Próklisi

Act 1: The first Challenger.

In the boundless expanse of the Void Before Time, where existence was a dream yet to be spun, Kanna shaped the multiverse’s tapestry. His essence was a whirlwind of light and shadow, his countless hands threading the fragile strands of life, death, time, and potential into a vast, intricate weave. The Void thrummed with his labor, a symphony of creation where timelines branched like rivers, each a world pulsing with possibility. Kanna had crafted pillars before—Thanatos to balance death and entropy, Chronos to guard time’s relentless flow, Asthéneia to guide rot and decay—but the tapestry now showed signs of stagnation. In some threads, life drifted without drive, species content in complacency, their growth halted like a flame starved of air.

Kanna’s eyes, infinite as stars, narrowed. Life needed fire, a spark to ignite ambition, to push boundaries and forge wisdom through trial. Now was the time to birth competition and drive. From the Void’s core, she drew a vibrant thread of rivalry—crimson and gold, crackling with energy—and wove it into a being of pure challenge.

Próklisi opened his eyes to the roar of a heart that refused to yield. He knelt in the Timeless Limbo on knees of living magma, skin molten gold, hair a mane of solar fire. A crimson cloak fell about his shoulders, and as he looked up he felt a mask of porcelain upon his face. Kanna stood above him, barefoot as always, eyes older than victory. “Who am I?” he asked.

“You are the Fourth, You are Próklisi,” Kanna replied, her voice a loom’s rhythmic hum, weaving purpose into his core. “You are my will made manifest, the spark of competition. Across the multiverse, life grows lazy, its potential untapped. You will generate challenges—contests, rivalries, trials—to drive them to learn, adapt, and evolve. Forge them in strife, but do not shatter them. You are Competition, the game that builds empires and wisdom.”

Próklisi flexed, the flames of his hair flaring, golden skin gleaming. He felt the universe’s pulse, timelines calling like arenas awaiting a match. “Challenges? Games? I was born for this!” he laughed, his voice a thunderclap of delight.

Kanna granted him insight into life’s potential—the myriad ways a contest could spark innovation, resilience, or unity—but warned him sternly. “Challenge, Próklisi, but temper your zeal. Too much rivalry breeds destruction, unraveling the tapestry I weave. Balance is key, as it is for your siblings.”

Próklisi tilted his head, flames dancing. “Thanatos? Asthéneia? Chronos? The death-bringers and the clockwork bore?” He had sensed their essences in the Void—Thanatos’s empathetic shadow, Chronos’s cold precision, Asthéneia’s twisted form of art —but they were mere spectators to his games. “Let them prune and tick. I’ll make life roar!”

Kanna’s laughter was a cascade of chimes. “Your fire is a gift, Próklisi, but fire consumes if unchecked. Go now, and ignite the tapestry. But remember: competition is growth, not ruin.” Then Kanna was simply gone.

Próklisi needed no further urging. He surged into the Void, his form a comet of crimson and gold, eager to craft his first challenges. The multiverse was his arena, and life his players—let the games begin!

A strand shimmered—clear, perfect, singing in one unbroken note of contentment. He followed the note. He stepped onto Vitrara, a desert world of living glass beneath a sky of pale rose. The dunes were translucent quartz; the wind carved them into ever-shifting sculptures that caught and refracted starlight into rainbows. Its inhabitants were the Vitroli, winged beings with prismatic scales. They drifted in slow, graceful flocks, merging and separating their colors in perfect, wordless agreement.

No one was faster. No one shined brighter nor duller. No one had ever tried.

Próklisi landed in the heart of the largest dune-sea, feet sinking into warm glass-sand. The Vitroli greeted him with a gentle chorus of harmonious hues. “Golden-runner-upon-the-dunes, why do you stand apart? Our light is complete.”

Próklisi’s smile widened until it lit the desert brighter than noon. He raised both arms and spoke words that fractured the sky into a thousand racing rainbows: “Let the race – Begin!”

The Vitroli looked at him and one another in confusion, unsure of what he meant. What was a race? Begin? What was about to begin? They began to approach him to ask these questions, but Próklisi was already in motion. He drew the course with a fingertip of sunlight across the dunes – a spiral of light-bridges that arched and twisted through the air, vanishing into mirage and reappearing farther on.

The rules were simple, beautiful, kind. Race to the center. First to touch the prism-heart wins. No touching another’s scales or wings. No dimming another’s light. Only speed, only brilliance, only joy.

The Vitroli hesitated—then flared with curiosity. One Vitroli, the smallest spark of curiosity running down it’s scaled wings, detached from the flock and shot forward, leaving a trail of sapphire. Another followed—emerald, then topaz, then amethyst. Within moments the desert blazed with racing color. They laughed in pure harmonic tones as they discovered speed, discovered shortcuts, discovered the exquisite ache of trying.

Próklisi ran among them—not competing, only cheering, guiding, catching any that stumbled and setting it gently back on the course. That first Vitroli, the curious one that had made the first wing-beat, reached the prism-heart first. The moment her scales and prism touched, the entire course exploded into a celebratory aurora that lit Vitrara for a thousand kilometers.

Other Vitroli gathered around her, not envious, but shining brighter because she had shown them what was possible. They begged for another race, then another, and another. Days became weeks of pure delight.

They invented new contests: Duels of refraction—who could split a single beam into the most colors. Endurance trials—who could hold the clearest note while racing the wind. Cooperative relays where flocks passed a single beam of light from scale to scale without letting it fade.

Every victory was celebrated.

Every defeat was studied, laughed over, turned into the seed of the next attempt. Próklisi sat one evening on the tallest dune, legs dangling over a drop of liquid starlight, watching a hundred Vitroli weave a living rainbow that spelled THANK YOU across the sky. One Vitroli drifted up beside him, their scales now shot through with proud new facets, damage yes, but proudly worn. “You gave us questions,” it said, voice chiming like crystal bells. “Before you, we were beautiful. Now we are becoming.”

Próklisi’s heart—bright, curious, endlessly hopeful—felt fuller than it ever had. He placed a hand on it’s shell. “This is why I exist,” he said softly. “To watch you reach.”

That night, as the Vitroli slept in glowing clusters, Próklisi walked alone to the edge of the desert. He looked back at the gentle, laughing lights and felt the first tiny shadow. What if someone reached too far? What if “better” ever became “best at any cost”? He shook his head, laughing at himself. Competition was gentle flame, not a dangerous inferno. Growth required trust. He would always be there to guide it.

He turned toward the dark between worlds, already eager for the next strand, the next question, the next bright beginning. Behind him, Vitrara’s new rainbows flickered once—curious, playful, innocent. The Fourth Pillar had found his joy, and looked now to the other strands so that it could be shared.