The Supreme Kai of The Dc Universe

Chapter 1: The Weight of Stars



In the uncharted voids of the cosmos, where neither light nor life dared to linger, an object drifted in solemn isolation. It was an oval, unremarkable at a glance, suspended in the infinite abyss like a relic forsaken by time itself. Its surface, marred by eons of cosmic wear, bore spiraling grooves and pitted scars that whispered of an origin predating the galaxies. In floated in this forsaken sector, where even the boldest stars surrendered to darkness, the object hung motionless—a silent sentinel in a realm where time held no dominion.

For millennia uncounted, the object lingered, its pulse a solitary hymn in the cosmic silence. The void offered no witness to its existence, no echo to its quiet cadence. But within its scarred shell, something stirred—a latent power, ancient and unfathomable.



It began as a tremor, a subtle shift that rippled through the object's core, disturbing the stillness that had cloaked it for ages. The rhythm grew stronger, more insistent, as if answering a call from beyond the veil of reality. The oval's surface shimmered, faint veins of light tracing its grooves, casting fleeting glimmers into the surrounding void. For the first time in countless eons, the object seemed alive, its glow a defiant spark against the oppressive dark.



Within its core, the essence of creation churned. It was not mere energy but a primordial force, a seed of divinity that had ripened over epochs. The light swelled, pulsing brighter with each passing moment, until the object could no longer contain it. A crack split its surface, and from that fracture poured a cascade of radiant energy, a torrent of life that tore through the fabric of the void.



A rift yawned open—a swirling vortex of light and chaos, its edges crackling with the raw power of creation. The object, now a mere husk, surrendered its contents to the maelstrom. From the heart of the vortex emerged a figure, fully formed and resplendent, his presence a beacon in the desolate expanse.



The Grand Supreme Kai was born.



The Universe would know.



Creation certainly did.



_______



His first breath was sharp, a jagged inhale that cut like blades against his throat, the air thick with ash and the faint tang of decay. He blinked, golden eyes straining against a gloom so dense it seemed to press against his skull. Dust hung in the air like a widow's veil, shrouding a landscape of fractured stone where every crack glowed with the embers of a dying fire. Jagged spires loomed, their tips swallowed by a swirling gray haze, while the horizon bled crimson and shadow, as though the planet itself wept from wounds unseen.



He rose, Robes unmarred by the filth that clung to all else. He was a god- of creation or so the fractured echoes in his mind proclaimed—a being forged in the crucible of the cosmos, tasked with guarding its fragile balance. Yet, as he gazed upon the desolation, he felt less divine and more like a man lost in the aftermath of a battle he hadn't fought.



Why here? The question gnawed at him, a splinter lodged in his thoughts. He had expected to awaken on the Sacred World of the Kais, a realm of eternal light where the universe's song thrummed in the air. Instead, he stood on this broken husk, a planet teetering on the brink of oblivion. Reaching out with senses beyond the mortal veil, he felt its ki—a faltering pulse beneath the surface, the last gasp of a world too stubborn to surrender.



The energy was a discordant wail, notes clashing where harmony should reign. Beneath the chaos, though, a whisper stirred—fragile, insistent, tugging at him from the planet's depths.



He had no intention of playing savior—he wasn't even sure he cared—but the pull was woven into his essence, a thread he couldn't sever. Curiosity, perhaps, or the faint stirrings of duty. Either way, he wouldn't leave until he understood.



With a shrug, he began to walk.



The ruins sprawled before him like the skeleton of a fallen titan, half-buried in ash. Crumbling walls and shattered crystals caught the dim light, remnants of a civilization that had once dared to rival the heavens. He moved through the debris with a predator's grace, his footsteps silent against the brittle ground. The air thickened as he pressed on, heavy with decay and the weight of something ancient, watching.

He paused beside a fractured obelisk, its surface carved with symbols that pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat. His fingers brushed the markings, a faint buzz tingling beneath his touch.



Purpose. The taste of it was bitter, like wine gone to vinegar. He wasn't convinced he wanted one. Gods should be free, unbound by mortal shackles, yet here he was, chasing whispers through a graveyard of stone. A low growl snapped him from his reverie. Three shapes slunk from the shadows—wolf-like, but warped, their fur threaded with dark veins, eyes ablaze with crimson fire. Corruption clung to them, a miasma that fouled the air.



He sighed again, more irritated than alarmed. Mutant beasts. Raising a hand, he summoned a flicker of power—instinctive, effortless. With a flick of his wrist, a wave of force pinned the lead creature to the ground. It thrashed, snarling, but he tightened his grip, his face a mask of boredom.



"Hardly worth the trouble," he muttered. A soft light flared from his palm, seeping into the beast. The dark veins faded, the crimson glow dulled, and when he released it, the creature staggered upright, eyes clear and bewildered. Its companions froze, their aggression melting into confusion.



"Go," he said, waving them off. "Find someone else to annoy." They hesitated, then retreated into the gloom. A flicker of satisfaction warmed him— from the ease of bending the world to his will.



He pressed on, the path narrowing toward the ruins' heart. The structures grew more intact, their walls adorned with murals faded but alive with story. He entered a domed chamber—a temple, perhaps—its air cool and still, thick with ancient dust. a glowing orb at their center pulsing with cosmic energy. It was a Heartstone, he knew instinctively, the world's lifeblood.



He knew instantly that this orb connected the planet core with power his subconscious memories told him was possible but didn't highlight the details.



