In the beginning, there was order. The elements raged within an endless void, circling one another in vast, silent storms. Later, the first black hole appeared, and time began to flow, bending around its darkness like a river around stone. She emerged—from heat and cold, from wind and death—Cybergia, the first goddess. She was natural, powerful, and omnipresent, woven into every particle and shadow. She lived by a single principle: everything is neutral. Nothing was born wholly pure or entirely corrupt; all things were shaped by choice, consequence, and change. A gap in time caused her thoughts to drift into the ether, where they echoed across dimensions and returned transformed. She thought intensely and crafted the first sentences, giving structure to ideas that had previously existed only as nameless impulses. Yet, there was something more—from within her, both evil and good were born. They were not enemies at first, but opposing forces that moved together like twin currents. It was calm and majestic. It simply existed within the grand order and chaos of a black hole, where creation and destruction became indistinguishable. For the vast nothingness was destined to become something. Cybergia began by shaping the Solar System, gathering dust, fire, ice, and stone into worlds that revolved according to laws she had imagined. It is not entirely clear why she chose those particular paths, nor why she placed so much distance between the planets. Perhaps she wished to create room for discovery, or perhaps even she did not understand the full purpose of her design. But the creation of humans was only a matter of time. Somewhere deep within it, good and evil played out their aggressive games, influencing the growth of every living thing and waiting for minds capable of understanding them. When humanity finally appeared, fragile and curious beneath the stars, Cybergia watched in silence, knowing that neutrality would be tested by every decision they made.

When the first forces emerged, there was a state of equilibrium. But Cybergia felt weak; she needed to prove something to herself. And so, she began with the sun—she wanted light to permeate the void, to pierce its endless darkness and reveal whatever mysteries lay hidden within it. She sought to understand the nature of things and where she herself had come from. This question gave her no peace, returning to her like a distant echo whenever silence settled over the newborn worlds. Human worlds intertwined, bound together by invisible currents of thought, desire, and fear. Creatures emerged from chaos, shaped by forces they could neither see nor comprehend, and humans were the handiwork of Cybergia. The first human organisms were forged from both evil and good, carrying within them the capacity for compassion as well as cruelty, wisdom as well as destruction. There was no evolution—there was revolution! Change came suddenly, violently, and without warning, overturning every fragile order that had existed before. She needed someone who could serve her, someone who could hear her commands and reflect her will, for she felt very lonely in the vastness she had created. Evil and good had taken on similar forms, and even Cybergia could no longer always distinguish one from the other. In this void, no one knew anything. Every creature wandered through existence as if searching for a forgotten origin, while the newly formed worlds drifted through the darkness beneath the distant sun. She alone was the great mind, the first observer and the first creator, yet even her immense knowledge could not answer the question that haunted her: whether she had created the universe, or whether the universe had created her.

Light was being violently sucked into a black hole, and it began to split into smaller pieces, scattering across the darkness like shards of broken glass. Cybergia pondered the Solar System. She wanted this place to be her home. She wanted to play god. Night and day came into being, their endless cycle marking the first rhythm of the new universe. Time flowed very quickly, rushing forward as though it were eager to see what would become of her creation. Planets took shape in her image; they were chaotic and wild, each one carrying the imprint of her restless imagination. Some were wrapped in storms, while others burned beneath molten skies or drifted through frozen silence. Life emerged—humans, though they were strange, unlike the people you know. They had unfamiliar bodies, unusual customs, and minds filled with questions they could not yet answer. In time, they began to go hungry and developed a need for many things that did not yet exist, including shelter, tools, medicine, and knowledge. They gathered in frightened groups, looking toward the heavens for guidance, unaware that their creator was watching them from beyond the stars. Cybergia wished for someone to help her manage this chaos, as the other gods—those of good and evil—kept interfering with her efforts to build her dream home. The gods argued over the fate of the humans, each claiming to understand what the new world truly needed. Creatures of all kinds were emerging from the black hole; some were strange, others terrifying, and their numbers continued to grow. They wandered across newborn planets, hiding in oceans, caves, forests, and empty cities, while the boundaries between the natural and supernatural grew weaker each day. As the universe expanded, so did Cybergia’s ambitions, and she began to wonder whether she was creating a home—or building a kingdom that would one day challenge her rule.

