The Guardians were perfect.
147 beings created from ███████████'s own essence. Each one intelligent, beautiful, powerful.
Each one looking at him with absolute devotion.
"My King."
The words fell from their lips like prayers. Like worship.
And ███████████... smiled.
The power was intoxicating.
Not just the magic coursing through his veins. Not just the ability to create life with a thought.
But the feeling of being worshipped.
Of being needed. Wanted. Adored without question or condition.
147 pairs of eyes watching his every move. 147 voices singing his praises. 147 souls bound to him by the very fabric of their existence.
This is what it means to be a god.
[WARNING: Psychological deterioration detected in subject]
[Timeline: Approximately 3 weeks after Guardian creation]
He stood on a mountain that hadn't existed yesterday.
Below him, the Guardians worked. Building. Creating. Shaping the dimension according to his vision.
One approached—████████, his first creation, the most devoted.
"My King, the eastern forests are complete. Shall we begin work on the oceans?"
███████████ barely heard the question. His mind was elsewhere.
More. He needed more.
More creations. More power. More proof that he could surpass ███████'s expectations.
If I can create 147 intelligent beings... what else can I create?
[DATA CORRUPTION: Critical judgment failure imminent]
[Fragment jumps forward 2 days]
The orbs were not enough anymore.
He reached for something forbidden.
A grimoire. Ancient. Pulsing with power that predated the dimension itself.
Eldritch magic. The kind ███████ had warned him never to touch.
He opened it anyway.
What could possibly go wrong?