Of all the works of the Creators, this was their finest. Great mountains, rugged coasts, and oceans of glimmering light they had made, but they were nothing compared to this. A sentient race was dragged up from primal beginnings and were bestowed with the gifts of thought, reason, and knowledge; and yet, even this paled to the Creators latest work.
The Creators are unknown, they aren’t even acknowledged by the children for whom this world was made. The Creators, those who forged and tempered their children’s world, do not want worship nor praise, they merely want equals. They yearn for compatriots who would roam the stars with them and weave the very fabric of existence. In this, they have failed. Their offspring build their monuments, their megalopolises that cover their world, and the progeny of the Creators feel superior to all. Their children crafted great weapons, and wrought havoc on their pristine and perfect paradise.
For aeons, the Creators have sought to shape the destiny of their children so they could ascend and join them in the conquest of all that will be. Yet, as countless times before, their efforts have come to naught. Another world, another uncontrollably violent species, another loss. Faster than light can travel, and with little passing thought, the Creators had destroyed the Earth. All life ceased. Humanity with its reckless endeavours and stained soul, was ended quickly and mercilessly.
Now they marvel, they who created universes of untold number, at their final glory. As one mind, the Creators enacted the rites to begin the machinations of fate. Older than Death, older than Time, older even than the cold emptiness of the Abyss, the Creators brought their terminal work to bear.
With utter finality, the Creators ended it all. Across every universe, existing in every conceivable possibility, everything ended.
There is nothing now. Nothing at all.