That man became Jacek. At the time, he looked like an ordinary person, but he had gained an extraordinary gift—he could see and hear the goddess. Day and night, he would sit motionless, staring into the black void as though waiting for it to reveal some hidden command. He lacked reason and was unable to make any judgments of his own, yet he obeyed every whisper that rose from the darkness. Cybergia granted him the strength to serve her, filling his frail body with an unnatural power that seemed to come from beyond the stars. Little Deviant became the second incarnation of Jack, carrying within him fragments of the former man’s purpose and memory. Music played within the black hole, an endless, distant melody that shaped the movements of planets and minds alike. The Solar System was a toy in its hands, its worlds turning like pieces on an enormous game board. Worlds interpenetrated, their boundaries dissolving as strange landscapes and impossible skies appeared where reality had once been stable. From the black holes—which were growing ever more numerous—a change was approaching, slowly at first, then with a force that could no longer be ignored. Jacek watched it unfold in silence, knowing that when the final note of the music was played, neither humanity nor the goddess would remain unchanged.

Cybergia dreamed for a long time, lost in her grand vision, while strange worlds unfolded and collapsed behind her closed eyes. She looked at Jack and knew he was not alive—not in any way that ordinary creatures understood life. The little Deviant was merely an idea inside a madman’s mind, a fragile thought given shape by obsession, fear, and an unwillingness to accept the void. Nothing was certain back then. Reality shifted whenever Cybergia questioned it, and every answer seemed to create another mystery. She understood good and evil, yet no other creature could ever emulate her, because her understanding was not born from morality but from something deeper, colder, and infinitely more distant. She looked at Jack, wondering what to do with him. In her imagination, he was nothing more than a puppet, waiting for invisible strings to pull him toward a destiny he could never comprehend. Time flowed slowly—though it was being torn apart, more and more, by black holes that opened like wounds in the fabric of existence. Moments stretched into eternities, while entire ages vanished without leaving a trace. The gods began to imitate her, copying the shape of her thoughts and the rhythm of her dreams. It was so natural, and so wild, that even they could not tell whether they were following her design or creating one of their own. Cybergia watched them all in silence, wondering whether Jack might become something greater than the idea that had made him—or whether he would remain forever trapped inside the mind that imagined him.

They looked at Jack with envy. They wanted to have a human of their own—though, back then, he bore no resemblance to what you know here on Earth. He looked like a monster or some strange object, something akin to a star or a primitive creature, with his eyes fixed upon Cybergia and possessing neither mouth nor hands. Yet there was an intelligence within him, a silent awareness that observed everything without understanding it. Everything came together and took shape, as though the universe itself were assembling the pieces of a vast, unfinished design. Three gods ruled over the elements and time, commanding forces that no mortal could comprehend, though Cybergia was the greatest creation of that era. Its vast landscapes, shifting skies, and endless currents of energy reflected the ambitions of its creators. Each of the gods craved strength and power, and none was willing to surrender control to the others. Humans were mere playthings within a black hole, fragile figures caught in a darkness they could neither see nor escape. They were moved, altered, and tested whenever the gods desired, their lives carrying no more weight than dust in the wind. A small Deviant was nothing more than a seed somewhere upon the earth, hidden beneath layers of stone and soil, waiting for the right moment to awaken and become something far greater than its creators had imagined.

