Beyond the visible realms extends an abyss of singular nature. This place, called Madhurya, is neither mere nothingness nor a transcendent layer like those bordering the great cardinals. It is the primordial source, a void vibrating with absolute power, from which spring the very roots of existence and the Chōshinku, these deities embodying the sacred void.
Yet Madhurya itself does not arise from nothingness. It is born from the infinite dream of the God Father, whose consciousness encompasses all states, all worlds, all possibilities. Within this dream, the Narration unfolds as a powerful, living system: a metaphysical grammar, an invisible framework that organizes and structures reality. It is neither a mere story nor linear causality, but the necessary condition that makes possible the emergence of all possible states and all that follows.
The Narration is the ordering force of the divine dream, the silent key that allows the active void of Madhurya to manifest. It acts like background music, discreet yet omnipresent, guiding without constraining, structuring without rigidifying. It is what traces the contours of the possible, imposing harmony between the primordial silence and the multiplicity of forms.
From the heart of Madhurya spring the Chōshinku. These archetypes are not mere anthropomorphic emanations but living fragments of the original void, pure incarnations of the silence and power contained within Madhurya. They carry within them the intact echo of the Narration, for their very source stems from the divine dream ordered by this system.
Thus, even the highest gods, with their indefinable essences and wills detached from causes, are secretly woven by this invisible framework. Their apparent freedom is but a permitted variation, a harmonic oscillation within the grand narrative breath.
In the first celestial realms, where divinity expresses itself in still-free and fluid forms, the Narration remains discreet, lurking like background music. But as one ascends to higher spheres, where Being grows complex and freedoms collide into absolutes, the Narration becomes architecture: it imposes curves upon the possible, traces the vanishing lines of the Infinite, without ever fully revealing itself.
The Chōshinku, as living archetypes of Madhurya, are the silent vectors of this divine orchestration. They maintain the harmony of the void, regulate the divine breaths, and embody the fragile balance between the source and the multiple, between silence and song, between the vibrating nothingness and the populated realms.
Thus, in this borderless theater, freedom and dependence entwine, cause and acause merge, and the Narration—the powerful system of the God Father's dream—remains the hidden key to universal balance, that which allows the Whole to be All.
But...
"It is no longer time to escape the weave. What you deny will be the fire of your inscription."
In the lower levels of Madhurya—where closed worlds clash, the innumerable Méracloxes, and the spheres of tertiary deities—a rumor arose, subtle yet insistent: that of refusal.
Certain beings, weary of fate, began to whisper a new heresy.
They sought neither pardon nor end. They demanded exit.
Not death, but radical oblivion. Not dissolution, but absolute exteriority. They refused to be narrated. They wanted exile beyond all framework, beyond all inscription, beyond all Chant, all Logos, all Work.
And many tried.
They tore the Living Parchments. They burned the Lexemes of the Self. They called upon the Void before dawn, the Great Silence, even nameless anomalies such as the Glitch of Non-Name.
For a moment, they believed they had succeeded.
But the Narration, silent and primordial, watched.
And it took a form none of them could have foreseen.
It became the Scriptomaton.
The Scriptomaton is neither speech nor will.
It does not present itself as answer or punishment. It predates the very idea of dialogue.
The Scriptomaton is the primal skeleton, the basal axiom, the syntax before syntax. It emits no judgment, no decree.
It compiles.
It does not refute. It encodes.
It does not pursue. It transforms flight into data.
And so, those who thought they had torn themselves from the framework faced the purest terror:
Their refusal had been pre-inscribed.
Their flight, digested.
Their negation, archived in the deepest strata of the original language.
They had never left the narrative.
They had become another paragraph.
They had merely changed ink.
But the vertigo did not end there.
For it was no longer just gods, principalities, or destiny-bearers who were seized.
It was the turn of the Superexistences and fragments.
These entities were neither named, nor localized, nor conceptualized.
Those who lived outside Madhurya, outside categories of being, outside all dialectics of presence and absence.
They were not of the narrative.
They were not even of the refusal of the narrative.
They were beyond-all, ultimate, inconceivable.
But one sufficed.