His fingers grazed the mural, and the world shifted. A vision gripped him—standing on a balcony above a city of crystal, streets alive with purpose, the Heartstone shining overhead. Then the sky split, and a shadow descended: the Voidbringer, they called it a being of full corruption, laying waste to everyhing within it sphere of influence, a colossus of tendrils and burning eyes bured the souls of inhabitants. The people fought, their light clashing against its darkness, but it pierced the Heartstone, and the world screamed as its light dimmed as madness descended upon those who wouldn't die.



He reeled back, breath ragged. The murals chronicled the fall—cities aflame, skies blackening, the Heartstone corruption.



The destruction didn't agreed with him. Somewhere between his fragments of conciouness his mind he didn't have an option but he wanted to see it thrive. He would save it.



The air grew oppressive as he went, the planet resisting his presence. The center bearing orbs dimmed by corruption.



He harmonized the orbs' energies—creation, destruction, order, chaos—until they pulsed as one. The chamber rumbled, a tunnel opening into the planet's depths.



The Heartstone towering at its center, its crystal veined with darkness. He knelt before it, channeling his ki—a golden tide clashing against the corruption. Tendrils lashed at him, but he pressed on, chanting words of ancient power.



A roar shattered his focus. The corruption of Voidbringer emerged—flame and shadow, eyes like infernos. It charged, and he dodged, maintaining his link to the Heartstone.



Turning back, he completed the ritual. The Heartstone's darkness faded, its light surging anew.



The planet stirred—cracks healed, green sprouted, the sky cleared to reveal stars. The whisper faded; his task was done.



All was left for him to do was creation.

Now for Creation.



How he created things didn't make it self apparent. He knew that that he could create basically anything. It was the how that alluded Him.



He currently Hovered over the shattered remnants of the city, its skeletal spires clawing at the ashen sky.

His memories had the flashes of what he could do. The power and the creation that he could summon into existence.

Was it enough to simply will it? He extended a hand, and light sparked at his fingertips, coalescing into a shimmering orb. It pulsed, alive with potential, yet it felt hollow. A mere echo of his power, not a true act of creation. He let it dissolve, watching the motes scatter like fireflies. No, creation demanded more than raw force. It seems to required intent, purpose—a vision that transcended the act of mearly wishing something was there.



He remembered his form brushing against the crumbled stone of a forgotten plaza. His memory of insticts that once held more tantagble instruction, every memory and feeling of his remembered power, fragments of knowledge to wield it into being. Taking a breath, he began to Pouring his power out, connecting with the world with his instincts, using instinct half remembered he began to command the world, reshaping to his liking.



He poured more and more energy into the surrounding. To the core of the planet, the surface and the skies above, integrating power unto the planet to replace everything. Time pass by, making him doubt his would be achievements, when wondering if he failed altogether. He sensed it, Beneath the dust, he sensed the faint pulse of what had been—roots, rivers, the slow churn of life.



With a thought, he stirred the ground. Vines crept upward, curling around broken columns. Water bubbled from cracked stone, pooling into a clear spring. The air shimmered as green leaves, violet blooms, and nomourous flowers started to appear .



Color blend back into ground as it began to trembled beneath his power. He stood upon the vibrant plains that his power spawned.



Kilometers ahead of him, the continuous improvement of the land broadcast itself in spiral of greens, violets, blues, yellows, and even more wonderous colors.



The terrain shifted more and more as power altered the terrain, the atmosphere, temperature, to the surface topography, to the degree that the once desolate planet transformed by a rate visible to the naked eye.



The composition and pressure of the atmosphere became breathable increasing oxygen levels and creating a once more suitable balance of gases that was thrown in to turmoil and over inflation after this world's desolation.


The fall and balance to the world environment caused the water that had already been evaporating upon its creation to cool with the reconstructive planet to more suitable temperature levels.


As the terrain shifted beneath the instruduction of heavy rain fall as storms became form one after the other, began to birth earthquakes as the planet cooled.


The fire erupting from gaps on the planet surface brighten the earth with its fiery glow as it painted the now mostly green planet with streaks of molten red and gold. As transformed the verdant sprawl of flora and the rush of newborn rivers, form with a revantilized energy that thrummed through planet's core.


While he observed he knew something lacking. He had woven a masterpiece of matter and energy, but it was a canvas without a story, a song without words.


He drifted lower, his feet touching the soft earth. The grass bent beneath him. He knelt, pressing his hand to the soil.


"What is it you lack?"


Closing his eyes, he reached deeper, not with power but with intent, searching for the spark that would elevate this creation beyond mere existence.


As the wind sighed, the leaves rustled, he began to envision what he needed to do, he wanted to know what he should do. And as if the world answer. Knowledge spread forth. Naturn needed dwellers. It
neededm eaning, a purpose to its Creation.


Rising, he spread his arms, and the air grew heavy. He did not summon more vines or rivers, nor did he call forth montains or stormes, or oceans of water to cover the open plains.


Instead, he poured his will into something intangible—a thread of consciousness, a flicker of awareness that had created everything before him. He wove it into the roots, the stones, the very air. The planet shimmered, as if exhaling a breath it had long held.


From the soil, faint lights rose, like stars ascending from the earth. They were not beings, not yet, but fragments of potential—seeds of sentience that would one day grow into minds capable of wonder, of dreams, of stories. He watched them drift, their glow mingling with the fiery streaks of the planet's molten veins and the soft hues of its blooming fields.


The storms began to calm, the earthquakes subsided, and the fires cooled into glowing embers. The planet was now a cradle, a place where something new could begin.


The pride he felt now was immense, becausehe created something that beyond the possibility of most.


Free will.