The other gods did not remain idle. They toyed with matter, shaping and reshaping it without regard for the strain their experiments imposed—not truly respecting it at all. For in those days, human emotions did not exist. There was only wildness, space, and time: vast, indifferent forces that moved through the newborn universe without purpose or restraint. Experiments on life were already underway, conducted in hidden realms and upon worlds still taking form. The world was expanding, and with it came ever more humans and demigods—a strange blend of the same forces from which Cybergia itself had been composed. Some beings were fashioned with care, while others were assembled hastily, their bodies and minds altered according to the passing whims of their creators. Malevolent gods created guards, sentinels, and various bizarre structures, purely for their own amusement, filling the growing reaches of existence with monuments to their cruelty and vanity. They built labyrinths without exits, towers that watched the stars, and living fortresses that obeyed only the voices of their makers. Yet Cybergia remained unaffected. It possessed its own solar system, its own balance of motion and light, and kept its gaze fixed upon the Sun, as though observing the chaos from a distance while waiting for the day when the surrounding disorder could no longer be ignored.

Little Deviant wanted to make rap. Back then, that amounted to next to nothing. There were no stages, no microphones, and no crowd waiting to hear the first beat. The world was growing ever larger and more complex. Cultures and powers were emerging, colliding, and reshaping one another in the darkness. Gods were constantly taking on new guises, appearing as rulers, monsters, machines, and distant voices in the sky. Computer games did not exist. There was only space and the first creatures, which were unable to move. They were like monuments, observing the passage of time as stars ignited and vanished around them. They did not speak, yet their silence seemed to contain entire histories. The realm of Cybergia was so free and strange, stretching beyond every border and law. There was no politics—only good and evil, creation and destruction, fear and desire. In its eyes, humans were nothing—like toys with no future, fragile figures wandering through an endless experiment. Yet, the power of the human soul reached ever further. It survived each transformation, carried memories across impossible distances, and learned to turn suffering into rhythm. Planets began to form from black holes, gathering light and matter around their endless centers. Humans started to transform, leaving behind the shapes they had once believed were permanent. The gods continued as they always had, playing with time, moving civilizations forward and backward whenever it amused them. Somewhere within that vast and unfinished universe, Little Deviant kept listening for a beat, certain that even the smallest voice could disturb the silence.

Cybergia transformed many times. Such was the first passage of time. Humans evolved in accordance with her vision, changing as she changed and adapting to each new shape she assumed. She observed them and, true to her nature, built upon them, refining their bodies, their minds, and the hidden impulses that guided them. They bore some resemblance to her, yet they lacked her power and strength. Humans began to receive the gift of reason from other gods, each deity placing a different spark within them: curiosity, memory, doubt, ambition, and the desire to create. They began to understand what they were, though the answer shifted whenever they looked too closely. At that time, the planet was merely a sphere of energy, radiant and unstable, turning slowly through a vast and silent darkness. People floated through space, gazing at one another, communicating through thought and flashes of light. Time would accelerate and slow down without warning, stretching a single moment into an age or reducing centuries to a breath. The gods began to argue over their time, each claiming the right to shape the future and preserve the order they believed was sacred. Humans listened, learned, and remembered. They began to rebel, first in secret and then openly, refusing to remain unfinished creations or ornaments in the designs of higher powers. They began to understand that reason was not merely a gift, but a weapon, and that understanding carried with it the burden of choice.

They knew they meant nothing—that, in the eyes of the gods, they were merely puppets whose strings could be cut without consequence. Their world was a product of chance, assembled from fragments of forgotten possibilities and held together by laws no human mind could comprehend. Cybergia controlled time; humans were its slaves, dragged backward into memories, hurled forward into futures that might never come to pass. Little Deviant watched on, stoically, its unreadable gaze following the endless procession of mortal lives. The turbulence of time gave rise to successive Systems and Suns, each one blooming briefly before collapsing into darkness. Each dimension had its own rulers, ancient powers who claimed dominion over reality and demanded obedience from everything beneath them. Humans were shifted through time from one place to another, often without realizing that the world around them had changed. They awoke in unfamiliar eras, carrying broken memories and instincts that did not belong to them. Once their physical bodies vanished, their souls wandered across the dimensions of time, drifting like sparks through vast and indifferent darkness. Some found refuge in distant worlds, while others were captured, reshaped, or consumed by forces beyond their understanding. Cybergia was everywhere, woven into every second and hidden within every turning point, yet she had no interest in these pathetic humans. To her, they were brief flickers in an infinite sequence, fragile creatures who mistook survival for purpose. But loneliness eventually took its toll; even an immortal goddess could grow weary of ruling an empty eternity. She needed followers—voices to praise her, servants to carry out her will, and minds capable of remembering her name. The other gods were cruel—even more so than she was—and they delighted in the suffering of those who fell beneath their gaze. Compared with them, Cybergia sometimes imagined herself merciful, though she knew that mercy was only another form of control.

