He stood at the center of the island, under a moon that existed only because he willed it so. The stars twinkled softly in the night sky, and a light breeze whispered through the trees, all born from nothing but thought.
A slow, almost childish grin pulled at the corners of his face—or whatever passed for it now.
"So… I can do that," he muttered, voice echoing through the silent realm. "I made night happen. Just by thinking it."
Excitement flickered within him. Not fear. Not confusion.
Curiosity.
He clenched his ethereal, faceless hands and imagined something else—one of his inventions. Not just the gravity-loop portal device. There were many. Weapons, tools, defense systems, impossible machines powered by conceptual energy, mind-controlled drones, and even reality-bending suits that could alter personal time flow.
But nothing happened.
No spark. No shape. Not even a shimmer in the air.
He tried again. A basic exo-arm. Then a handheld energy projector. A neural disruptor. Even the simplest version of his plasma-edged blade.
Still nothing.
"...Why?" he whispered. "Why can't I bring it out like I did with the night?"
He focused again, trying something simpler—a chair.
Nothing.
He blinked—if blinking was even possible without a face.
A realization crept in. He hadn't imagined a block of wood or metal—he'd imagined a completed object. A manufactured, human-designed tool.
He changed his approach.
A wooden block. Rough. Simple. Primitive.
It appeared instantly, perfectly cut, resting on the grass.
He narrowed his unseen eyes.
A plain metal ingot. It appeared too.
He started again—this time, with intention. One step at a time.
Wood. Metal. Stone.
All raw. All real.
But the moment he tried to shape them—form them into chairs, tables, handles—nothing happened.
They resisted becoming something complex.
Anything complex…things, technology, systems, mechanisms —they wouldn't come.
His joy dulled, replaced by a deep, analytical hum.
"So... there are limits."
Not of imagination.
Of power.
He sat down on the grass, eyes lifted toward the floating moon. Thought after thought spun through his mind like interlocking gears.
"This world… it's responding to intent. But only when it's... simple. Clean."
He tapped the grass.
"Raw material. Not structure. Not invention."
Then came the question.
Why?
He tried to reason it out using everything he'd once known. Science. Power systems. Supernatural laws. Spiritual energy.
Then it clicked.
Power wasn't just from the mind.
"Mind power," he said slowly, "comes from consciousness. The act of willing something into being."
"But that alone isn't enough."
Imagination, yes—but something else had to shape it. To fuel it. To stabilize complexity. Something deeper.
There was a missing half. A deeper energy. Something beyond logic or thought.
"Power… needs depth."
He closed his unseen eyes.
"Not just imagination. Something older. Something more primal."
He closed his eyes.
Soul.
More than emotion. More than memory.
Something woven into the essence of being.
"Soulforce. That's what I'll call it."
Mind Power, born from awareness, clarity, thought.
Soulforce, born from depth—emotion, will, memory, maybe even pain.
Mind Power and Soulforce—two halves of a whole.
Mind shapes. Soul stabilizes.
Mind power—shaping force, born of consciousness and awareness.
Soulforce—stabilizing force, drawn from emotion, instinct, memory... will.
One created. One grounded.
Together, they make it real.
Without enough Soulforce, he could only manifest basic, shallow things. Nothing layered. Nothing alive.
Only with both could he bring true complexity into this world. Without Soulforce, he could only form the tools, not the creations.
"This… this is how it begin, huh."
He'd taken the first step.
A wooden block.
A metal slab.
A foundation.
And for the first time in a long, long while...
He had something to build toward.
The realization didn't break him.
It gave him a path.
He started with what he had—the block of wood. It was simple, clean, solid.
He summoned more wood, roughly cut and uneven. No tools. No shaping. Just blocks.
Then he tried something else—long, stringy fibers, the kind you'd find inside tree bark or coconut husks. They responded to his will. Thin. Strong. Flexible.
He lashed the blocks together.
Not perfect joints. No nails or glue. Just tightly tied bindings, crisscrossed and pulled taut.
Four legs. A flat plank for the seat. Another piece leaned back as support.
It wobbled.He adjusted the ties.
It took time—whatever time meant here—but eventually, it resembled a chair.
Rough. Uneven.crude.ugly. But a chair.
He sat on it.
It didn't break.
He leaned back slowly.
Still held.
And for the first time in this place, he felt proud.
Not because it was impressive—but because he made it work.
He moved on.
He brought forth more raw wood, forming a crude table. Then another chair. Then a bench. He wasn't designing. He was testing. Practicing. Feeling.
Soon he summoned metal.
Not wires. Not circuits. Just dull gray blocks.
He carved a hole into one with mental effort, slid a rough wooden handle through, and pressed it in place.
A hammer. Primitive. Temporary. But real.
He used it to smash stone, to shape wood, to test the weight of effort and resistance.
A chisel. A wedge. A saw made from sharpened metal and splinters of thought. Tool by tool, piece by piece, he created.
He didn't stop.
Something had awakened.
He began to build without even thinking. A shaded roof. A small workspace. A forge made from black stone and willpower.
It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't clean. But it felt right.
By the time he realized it, he had a smithy—barely functional, slightly crooked, and missing far too much.
But it was his.
A place to build.
A place to begin.
He stood in front of it. No face. No mouth.
But somewhere in that white silhouette, a grin stretched wide.
"Now this... this is getting interesting."