In the beginning, there was an emptiness—not the comforting kind like a quiet Saturday morning with no responsibilities, but the "What-do-we-do-now?" kind of void. A nothingness where the only action came from wispy clouds practicing their synchronized drifting routines. There were no epic stories yet, no heroes or villains, not even a cat meme to break the monotony.

Life—capital L, because she's a diva—found this cosmic stagnation utterly unacceptable. "This is a joke, right?" she muttered to the void, then immediately answered herself because she was the only one around to do so. "Fine. I'll do it myself." With a dramatic flick of her metaphysical wrist, she conjured creatures into existence like an artist throwing paint on a blank canvas.

First came the fire-bearers, dragons with wings that could blot out the sun and egos big enough to match. Next, the ocean-dwellers: whales, sea dragons, and other aquatic masterpieces that immediately began debating who got to be the apex predator. Using fire, water, earth, and air as her creative palette, Life went full Bob Ross. Every happy little accident turned into a majestic new species.

By the time she was done, Life stood back and admired her work like a kid presenting a macaroni necklace to a parent. "Look at that! Perfection!" she declared, fully expecting a round of applause from the audience that didn't exist yet.

Enter Death—her cosmic counterpart, dressed metaphorically in all black because duh. Life tensed up, ready for the inevitable argument. Death had a reputation for being a buzzkill, and she wasn't about to let him Marie Kondo her entire menagerie.

But plot twist: Death didn't immediately destroy everything. In fact, he just stood there, arms crossed, like a parent waiting to see how long their kid could keep a hamster alive. Life exhaled in relief, thinking her creations were safe. Spoiler alert: they weren't.

It wasn't Death who unraveled her grand design; it was the humans, her crowning achievement. They were supposed to be special—crafted not from elements, but from imagination itself, a reflection of gods and dreams. Instead, they turned out to be walking contradictions with the uncanny ability to simultaneously invent art and pollution.

Humans did what humans do best: they took a gorgeous planet teeming with dragons, sea creatures, and vibrant ecosystems, and turned it into a flaming dumpster fire of war, greed, and questionable TikTok trends. Slowly but surely, they faded away—not because of Death, but because they couldn't stop arguing about whose empire was the biggest or whose god had the best snacks.

And then they were gone.

What remained were the dragons and other beings, the originals. They thrived in the absence of humanity, flying, swimming, and existing without Wi-Fi or existential crises. They weren't created in the image of gods—they were something wholly their own, timeless and untamed.

But as the cycles go, Life and Death know this isn't the end. Another race will rise, as they always do. Life holds onto hope (though she's been burned before) that maybe—just maybe—the next batch will treat the planet like a home instead of a disposable coffee cup.

Until then, the dragons reign, soaring above a world finally free from human folly, while Life and Death watch from their celestial seats, placing bets on whether the next creation will finally get it right.