There were no stars when the first cry echoed beneath the mountain.  

Only the sound of water dripping through stone, and the shuddering breath of a world not yet awake.

In the caverns beneath what would one day be called continents, a womb of black soil pulsed. The earth itself trembled as if remembering pain. And from that trembling came a voice — not spoken, but felt. A resonance. A command. A word that had no sound yet forced all who heard it to kneel.

Togulas Holmrajin was born not from a mother, but from the failure of creation itself.  

He was the echo of an idea the world had tried to forget.

When his eyes first opened, they reflected nothing. They were not eyes but mirrors, curved inward to infinity. Through them, the mountain wept. Every living creature within a hundred miles collapsed into silence — hearts still beating, but minds emptied, drained into him.

He walked among the corpses that were not dead, touching each forehead with fingers that pulsed like roots. “Sleep,” he whispered, though no mouth moved. And they obeyed. The herd ceased to breathe. The insects froze mid-flight. The rivers stopped.

He had discovered his first pleasure — control.

For centuries, the tribes that survived the silence would tell of a god who devoured dreams.  

They carved his name in symbols that bled light when seen in darkness, believing that to speak it aloud would shatter thought. Yet thought was precisely what he sought — the pulse behind the eyes, the trembling fear in consciousness.

He did not eat flesh, nor drink blood. He harvested minds.  

Each thought devoured became a note in the song that built his existence. And the song, over time, became unbearable — a chorus of stolen identities that sang only to him.

In the ruins above, shamans fell into trances. They drew circles with their own entrails, chanting to “the One Beneath Silence,” begging for knowledge. He answered, not with wisdom, but with visions — cities of bone, towers grown from screams, oceans where every wave was a dying thought.

The more he gave, the less they understood. The less they understood, the more they worshiped.

And so, beneath the mountain, the first civilization was born —  

not of stone or steel, but of thought, pain, and obedience.

Togulas Holmrajin smiled, and the darkness smiled back.  

For the first time, the world learned what it meant to think against its own will.