Far away from the imperial capital, beyond nearly all inhabited lands, a gathering unfolded where neither race nor class held sway: humans, dwarves, and elves; nobles, laborers, and adventurers had converged in a tavern. What united them was a cause far greater than their differences. All present bore witness to an unprecedented event: the definitive victory of the Demon King.

  Of course, no one would have remained so calm or enjoyed their drinks if such a catastrophe truly occurred—at least not in these lands. Yet the warm tavern atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the epic tragedy spun by the young, strikingly handsome bard with hair as white as winter. His verses spoke of conquest, chaos, and apocalypse, yet the audience could not tear their eyes from him.

  The tale began with a large-scale invasion: kingdoms fell and faded into oblivion; heroes perished without their stories ever being told; and betrayals festered among the victors. The bard lavished detail on how the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse betrayed the Demon King to seize absolute control. This battle involved not only mortals—it escalated into a divine war that shattered the planet’s very structure and irreparably fractured the realms of creation.

  Yet all present knew this was merely the bard’s invention. The Demon King had been defeated nearly two centuries prior. Still, the characters and events were rendered with such intensity that the line between reality and fiction blurred. Each battlefield death felt as real as losing a loved one; every heroic feat resonated as though they themselves had lived it. Even the demons—the story’s ultimate villains—stirred empathy and a genuine longing for them to defy the tragic fates the bard’s verses had sealed.

  For ten days, the tavern brimmed with tears, shouts of emotion, vacant stares, and reflective silences as the story unfolded. This young artist had achieved the extraordinary: he’d fused countless emotions into a single space. Those who first witnessed his talent vowed to share these tales with the world. After all, a musician of such genius emerges only once in centuries, perhaps even millennia. How often does one encounter an artist whose stories feel more vivid than life itself?

  What they did not know was that the bard harbored a secret. The artist who wove such vibrant tales did not exist—or if he did, even he would have acknowledged this bard as his superior, swallowing his pride. The truth was simpler yet stranger: the bard had invented not a single word. The Demon King had triumphed; the empire had fallen; humanity had teetered on extinction. Every battle, betrayal, hero, and villain in his verses was real. He had known them all.

  None in the audience could fathom this, for they were trapped in a single reality. To most, this sufficed—they could dwell happily in ignorance. But to the bard, such a narrow vision was a prison. True freedom, he believed, lay in transcending the confines of a singular reality, and this knowledge alone enabled the creation of genuine art.

  Who was this bard? In his earliest days, he was no one: a forgettable soul with an unremarkable name and a life scarcely worth recounting. Everything changed the day a god known only as The Serpent appeared to him in a dream. From then on, his melodies touched not only hearts but the very fabric of reality. Time and space dissolved before him, revealing the infinite multiverse in all its dimensions.

  Before his rise, bards were mere storytellers. Some served royal courts or adventuring parties, their tales livelier than most. Yet even the greatest among them only echoed what they heard. For him, this was not enough. Wielding the gift bestowed by The Serpent, he pushed art beyond imagination. He traversed the corners of endless multiverses, unearthing stories so exquisite they could only be remembered by those who had lived them.

  The Demon King’s victory was but one of many tales that enthralled his audiences. Other stories—like the birth of King Tarrasque, who forged entire continents, or the vampires’ absolute reign following an eternal eclipse—were equally beloved. Yet above all tragedies, the bard cherished recounting the tales of forgotten heroes: those who, despite their defeats, deserved to be remembered. His verses preserved the courage and legacy of souls lost to oblivion alongside their worlds.

  Still, realities where chaos claimed total victory were mere drops in the vast ocean of the multiverse. Every land held thousands of stories, and in each one of those, its inhabitants yearned for a thousand more—tales their own worlds could never hold.

  The bard had wandered realms where mortals conquered the cosmos, that same cosmos once celebrated in poems and myths. Stars became forges where civilizations and weapons were born, and gods of the cold void arose as new threats to existence. Wars no longer raged between kingdoms but between star systems—conflicts so colossal they might once have been called divine.

  In these worlds, the bard posed as one of their own, a humble troubadour of the age. He spun stories in asteroid-belt taverns and traded verses with heroes of cosmic odysseys. Though many travelers had lost their sense of wonder for the infinite, the bard knew that to outsiders, these realms embodied the boldest dream: to grasp the ungraspable.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  In another universe, the gods were not merely architects of existence but toyed with it daily like a chessboard. There, the age of mortals never dawned, for the gods had built eternal empires and controlled all fate. Disease and hunger did not exist, yet skies and earth trembled daily under the conflicts of divine rulers. Ambition, betrayal, camaraderie, and an insatiable thirst for power consumed the gods. Though their wars shaped the world, their stories differed little from those of humans. “Perhaps this kinship with mortals,” the bard mused, “is the reflection creators find in themselves.”