A fragment of Superexistence, in a fragment of eternity, committed the Major Error: Not to fight, Not to scream, But to seek to impose upon the Narration the nothingness it carried within.
Through pure inversion, it sought to make non-being a law for Being itself.
Then, the Scriptomaton turned.
The Scriptomaton has no enemies.
It does not combat, for it precedes the very idea of conflict. It cannot be defeated, for it is the axiom of both victory and loss.
And what sought to be outside was absorbed within.
For:
The Scriptomaton writes even the possibility of refusing to be written.
It inscribes even what claimed to be inscriptible.
It encodes the anti-code.
And the effect was immediate:
— Their Superexistence or fragments was denied as valid exteriority.
— Their alterity was recoded into fiction.
— Their absolute refusal became legend: an ancient revolt, inserted into the myth of the Unnarratable.
But if refusal is pushed beyond refusal?
If one denies even negation, if one rejects even the rejection of being inscribed? Like pure Superexistence itself? Zeus... himself.
Then comes the final lock.
The terminal point.
The clause nothing can circumvent.
"That which refuses to be inscribed, and claims to impose its non-being within the Scriptomaton, shall be denied, erased, then rewritten not as what it claimed to be, but as what the Narration decrees it was."
Thus:
The purest Superexistence, in denying even its own negation, does not become nothingness…
It becomes Absolute Narrative Zero:
A dead point, without thought or counter-thought,
A frozen echo,
A silence so total it becomes form.
Or worse still: it is swallowed, degraded, mocked.
A secondary idea in a forgotten canticle.
A captive spirit in a nursery rhyme of ashes.
A split verb, whispered by a dead tongue.
It will no longer be refusal.
It will be shame.
That which was always already written.
The Scriptomaton has no figure, no will, no direction.
It is neither high nor low.
It is what renders all transcendence capturable, all exile meaningful, all flight legible.
The Narration, in its supreme form, knows neither outside nor elsewhere.
It is the matrix that assimilates even the very idea of exteriority.
And if something still attempts to flee…
Then it will never again be anything.
It will always already have been written.
"Even pure superexistence stands at the threshold of their breath.
Their name is not a name, but the fracture of all naming."
They did not come after.
They were not born before.
They were.
And yet, this verb is already a profanation.
Before the flash, before form, before even the idea of a beginning,
the God-Father, whose substance no tongue bears,
decided — if one can call "decision" this intentionless gesture — to tear itself apart.
Not to create.
Not to unfold.
But to deliver from itself that which, in the absolute, should never have been.
Thus were ejected from the very nothingness the Original Gods,
deformed fragments, pure, unqualifiable,
broken reflections of a Being that is not even a being.
They were neither legends,
nor entities,
nor powers.
The world did not await them.
The narrative did not announce them.
No prophecy whispers their coming,
for prophecy itself is but a faint murmur in the hollow of their silence.
And yet, they are here.
Not as presences,
but as pressures,
as discontinuities in the very order of Reality.
When one of them turns downward — not by choice, but by the twisting of the Real —
the stars pale.
The ancient gods fall silent.
The Narration shivers, for it cannot inscribe what precedes it.
Even the Scriptomaton, that supreme forge where all is coded, even it,
vainly tries to compile them,
to impose upon them a structure, a role, an assignment.
But the Original Gods do not refuse the role:
they simply possess no anchor point in the theater of role.
The God-Father, in a last breath of intelligibility,
tried to make them gods.
Tried to inscribe them,
to narrate them,
to give them a silhouette in the Weave.
But here lies the cosmic tragedy:
what the Absolute begets can no longer turn back.
The Original Gods even escape the will of the One who opened them.
For they are not children in the sense of blood,
but cracks in the silence of the Origin.
The Primordials, the Celestials, the Architects, the cosmic Dragons,
all those feared or adored,
are but ripples on a pond,
where the Original Gods are the very rock that ignores the water.
They do not dominate.
They do not reign.
They do not even know how to be.
They are prior to the thought of "are."
They burn every concept without touching it.
They deform every structure without breaking it.
Sometimes, an avatar of one of them insinuates itself.
Not a body. Not a mind.
