The Gods Knows How

As the decision regarding Rachel's fate was finalized, the eldritch council of formless, omnipotent beings turned their focus to other matters, their attention shifting like a storm sweeping through the heavens, casting ripples across the very fabric of existence.

Reality itself shuddered beneath their gaze, like a fragile web trembling under the weight of something far too vast, far too ancient, for mortal comprehension.

The cosmos, usually indifferent and eternal, seemed to listen.

A voice deeper than the void itself resonated, carrying the weight of collapsed stars, of time eroded to dust.

> "Now that the matter of the lesser being has been resolved, let us return to matters of true consequence—"

But before it could finish, another voice cut through the darkness, jagged as fractured space-time. It was a voice like dying stars collapsing in on themselves, a sound laced with the echoes of extinguished civilizations.

> "You speak of the incident in Nebula #9871?"

A hush spread through the void.

Even among these beings—who had long abandoned the concept of fear—there was an undeniable, suffocating weight whenever Nebula #9871 was mentioned.

A stillness that even time dared not disturb.

Finally, the first voice returned, slower now, each syllable heavy enough to bend reality itself.

> "Yes. The fracture."

The words themselves carried an unfathomable presence, as if the mere act of acknowledging the event was enough to make the cosmos strain under their significance.

One of the beings spoke, its voice stretching across dimensions like ripples in a void-sea.

> "The breach occurred two cycles ago."

Its words folded through layers of space-time, flickering in and out of existence like whispered secrets forgotten by the universe.

> "We contained it, but not before several anomalies slipped through."

A silence followed.

Not the silence of absence—but the silence of something too vast, too heavy, to be voiced.

Then, from the depths of the council, another voice stirred.

A voice not of sound, but of consequence.

> "The anomalies… Have any been identified?"

A pause stretched—a silence so deep it threatened to consume lesser realities.

Finally, an answer shuddered through the void.

> "We have confirmed three."

The weight of those words pressed upon the council like the slow collapse of a dying star.

Another voice rose, laced with the erosion of eras long past.

> "The first anomaly took root in Sector 729 of Nebula #9871."

A slow ripple spread through the void.

Even these beings—who had seen the birth and death of countless realities—did not speak immediately.

> "A world… devoured."

> "Its inhabitants… rewritten."

The statement lingered, not as mere words, but as a force unto itself.

A world had been consumed.

Not by fire.

Not by war.

Not by time.

But by something else.

Something wrong.

A reality rewoven into something unrecognizable, its people no longer what they once were.

> "Do they persist?"

A slow, almost reluctant answer followed.

> "Yes. But they are no longer the same."

> "Then what are they?"

The void pulsed with something almost resembling hesitation.

> "…They have been touched by something beyond classification."

Another silence.

Something about those words unsettled even the council.

To erase a world was one thing.

To replace it, reshape it—to rewrite its very existence into something that should not be—was far more disturbing.

> "A fate worse than oblivion," one voice finally murmured, its tone distant.

> "Yes. And it was only the first."

A ripple of unease passed through the void.

And then,

A shift, slow and deliberate.

> "The second?"

A deep hum reverberated—something vast shifting within the endless abyss.

> "It escaped."

The weight of those words was crushing.

For something to escape their grasp, it had to be something that existed outside their calculations.

Something that did not belong within the ordered cosmos.

And then—

A voice, distant yet heavy, spoke the confirmation.

> "The second anomaly has been identified."

> "It was… the Primordial Fate."

A deep stillness.

The kind that only existed in places where time did not dare move.

The Primordial Fate—a force that should have remained sealed beyond the boundaries of causality.

And yet, it was free.

For a moment, the vast and unfathomable council of eldritch beings remained silent.

Not because they feared.

But because they understood.

A voice, woven from the essence of unraveling time, spoke first.

> "Impossible."

Another voice, sharp as fractured dimensions, countered.

> "No. It has already happened."

The void pulsed, shifting like the echo of collapsing stars.

> "Then this was no accident."

A ripple spread through the unseen expanse, stretching across existence itself.

Another voice, this one ancient, weighted, absolute.

> "No accident."

> "Someone released it."

A deep, cosmic hum followed.

Something vast, something cold, something undeniable settled into place.

A truth they had all suspected.

The Primordial Fate—a being bound beyond time itself, sealed away where even the concept of causality dared not tread—

Had been freed.

But by whom?

By what?

> "We did not foresee this."

> "Even our sight does not reach the moment of its unsealing."

That was… curious.

Rare.

Almost impossible.

> "Then this was done by a force outside even our gaze?"

A pause.

A slow, quiet acknowledgment.

> "It seems so."

> "And yet… we do not fear."

There was no fear.

Only calculation.

Only understanding.

The Primordial Fate was not the strongest.

It was not a being that overpowered through raw destruction.

But its domain…

Its domain was fate itself.

It did not fight.

It did not conquer.

It rewrote.

To fight the Primordial Fate was to fight one's own inevitable downfall.

A battle against it was already decided before it began.

> "Escaped where?"

> "It has chosen its destination."

A silence.

A realization.

Then—

> "Nebula #8986."

A ripple of understanding.

> "…Where Planet #456 is located."

More stillness.

Then—

> "Was that not the same place we just passed judgment on a lesser being?"

A slow acknowledgment followed.

> "Yes."

The council understood now.

> "The Primordial Fate is moving toward the Eye."

A thought passed between them.

> "The Eye should not have been discovered yet. How does it know?"

Another silence.

Then—

> "The Primordial Fate may not be the strongest… but its power lies not in might, but in dominion over fate itself."

> "It must have sensed the tapestry of fate twisting."

> "It saw a deviation—a change that should not have happened."

> "That must be the reason it fled there."

A final, collective realization.

> "But it cannot have known of the Eye's awakening yet."

A slow hum.

Something akin to resolution settled over the void.

Another voice, shadowed in unknowable meaning, spoke.

> "And the third?"

A hesitation.

Then—

> "The third remains… unidentified."

A slow, measured pause.

> "It moves through the very fabric of reality itself, as if it was never meant to exist."

> "And yet… it does."

The words sank into the void.

It was not just an anomaly.

It was a contradiction.

Something that should not be.

A ripple passed through the council, and then,

A decision.

> "We cannot allow this."

The council fell into deep, cosmic silence.

They had seen the cracks.

They had seen the shifting tides of fate.

They had seen what should not be.

And so, they would act.

But not openly.

Not yet.

> "The Silent Watchers shall be sent."

The decree resonated through the void, heavier than gravity, colder than the lifeless abyss.

A decision had been made.

A presence stirred in the unseen corners of existence.

They did not move like gods.

They did not descend in storms of fire or proclamations of judgment.

They did not leave trails of ruin in their wake.

They were shadows upon reality, silent phantoms that did not exist until they were already there.

The Silent Watchers.

> "They will seek the anomalies."

> "They will observe."

> "And if necessary… they will erase."

Across the incomprehensible expanse of the cosmos, something shifted.

Something unseen.

Something unfelt.

Something unknowable.

They moved without sound, without presence, without time itself acknowledging their passing.

The Watchers had awakened.

And now, they were watching.