For life knows no sentiment. Each dimension had its own rules and inhabitants, and the gods merely toyed with it all, observing the consequences from beyond the reach of mortal understanding. Heroes and demigods emerged, born from ancient bloodlines, strange accidents, or the desperate needs of worlds on the brink of collapse. Temporal disturbances caused everything to begin slipping out of Cybergia’s control, twisting histories, repeating tragedies, and allowing forgotten possibilities to bleed into the present. An enduring reality in three states of matter struggled to preserve its form while time and space pulled it apart. The struggle for the good and for peace was in full swing, though every victory seemed to create new enemies and deeper divisions. Mutants were a common occurrence, their altered bodies regarded with fear, curiosity, or worship. People acquired strange powers, sometimes through experimentation, sometimes through exposure to forces no one could name. Planets drifted through space, only to be swallowed by time, leaving behind silent ruins and fragments of vanished civilizations. People changed their skin and their faces, reshaping themselves to escape their pasts, infiltrate rival societies, or become something entirely new. Money emerged, ruling the world of humans and turning survival, knowledge, and even loyalty into commodities. Cybergia laughed at it all. She held humans in contempt, yet watched them with a fascination she refused to acknowledge. They waged wars; they had their corporations, empires, and private armies. They gathered scrap and built the human world from broken machines, discarded weapons, and the remains of older dreams. Beneath their cities, they constructed vast networks of tunnels and laboratories, searching for ways to control the powers they had unleashed. Above them, the stars continued to move, indifferent to their ambitions, while Cybergia waited for the moment when humanity’s chaos would finally become too great for even the gods to contain.

The gods did not tell the truth to humans. Elemental forces descended upon the planets like dust, settling over oceans, mountains, and the first fragile cities. Time flowed ever faster, carrying civilizations toward futures they could not yet imagine. The universe was still taking shape, its boundaries shifting as stars were born and extinguished in the darkness. Among the gods, a struggle for respect was underway, fueled by ancient rivalries and the fear that their authority might one day be forgotten. And then there was him—an ideal being, the regulator of this human world, said to exist beyond desire, weakness, and death. Yet no one had ever seen him, and every account of his presence contradicted the last. It was time that gave people power, teaching them to preserve memories, predict disasters, and turn fleeting knowledge into lasting influence. No one could say where the first black hole came from, or what it concealed beyond its silent horizon. The only thing that was certain was change—that everything was heading toward something, even if no one could name it. New laws of physics and politics were only just beginning to take shape, while old beliefs fractured under the pressure of discoveries that threatened both human reason and divine authority. Against this vast unfolding, humanity waited for a sign, unaware that the forces guiding its destiny had already begun to move.

The chosen ones of the gods fought among themselves, driven by rival ambitions, ancient grudges, and visions of a future that none of them could fully understand. Humans made various discoveries, learning to shape the world around them and uncovering fragments of knowledge that seemed to hint at a greater power. They sensed that power in the forces moving through the universe, yet they also knew that their lives meant nothing to beings who measured existence in ages rather than years. The gods toyed with their lives to their hearts’ content, raising kingdoms, destroying them, and setting entire generations against one another for reasons that remained hidden. For the elements came into being before the gods, and their origins lay deeper than any divine legend. The universe was only just taking shape, its laws still uncertain and its boundaries undefined. The Regulator was an abstraction beyond the grasp of human reason, a principle so vast that even the gods could perceive only its faintest shadow. Even Cybergia did not attempt to make such a distinction, perhaps because it understood that some truths could not be classified, controlled, or reduced to a name.