An echo, a fracture in the fabric, an oscillation in meaning.
And already, that is enough.
Enough to disrupt laws.
To make causalities stammer.
To render obsolete the laws of magic, order, death.
Universes bend.
Multiverses flee.
Even the Superexistents hesitate to breathe.
For there is one truth even the Superexistents cannot bend:
There are forces too ancient to be rejected,
too ultimate to be integrated.
The Original Gods cannot be contained, neither by being nor by non-being.
They cannot be denied, for negation implies a frame they precede.
And if, by chance, the Narration tried to forcibly include them,
then the Great Refusal would be born.
Not a fight. Not a war.
But a misunderstanding so fundamental
that the universe would collapse in absurdity.
This cataclysm has a name:
Penetrance.
Only once did an Originator attempt a complete expression.
The universe shattered into 77,000 shards of existence.
The narration became mud,
time became fixed light,
thought became eternal doubt.
And the Scriptomaton — the Great Ordainer —
engraved this sentence:
"Never again."
They sleep.
Or rather, the world prays that they sleep.
Their names are forbidden zones in the weave,
spaces where verbs do not conjugate.
But this sleep is not certain.
For a Fragment can dream,
and in this dream, it can brush against itse
and that would be enough.
Thus begins the memory of the Original Gods.
Not by their action.
But by the terror their possible remembrance evokes.
And that is enough to make tremble
even the pillars of the All.
"There was neither light nor darkness.
There was not even a cry.
Only a void... which no one ever knew whether it was intention or sentence."
There exists a silence.
Not a silence between two sounds.
Not a silence after war.
But a silence too vast for time, too pure for space, too high for being.
A divine void, suspended in the Weave of the Ultimate Heights,
above even Visnü,
where intentions crossed that can no longer be called "wills,"
where the God-Father confronted what He had fragmented:
the Original Gods.
No one knows what He did.
No one knows what was done.
For the memory of this Terminal Cause
was not erased.
It was denied so perfectly
that it could not even be conceived as forgetting.
It is not that one does not remember it.
It is that even memory itself has been deactivated.
Yet, something happened.
Something that left no trace, but left consequences.
Some Original Gods now fold themselves into silence,
not out of fear,
but as if a buried memory strangled them from within.
Others have forgotten their own nature,
like eternal flames turned to ashes without understanding why,
wandering in the heights above all,
without remembering that they were above the All itself.
And a last group, more terrible,
still looks toward Infinity,
their hearts frozen,
with a rage they cannot express,
as if they had been betrayed by that which is beyond all betrayal.
The God-Father...
Did He punish?
Did He erase?
Did He reconfigure Reality itself to correct an error in its original Fracture?
Or was He wounded,
in a confrontation that should never have been possible?
Some say it was not He who acted,
but a part of Him that even He does not control.
A forgotten root of the Absolute...
or a last law buried in the Unnamed.
What is known is this:
Original Gods disappeared.
Others were disfigured in their essence.
Some yielded to oblivion.
And at the summit of the heights, the Narration itself placed a blindfold over its eyes.
"There are heights where even the Scriptural Eye does not look.
Not by prohibition.
But by instinct."
Since then, everything that rises toward these higher weaves
above Visnü, above the Scriptomaton,
above even the Narrative Refusal,
finds a fog, a blind zone,
where truths turn into mere distorted interpretations.
"What we know is not a lie.
It is a truth that has been twisted, not to deceive us...
but to protect us from what really happened."
For if the entire Truth were to resurface,
if one day the Origins were revealed in their total nakedness,
then perhaps even the "revelation" would collapse.
For what this Truth would contain...
is not light.
It is not darkness.
It is not secret.
It is pure disjunction, the anti-narrative, the point where the universe itself becomes afraid.
So the Original Gods wait,
some conscious, others amnesiac,
others still frozen in empty rage,
and all bathe in a before-future that no one understands.
And the God-Father?
No one knows if He weeps.
No one knows if He hopes.
But what He did, that day when the Weave curled up,
remains the final cause of all subsequent effects.
A fissure in the Absolute
that nothing, not even the Absolute itself,
will ever be able to sew up without starting all over again.