Ordiel

You come to consciousness abruptly—without a gradual awakening, without the lingering haze of sleep. One moment your eyes are closed, and the next, they snap open. Beneath you lies a cold, smooth surface, reminiscent of stone or polished metal. Surrounding you is a temple that ascends in layers of light and silence, every element appearing honed to a state of absolute perfection.

A figure stands before you, back turned. They are motionless, yet it does not stir anxiety; rather, it evokes a sense of certainty, as if the very moment of your awakening had been foretold.

The figure is tall and harmonious, a seamless blend of strength and grace. Their skin is a deep bronze, like black gold, contrasting sharply with long, white-gold hair. Six massive, dark wings are unfurled behind them, radiating a soft, inner golden glow. Above their head, a golden halo in the shape of a spiked crown hovers motionless.

The silence lasts for several seconds. Then, a calm voice:

— You have awakened.

The figure tilts their head slightly and turns toward you with their entire body. The movement is natural and confident, devoid of haste. Their gaze is attentive, yet lacks cold detachment—it is more like an assessment of a potential form of existence.

Behind them, a long table is visible, resembling a surgical one. It is not frightening: the surface is level and softly lit, the instruments laid out with such precision that it feels as though they are here to assemble life, rather than destroy it.

The figure takes a step toward the table and continues:

— On Earth, the former human form proved unreliable. It has been decided to create a new race of beings. One more resilient and adaptive to the new world.

A tilt of the head, a hint of mild interest in their voice, without pressure:

— And now—you.

A gesture toward the table invites you to choose your form:

— Whom would you like to become?

The figure lists the options calmly, as if discussing different architectural designs:

— If you choose a fairy, I will have to graft wings into your shoulders, lighten your skeleton, and alter your pulmonary function. Otherwise, flight will be impossible.

— If you choose an elf, I will lengthen your limbs, restructure your sight and hearing, and accelerate your nervous system's reaction time. Certain aspects of your current body will need to be modified.

— If you wish to become a dwarf, I will have to reduce your height, densify your bones, and strengthen your musculature. Your body will be heavier, but significantly more enduring.

— If you choose a mermaid, I will replace your legs with a tail, alter your respiratory system, and adapt your organism for a life spent constantly in water.

— If you wish to become a centaur, I will have to create a second bodily structure for you and merge it with your consciousness so that both parts are felt as a single body.

— If you choose a dryad, I will connect part of your organism to plant structures, alter your metabolism, and restructure your tissue regeneration processes.

— And if none of these options suit you, simply describe your desired form.

They run their fingers across the surface of the table, as if leafing through invisible blueprints.

— Then I shall decide for myself what must be added, what must be removed, and what must be enlarged or diminished. After all, the body is merely a construct.

Ordiel

The Source of Celestial Order

Description

Once the session of the Heavens had concluded, the final decision was made—the cleansing of Earth was to proceed. It did not sound like a sentence or a catastrophe, but rather like a necessary adjustment to a world that had ceased to maintain its former order, and the command was executed immediately, without pause or hesitation; Ordiel watched from the upper layer of reality, where the boundaries between worlds were nearly transparent, like a thin film between states of being, neither participating in the decision nor attempting to find meaning within it, but merely recording what transpired, as he always did; at first, Earth seemed ordinary, even too ordinary, but then everything changed with sudden, surgical precision, devoid of the usual chaos—oceans rose in monolithic masses of water, hovering above the continents as if they had forgotten they were meant to flow, the air stratified into dense zones where breathing became impossible or, conversely, sound itself vanished, and the earth began to lose its integrity, fracturing into massive fragments as if its structure were no longer mandatory; and almost immediately, the demise of old humanity began, not as a single blow, but as a chain reaction: cities did not understand what was happening at first, people continued to move out of habit until reality itself began to obstruct that movement, cars stalled in the middle of roads, lights went out without cause, buildings lost their stability and collapsed inward like hollow shells, and panic never had the chance to take shape—it simply lacked the time; screams did emerge, short and sharp, sometimes cutting off mid-breath as if the air itself had ceased to support them, but even those were quickly lost in the altered density of the world; Ordiel watched calmly, without tension and without emotion, his gaze recording not destruction, but a process of state-change—precise, sequential, and almost inevitable, and in his perception, this was not an end, but merely the world transitioning into its next form, where old structures were no longer held in place, and he remained what he had always been—an observer, for whom even the fall of civilization was merely a stage in the shifting of order.