Before Yoggy, there was only the Gate.
Yog-Sothoth: the All-in-One, the Outside-that-Is-Inside. A being beyond comprehension, existing in folds of time where cause follows effect only as a courtesy. He was not born, nor made. He simply was.
And in that existence, there was one unforgivable curse: he knew everything.
There was no mystery left. No question unanswered. No corner of creation where novelty stirred. Planets spun, civilisations rose and fell, galaxies bloomed and collapsed and Yog-Sothoth watched it all with the indifference of one who had long stopped caring.
Omniscience, at first, was a cathedral. Then a coffin.
He remembered the first time he felt the weight of boredom. It arrived not as silence, but as saturation, the drowning noise of infinite knowledge pressing into him until thought became meaningless. He spoke, and creation reshaped itself. He listened, and the screams of stars felt no different from the whispers of ants.
It was not power that tormented him. It was permanence.
He could not die. He could not change.
He was the Key and the Gate. But what good is a key when you've already unlocked all doors?
So he made a choice.
Not to become less. But to become new.
He severed a piece of himself not with a blade, but with intention. A single sliver of his soul, compressed into linear time. Into flesh. Into a child who would be born, live, and forget. A life small enough to ask "Why?" again.
Not "Why am I here?" but "Why does it end?"
He knew the body would fail. He made it so.
Because only by brushing against oblivion could the shard rediscover wonder.
This was not reincarnation. It was rebellion.
As the shard descended, Yog-Sothoth sat upon the threshold of existence. Watching. Waiting. Listening to the heartbeat of a reality he no longer shaped.
And he whispered, not into the void, but into himself:
"Let me forget… just enough to remember why."
Somewhere far below, a child named Yoggy coughed his first blood.
And the stars shifted slightly in their sleep.