the first one opened their eyes upon the endless white ground…

  Azaeriel felt something he had not felt in eternity.

  Anticipation.

  And for the first time since he destroyed everything…

  He smiled. ??