In the beginning of all things, there was only darkness.
Unlike most debates over which came first, the chicken or the egg, there was no dispute about this, because the color of the void had long proven everything.
In the darkness, there was a being. This being had eyes, and those eyes were the first to see light.
Whether one admitted it or not, to the blind, light was something that did not subjectively exist.
Only when life recognized that eyes could be used to see the world did the concept of the world become concrete, and only then were there stories.
That was quite an idealistic way of putting it, but it also showed why so many people worshiped eyeballs.
Interestingly, many gods and mortals possessing extraordinary wisdom had only one eye. It was like some sort of curse, or a price paid in advance.
Only what was seen could become a story. The wise chose to abandon part of their stories and cast them out of their years, yet in the depths of Nightmare, there were always clues that tugged them back to the surface.
In a world lit only by moonlight, pitch-black dead trees bared their fangs and claws like monsters, their twisted branches appearing in the field of vision of a pair of eyes in their most lifeless forms.
Those eyes belonged to a little blue bird. It perched silently on a treetop, head tilted as it watched a small bunker in the distance. Blue light flickered through its eyes.
It sensed a secret there, and it wanted to get closer.
The secret had been hidden in this eternal night, year after year for ten thousand years, while this night itself had lasted for who knew how long.
In this dimension like a black forest, time