There are beings so ancient that even time forgets them.
Long before the stars were named, before chakra flowed through mortal veins, before Kaguya ever set foot upon the Earth — there was him.
The First.
The Highest.
The true God of the Otsutsuki.
A being so vast in power that even the mightiest of his kin bowed their heads in reverence.
But he was never one for conquest or vanity.
When he had seen enough of this universe — when the games of gods and mortals grew dull — he simply left.
Not sealed. Not slain. Not betrayed.
He abandoned the shallow squabbles of lesser beings and let his existence fade into myth, his name erased by the slow, grinding sands of time.
Yet even the mightiest embers never truly die.
Across the endless reaches of the void, the smoke of his old body drifted — a haze of cosmic ash, waiting.
Waiting for the moment when fate, or perhaps boredom, would stir him once more.
Now, in a forgotten corner of reality, that smoke begins to twist.
It coils.
It thickens.
It condenses.
A figure emerges — ancient and new all at once. Flesh reborn from nothingness. Eyes of endless depth open, carrying the weight of countless eons.
The true God of the Otsutsuki breathes again.
Not as a prisoner.
Not as a revenant.
But by his own will.
And the worlds will soon remember a simple, eternal truth:
Before all… there was Him. And after all… there will be only Him.
There was no time.
There was no matter.
No space.
No chakra.
No death.
No life.
There was only the Void.
And in the Void, there was one Throne.
The Black Throne — hewn from pure existence, shaped not by hands, but by will alone.
It floated in the endless silence — an altar without a worshiper, a monument without a witness.
Upon that Throne, He sat.
The First Dream.
The Last Nightmare.
The Origin from which all things — gods, devils, men, and monsters — would one day crawl.
His name had no sound, no shape.
It was a Concept, not a word.
A truth too deep for even a future universe to contain.
He was the Beginning.
His skin drank the void like a starving sun, smooth and unblemished.
Wings folded behind Him, vast enough to eclipse galaxies that had not yet been born.
His eyes — closed now — cradled unborn realities, waiting for His command to ignite.
And yet…
He did not move.
He waited.
For eons without number, He remained still, seated upon His Black Throne, alone amidst an eternity of nothingness.
For the First God knew:
Creation was not ready.
The stars, the worlds, the souls — they were yet dust in His palms, waiting for the breath that would scatter them into being.
When the moment came, He would give it.
One thought.
One ripple.
And from it, an endless tapestry of life, death, and ambition would unfold.
But not yet.
Not until He decided.
Not until the Throne shuddered under the weight of destiny itself.
Not until He chose to Wake.
The void trembled slightly, as if reality — yet unborn — already feared Him.
And deep within the limitless silence, the Black Throne whispered His decree, a soundless vibration across nonexistence:
"It is time."