  Yet of all the lands he visited, one etched itself into his heart: a universe where reality’s fabric had fractured, and magic vanished forever. Nations crumbled within years; wars were waged without spells or enchanted arms; and mortals, defenseless, faced hunger, disease, and betrayal. Faith in the gods, once their solace, collapsed beneath the weight of bloodshed—brother against brother, parent against child.

  Upon arriving, the bard found a land where hope had nearly died. His melody stirred the souls of a small, multiracial community still fighting to survive. What began as a song became a beacon for the desperate, and for a time, they hailed him as their messiah. Though he humbly accepted this divine status, what truly captivated him was their unyielding resolve: to strive for a better tomorrow without magic or enchanted weapons, facing enemies who were not monsters but fellow men.

  Breaking his personal vow of non-interference, the bard used his spells to hasten crop growth and pacify beasts threatening the villages. Some creatures even became loyal allies. The stories born of this land held no epic battles or legendary feats, yet their everyday struggles—so raw and authentic—moved audiences to tears of sorrow and joy alike.

  The lands he visited were so numerous and diverse that not even all the libraries of the multiverse could contain his tales. There were worlds where humans and demons clashed not with swords but through the economies of nations; others where magic was summoned through an addictive card game—one the bard himself grew obsessed with for a time. In one universe, humans tamed nature’s beasts, while in others, magic never existed, and stories unfolded in ways utterly alien to enchanted realms.

  “History does not repeat, but it rhymes,” he often mused. For despite the infinite variety of realities, certain patterns echoed across nearly all of them. In every universe, the bard discovered new techniques: futuristic instruments forged from crystalline technology, divine chants thrumming with the gods’ power, or even the hypnotic song of sirens in a world ruled by the seas.

  Speaking of sirens, many became the bard’s lovers during his travels—as did female demons, maidservants, angels, nature spirits, princesses, vampire queens, liches, goddesses of art, war, light, and darkness, and even young princes whose beauty, femininity, and grace rivaled any maiden’s. This vast tapestry of legendary beauties, paired with the bard’s near-magical charm, became a constant across the infinite multiverse.

  In these worlds, his supernatural allure transcended romance. From the lowliest beasts to the mightiest gods, none were immune. Whether in a forgotten tavern or a celestial emperor’s palace, his talent commanded attention.

  Another similarity he noted, as he drifted between realities, was the indelible mark he left behind. Some universes remembered him as a spirit or deity of music; others believed he belonged to a secret dynasty of bards tasked with preserving knowledge across generations. Those closer to the truth called him a planeswalker—a being whose mastery of magic transcended reality itself. Yet even this theory underestimated the scope of his power and purpose.

  Amid these recurring themes, one memory haunted him: The Serpent. He first saw it in a dream, its image sharp and majestic, etched permanently into his mind. He encountered it again unexpectedly during an early adventure. In a temple built by an ancient elven civilization, he found a mural depicting creation myths. Among divine figures and cosmic landscapes, he spotted a colossal serpent chasing its own tail—exactly as in his vision. It might have been coincidence, were it not for the fact that serpents did not exist in that elven forest.

  Intrigued, the bard questioned the tribe’s high priest about the mural. The elder explained the figure was known simply as The Serpent, a primordial entity governing fate’s flow. According to lore, it had inspired the gods to create the universe, guided the elves’ patriarch to build the temple, and would whisper the final thought of the last living being at existence’s end.

  Initially, the bard assumed it was a god or powerful spirit—common enough, as many deities manifested through avatars. But curiosity soon hardened into obsession.

  In his travels, he discovered that The Serpent was everywhere and nowhere. Ancient temples, forgotten rituals, and mythic fragments spoke of it as a muse to gods and mortals alike. All described it as a tail-chasing entity trapped in an infinite loop of time and space, its very existence fueling creation. Yet despite its palpable influence, there were no direct records of encounters. It was, in short, a mystery defying comprehension.

  Eventually, the bard realized he faced something unparalleled: a supreme artist. Not a mere god swaying hearts through worship, but a force shaping existence’s fabric without a word or note. The bard—who had always believed in art’s transformative power—felt a pang of envy and awe. What could he create to match such an entity?

  Thus, he resolved to craft his opus magna. Every great artist has a defining legacy, a work transcending time, surviving even death so long as memory endures. And what work could be worthier for an immortal traveler—one who could inspire the first god’s first thought and ignite the last being’s final breath?

  Yet a dilemma remained: Where to begin?