/~Narrator~/
Before players, before clans, before combat logs and interface haptics and those first flickers of light that would later become avatars...
There was only The Table.
A single, circular platform, deep underground where the true creators, those who shaped the code with thought and bent physics like clay once gathered in silence.
The world Contrario knew as a game was born not from fantasy....but from desperation.
And now, through fractured echoes of memory stitched into Stray's core, he was being made to watch it unfold.
He stood in the center of a void. Not black, but a space that was blank. The kind of blank on a canvas that waited to be filled. Shapes hovered around him, transparent, glitching slightly like ghosts of what had been.
Ten figures. Seated at the Table. Their names were lost to time, but their impact remained etched in every blade of grass and ruined cityscape of the current gameworld.
They spoke not with voices, but with code.
