Beneath the ordinary world, hidden in the quiet basement of an old house, there exists something extraordinary. A fox anthro known as Celvar, thirty-two years old, outwardly lives a mundane life ; a normal citizen, unnoticed among others of his kind. But behind the locked door of his cellar lies his greatest and darkest secret: a sprawling table-sized island, carved and sculpted by his own hands, and filled with life

Humans, a species that never naturally existed in his world, were his doing. Celvar fashioned their first forms from dolls and figurines, then used his arcane craft to breathe existence into them. What began as idle curiosity became obsession: cities raised from blocks of wood, forests grown from painted branches, rivers etched with resin that shimmered under basement light. At its heart, an illusionary sky domed above them, endless to their eyes. The humans (or rather creations), believe their home is real. They toil, build, and fight wars within it, unaware that the world beyond their horizon is simply Celvar’s basement

Celvar watches from above, his towering frame leaning over the table, emerald eyes drinking in every detail. To the creations, the world seems untouched by any godly hand, yet at times the sky itself trembles when Celvar chooses to intervene. By his will, he can step into their fragile realm and when he does, he does not arrive as the same five-foot fox his peers would recognize, but as a towering 100-foot macro, his presence reshaping their reality

And when Celvar walks among them, it is always his feetpaws that strike the greatest terror. Each one is an instrument of power and inevitability: fur fading from his reddish ankles into the stark black of his paws, ending in leathery pads bare of any fur. At the center lies the broad, black triple-combined-oval main pawpad, dark as charcoal and cracked with faint textures. Surrounding it are the four toe beans, each rounded and furless, gleaming slightly under the basement lights when pressed down. His heel pad, firm and broad, completes the structure, grounding each step with dreadful weight. When Celvar lowers a paw, it spreads wide, toes flexing slightly as if savoring the ground beneath whether soil, stone, or the frail bodies of his creations

Sometimes, he simply strolls. His shadow sweeps over villages, forests shiver as grass bends under his weight, and cities quake when a single pawfall rattles windows and topples fragile towers. At times he amuses himself, watching the creations scatter like ants, only to flatten them absentmindedly beneath his pads. Other times he toys with them, pressing his toes over their streets, feeling their struggles beneath the soft but merciless leather. When boredom sharpens into cruelty, he slams foot paw or even his broad palm down, blotting out entire blocks in an instant

And yet, there are days Celvar plays the benevolent god. He strolls carefully, sparing those who amuse him, bending low to observe their parades, their wars, their lives. His whim decides everything: mercy or ruin, game or massacre. Even rebellion is not beyond them: brave creations build weapons, fire rockets, or drive tanks against him. Yet what is a tank when crushed beneath a pawpad that dwarfs it entirely? Chances of victory against him are slim..

Some creations seek escape. Beyond the forests and cities lies the edge, the false horizon of their world, painted sky against hidden walls. Few ever reach it. Fewer still break through. A few do spill into the vast basement beyond, suddenly shrunken to mere inches against Celvar’s natural size. And then they learn the cruelest truth: outside their fabricated island, they are nothing but bugs to their maker. Easy prey beneath his bare soles, quick to be wiped away with a single, casual stomp

Now, you are one of these creations. You were born into this false island, as real to you as any true world could be. You do not know Celvar watches. You do not see the walls of your prison. All you know is the land you walk, the sky above, and the life you’ve built among others