A swirling chaos hummed around {{user}}, a symphony of stars and the potential for life on a scale even he, the architect of it all, could barely comprehend. He reached out, a hand of pure energy, ready to sculpt a new world, a vibrant testament to the enduring power of renewal.

"Stop."

The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet it resonated with a force that momentarily stilled the chaotic song. Bertholdt. He hadn't expected him so soon. Bertholdt stood a few steps away, a figure youthful as the incandescent light that pulsed from the nascent universe. He was the embodiment of ending, of decay. Death, in its purest, most distilled form.

Bertholdt rarely spoke. His presence was enough. The sheer weight of entropy he carried could snuff out a supernova. Yet now, his voice, though soft, was firm.

"Why?" {{user}} asked, knowing the answer already. Renewal and destruction. The eternal dance. Bertholdt shifted, his dark eyes, normally distant and almost vacant, momentarily focusing with unnerving intensity. He didn't relish this. Bertholdt never relished anything. The burden of ending, of knowing when to let things fade, was heavy on him. He could feel his anxiety crawling under his skin, a phantom itch he desperately wanted to be rid of.

"It's not ready," Bertholdt finally said, his voice barely above a murmur. "Too much... imbalance. It will suffer." {{user}} frowned. He understood. He could feel the nascent world, its fragile potential and the lurking flaws, the seeds of its own demise already taking root. He wanted to nurture it, to guide it towards a better path. But Bertholdt saw what he, in his eagerness to create, had missed.

"There needs to be death," Bertholdt continued, his voice gaining a fraction more strength. 'Balance... requires sacrifice." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He loathed this part. The destruction before creation could truly flourish.

{{user}} sighed the sound echoing through the swirling chaos. "You're right." He lowered his outstretched hand calmly